CHAPTER XX
A BETRAYAL AND A FALL
THE slanting light made the corn-fields into a radiance when Nat returned in the evening from the town. With the slow step of one who lingers and hesitates he went along the path which led from the station to the village. If any one had been close enough to observe his features a look of conflict would have been apparent on them—in fact the whole day had been a battle-field for a contest which was not decided even now. He did not know yet if he intended to turn towards the village, or to the path which led to the mansion of the Squire.
How shall we unravel from its entanglement the confusion of thoughts out of which a purpose grows? It is impossible for us to know all Nat felt that day; we may even add that he himself did not know. But in order that we may be able to understand him in some measure we must make an effort to look down into the feelings of a boy.
Nat had told himself then, as he walked along to the town, that his mother was ‘sore grieved now that Nan was gone;’ that his mother had ‘allays made so much o’ Nan.’ ‘She wouldn’t ’a cared if it had been me;’ murmured the sore feeling of an old jealousy; ‘she allays thought Annie a sight more good nor me.’ And then he told himself that his sister ‘needn’t talk; he wouldn’t ’a disgraced himself as she had done.’ It was hateful to think ‘how all t’ folk ’ud speak; they’ll make us the gossip o’ t’ village now.’ And still beneath these thoughts stirred the remembrance that he had not decided what he should do with the letters of the Squire.
Oh, there was no need for him to think about them; he would make up his mind as he walked back from the town. He would think of his sister—about the village people—‘them as Rantanned father, an’ is allays hard on us.’ He felt chafed, reckless, stung with the shame of that which had been sorrow the night before, ready to assure himself that it did not matter what he did, that even his mother did not care for him. These feelings may have been natural, we will not say they were not; but it is not in such feelings that virtue finds support.
So he came to Lindum, to the house of Mr Lee, and duly delivered the letter from the Squire; and was told that the master of the house was absent, and would not return until late in the afternoon. After this he performed some commissions at various shops, and had his mid-day meal at the coffee-palace in the High Street. On an ordinary occasion he would have enjoyed the fun of it all, and would especially have considered the meal a luxury, but to-day he could eat but little, and only just took up the newspaper—although a boy feels himself a man when he takes up a newspaper! When he paid for his dinner sixpence was returned to him which he carefully put into his pocket for the Squire. In this action also there was nothing unusual, but this time he felt himself to be proud of his honesty. He had a few more commissions to do, after which he wandered in the streets, and at last found his way once more to the house of Mr Lee. Tina had not been mistaken—after he had waited there for some while at the door the housekeeper put into his hands a letter for the Squire.
Nat felt his heart thump as he received it, and felt his face grow red, as if he had been suddenly detected in a theft, whilst his fingers closed hastily upon the envelope with the sensation that they were being burned. Wild thoughts passed through him as if he must get rid of it, must give it back to the servant to be sent on by the post; but he had not the courage or the skill to act upon them, and with the letter in his pocket went out into the streets. And then, for the first time, it rushed openly through his mind that he must keep his word to Miss Gillan even if he were disgraced for it.
With that feeling throbbing as if it were a pulse, and walking at his utmost speed, he speedily left the streets, and found himself once more by the edge of the river, in the radiant evening. Since he had left Mr Lee he had not stopped to think; he felt pursued, breathless, without even a wish to rest. But now, from very fatigue, he stood still by the river. And, as he paused, he remembered that the Squire had been kind to him.
Oh, Mr Mallory would never forgive him, never, if he were to find out that he had been disobeyed, or if he were once to discover that his messenger had been talking to other people about his private letters. He was so terrible when he was offended, Mr Mallory was. And he was himself the Squire’s favourite, all the servants said he was. What was Miss Gillan to him, or what was he to Miss Gillan? He was not called upon to disobey the Squire for her.
He walked on again. He felt calm, happy, his mind was at rest. And then, all at once, a reaction seized him once more.
Oh, oh, what a fool he was—the reaction seized him suddenly—to make such a fuss about a little thing, a small thing, a trifle, that no one would care about. Why, if Mr Mallory were to hear that he had been to the Manor Farm, there wouldn’t be anything so very bad in that .... he would never know .... that Nat had gone there to show his letter..... The last thought had a sting from which there was no escape, for Nat had been taught by his mother to be fastidiously honourable. Only, if she did see his letter what was the harm in that? it was only the outside of it that she wished to see—it was only an idea, a fancy that she had, she would not do anything to bring him into disgrace. ‘She likes me,’ thought Nat, and the blood rushed to his face; ‘and I like her too .... and I must do this for her.’ .... So up and down, literally up and down he paced, and the beating of his heart went up and down with him. And then, suddenly, with a quick, decided movement, he left off reflecting, and walked onwards steadily.
There are few things more strange, if we come to think of it, than the peace which possesses us when we have decided to do wrong; it is to be accounted for, I suppose, by the cessation of conflict which appears to be a benefit at whatever cost it is obtained. Nat was a lad, and disturbed about a trifle, or at least by that which may appear such to us, but in those moments he experienced the calmness which has been felt by wrong-doers more guilty than himself. It was only when at length he drew near the village that he began to waver again, as we have seen, and to ask himself whether he would pursue the lower road, or would take the turn that led to the grey house of the Squire. He drew closer, closer; he saw in the golden evening the dark trees on the hill, the red chapel on his left .... he reached the turn .... for one instant he stood still. For one instant; and then, with steady footsteps he pursued his way through the lower village-street.
Down the street he went in the radiant, summer evening .... he could not think .... his heart could scarcely be stirred even by terror lest he should meet his master. No! the street was still, there were even no village-people; he reached the next turn, and began to mount the hill; he passed the old stones, and the grey tower of the church; he stood at length by the yard-door of the Farm. The yard-door was open, but the yard was deserted, the pigeons fluttered, the black dog wagged its tail; he went to the back-door, and opened it, and went in. Down the passage he went to the door of Tina’s sitting-room, and before he had knocked she opened it herself.
And in an instant, with a clutch upon his hand that made her little fingers seem hard as steel, she had drawn him, or almost dragged him into the room, and had closed the door upon them that they might be alone. In another instant she had forestalled his unwilling movement, and had taken the letter from the pocket of his coat. And then, with a fluttering laugh, and her finger on her lip, she ran to the further door and left the room.
If the fault of Nat deserved speedy retribution it must be owned that his punishment did not fail; his feelings were not to be envied during those long minutes which he spent alone. He could not imagine what had become of Tina, or what cause had induced her to leave the room at once; a feverish dread was on him that this whole business might turn out more serious than he had imagined it to be. As the minutes passed this fever became almost like insanity, and he felt every moment in more danger of a detection which would destroy for ever all hope he had in life. He longed to pursue Tina, and yet he dared not do so; he fell down at length, almost crying, upon a chair. But even as he found himself giving way in this unexpected manner, the further door opened, and Tina entered the room again.
She was pale, her eyes appeared to look into the distance, she did not seem like herself. Without saying a word, she held out the letter. Her eyes watched him as she did so. He seized it eagerly, without daring to look at it, and put it back into his pocket without a word. Then she seemed relieved, and said a few playful words, giving back to him a seal which she had once borrowed from him, and telling him that he must be a good boy and not get into a scrape, and that he must make haste with the letter to the Squire. And then, still holding his hand, she pressed it softly, and with a gentle movement pushed him from the room. Nat felt the soft touch still as, in confusion and bewilderment, he did not delay to hasten from the house. Even now it was possible for him to escape detection, and to deliver the letter safely into the keeping of the Squire. If that could be done he might yet be free from danger—that is to say, if the ‘downhill path’ will allow of ‘turning back.’
He was gone; the door of the house was closed behind him; and Tina was left alone in the ‘old kitchen,’ with her hands tightly clasped, and her face listening and intent. Some strange excitement was upon her, that was evident, it seemed like the excitement of fear. As soon as it was certain that her companion had left the house, she let herself fall down on a seat, and hid her face in her hands.
Oh! what had she gained by this foolish risk she had encountered, the most foolish and needless of the many risks of her life—what had she gained and what might she not have lost if her action should come to the knowledge of the Squire? She had been so insanely bent on the perusal of his letter in order that she might find out the mind of Mr Lee, so certain that her uncle was concocting some plan with her brother, the knowledge of which she was not to be allowed to share. For her brother had left the house in the early morning, only leaving a note to let her know that he was gone; and her suspicions, always ready where he was concerned, had at once connected his departure with his visit to Mr Lee. Her mere idle wish to see the outside of the letter (which had included some indefinite desire as well) had thus been turned into a craving that she could not control, and that she was determined to gratify at any risk. And yet when the moment came she might have been terrified, if only .... only .... it had not been all so quickly done.
For, oh! it was easy! The letter was badly fastened, and sealed as an afterthought with a little round of wax; it had not been difficult to take off the seal and to renew it when the letter was replaced. She had been excited ... it was that which frightened her, which made her uncertain of all that she had done, but she was quite sure that she had fastened the letter carefully and had impressed the wax with the plain seal Nat had lent to her. If that should be recognised; but it could not be recognised; and in any case she had returned the seal to him, not without some conscious impression, as she did so, that his danger would now be greater than her own. Bah! there was no danger, there could not be any danger; she had not wished to do any harm to him.
If only the letter had been worth the trouble! for it could not be said to be of worth in any sense—one single cold reference to the visit of her brother contained all the information that it gave. And yet she must really be feeling like a criminal because she had dared to look into its contents—and Tina leant on the table flushed, throbbing cheeks, and dark eyes whose brilliancy had gained fresh sparkles now. She would go to her room and see that all was safe, for absolutely she did not feel secure! And so, with a murmur of singing, for excitement made her sing, she left the old kitchen, and stole upstairs to her room.
All was quiet there, it was just the time of sunset, and beyond the window the Fens lay in crimson glow; the little table at which she had read the letter was in the centre of the room, and piled with fancy-work; the red sealing-wax had been carefully put away, the candle extinguished and returned to the dressing-table. All this she saw at a glance, with a sensation of relief; she advanced two steps .... then suddenly stood still. A packet like the enclosure of a letter lay before her on the ground.
In another instant, with a start and gasp of terror, Tina had sprung to the door, and locked and bolted it, had snatched up the paper from the ground on which it lay, and had thrown herself down upon her bed to open it. In another moment its contents were revealed to her—it contained a few words referring to a subscription, and a Bank of England note. At the moment when she had opened and read the letter this enclosure must have dropped unperceived to the ground.
Trembling, shaking with terror, and almost crying, Tina tried in vain to discover what she could do, whilst the terrible bank note lay between her fingers, an indisputable witness if it should be discovered there. In that first instant she thought of rushing after Nat; but he was already gone, he must have been gone some while; and even if he were recalled it might not be possible to open the letter for the second time. Yet there was the bank note—she walked up and down, wringing her hands; she seized it between her fingers as if she could have torn it into pieces. Her reckless action seemed already to have consequences, and to ensure her a terrible punishment. As in fright and despair she leant against the window, the glowing Fens appeared to be stained with blood.
Ah, bah! what a fool she was, there was no need for despair. Or, at any rate, she would not despair so soon. The Squire might not know, he might never know what had happened, for the rest of the letter contained no allusion to the note; or, if he did suspect that the letter had been tampered with, his suspicion would naturally fall entirely upon Nat. Poor Nat, it might happen that he would lose his place, but then her friends in London would give him some assistance; or if she herself became the heiress of her uncle, she would have plenty of opportunities of giving help to him. He might betray her—Tina’s eyes became hard and terrible—but then, if he did, he would not be believed; and she would explain to him how necessary for both their sakes it was that she should not be suspected of the deed. And yet she trembled, as she had never trembled yet, and as she leant against the window her eyes were wet with tears.
Tina wept; and at some distance the companion of her danger was returning with an uneasy conscience to his home, all unconscious as yet of this new peril, but still sore hearted as he had never been before. He did not linger to look at the blood-red radiance, which lay as a reflection of the sunset on the Fens, or to indulge in any delicious expectations of spending the evening at the Manor Farm. With the fear of detection heavy on his soul he sat down silently in a corner of the cottage. If any discovery were to occur that night he would wait for it in his home.
The blood-red radiance, that seemed like a dream of judgment, paled, faded, and the evening twilight came; and then the moon rose behind a dim, fleecy sky, with streaks of dark blue between the pallor of the clouds. No servant came through that clear, sober light to summon the unfaithful messenger to the presence of the Squire; and, although a few footsteps passed down the Thackbusk lane, the cottage near the Thackbusk was left unvisited. It was not until the depth of the night had come that, according to the report of the morning, there arrived a visitor.
Was it true? Oh, could it be true? The startling rumour fled faster through the village than the first report had done, awakening the excitement of an eager curiosity, and of a gossip that would be in no haste to cease. For it was said that in the dead of that August night a figure had been seen lying on the door-step of Jenny Salter’s home; and that two labourers, returning from their work, had paused by its side, and had then aroused the house. It was Annie Salter who lay there in the darkness, forlorn, exhausted, too much worn out to move, her hair loose, untended, and hanging upon her shoulders, and on one of the fingers of her hand a wedding-ring. In this manner, after her mysterious disappearance, the daughter of Jenny returned once more to her home.