THE rest must follow—was already on its way, in as sure a course as that of the golden autumn days—and already with speculations concerning Jenny Salter’s daughter were mingled others with regard to her son. For the lad was altered, that could not be denied—the disgrace of his sister seemed to have wrought a change in him.
Indeed it would be difficult to express in sufficiently vivid words the alteration that was observed in Nat—a change all the more apparent from the strength and youth which continued persistently to belong to him. His hair was still crisp, with a tendency to curl, his colour still bright with heat and harvest-work; and beneath the broad straw hat, convenient for harvest-time, his face was as handsome as it had ever been. But he seemed careworn, was restless and abstracted, started when he was called, preferred to work alone—to his features had come that look of ceaseless trouble which does not often accompany the trouble of the young. The disgrace of his sister might account for this alteration, but there appeared to be much that was strange in it all the same. Poor Nat! he could not have told, even if he had asked himself, how much of his own trouble was caused by his sense of the continual suspicion under which his sister lay—the abiding home-grief, which was renewed every evening by the sight of her obstinate silence and his mother’s dumb despair. It was that sense of disgrace which aggravated the knowledge that he himself deserved disgrace; the double weight was a load intensified, a burden that had become unendurable. At night, when he awoke, he could hear himself muttering; but in the day-time his pride supported him, and his misery was dumb. For he had no friend to whom he could confide his trouble, and the atmosphere of his home-life had not been one of confidences.
Yet there was danger! he had felt it from the moment when he knew that the Squire was dissatisfied with the letter he had received from Mr Lee, that he had laid it on one side as a matter in need of explanation, and that he was determined to speak to Mr Lee on his return. The letter might have been opened, he could not be sure that it had not been; and in any case investigations were dangerous—for he was aware that the slightest suspicion on the part of his employer would be sufficient to alter the conduct of the Squire. Meanwhile the continued kindness with which Mr Mallory treated him supplied the burn of a perpetual reproach; and there were moments when he could have found it in his heart to throw himself at his master’s feet and confess his fault. He could not—the fault belonged also to another, and he could not betray another in the attempt to save himself.
So struggled his feelings during the course of harvest-work, whilst blue sky shone down upon the golden fields, and gleaners with children by their sides made up their bundles, and men and boys shouted above last loads of corn. It was only when harvest was over, and the days became short and grey, that he began to be torn with another pain. Miss Gillan had never seen him since a too-well-remembered evening; she had never again sent for him to the Farm. At first to poor Nat this seemed only natural; but, as time went on and there came no sign from her, the desire to see her became a craving pain.
Oh, he had made up his mind in the first rush of penitence that he would never go to the Farm again, that if she asked for him he would send a refusal, and that he would break resolutely from her influence. And now there was no need for so much determination, for it was evident that she did not care for him. And all his resolve became lost in the craving; ‘If he could only see her and speak to her again!’
Through a warm, cloudy morning in September when the Fens were grey, shadowy, and misty sunlight lay on the village streets, whilst far in the eastern sky was an ominous tinge of red—through these signs of approaching tempest Nat found his way once more to the Farm. He was trying to justify himself by many reasons—the poor dog, crawling back to his owner’s feet. Oh, he could not do without her, though he had tried to do so; it would be enough if he could see her face again.
The back-door was open, and he could hear the sound of music—she was in the old kitchen, and was playing dances there. Nat trembled to feel how fast his heart was beating, so that he could scarcely pronounce the words that asked if she were within. In another minute little Molly brought back her message—Miss Gillan was obliged to him, but she would not need him again. Nat did not answer, he felt that he could not answer; without looking back he turned away at once.
He was engaged to do harvest-work, but he knew that labour was impossible—he went out into the fields and wandered there for hours. When he returned home in the evening, he found that a message had preceded him—Mr James Robson had sent to ask Jenny why her son had not appeared; and had added, moreover, that the lad was getting ‘strange and idle,’ and that he wished the mother would ‘say a word’ to him. Jenny did say a word, she even said many words, with the cold severity that was her manner of greatest displeasure; and she ended by refusing to let Nat have his tea, telling him that she could not afford to give him meals for which he did not work. No doubt, it would have been better if she had avoided that childish punishment, but the sore weight of her own troubles lay upon her heart; and, moreover, it is not always easy for a mother to be certain whether to treat a lad of seventeen like a man or like a child. Nat found himself next morning too sick and depressed to eat; but he would not make any complaint, and went doggedly to his work—not relieved when he was told by his master before the other boys and men that a ‘moocher’ deserved a thrashing, and, if he were his son, would get it too. Mr James Robson intended to give a kindly warning, but a proud nature does not receive warnings well; and although Nat set to work with stubborn earnestness, his resolution only issued from pride and despair. He knew indeed that it would not be difficult to regain his credit as long as he continued to be the Squire’s favourite; but even that thought was a bitter consolation, which could not comfort him in his temporary disgrace. If he should ever fall from the favour of the Squire, he would not again hold up his head amongst his companions.
Poor Nat! If any artist had passed by the harvest-field he must have been struck by the sight of his youth and strength, of his well-formed arms with shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, and of the beauty of his flushed, sunburnt face. But this picture, so ready for an artist’s hand, was under conditions which might render it less desirable—though the mental torments under which the lad was writhing had not been able to work much outward ravage yet. For the first time Nat felt drawn to forbidden pleasures, to anything that would still the raging thirst of life—he longed to enter the lighted public-house, to sing and dance there, and drink away his fear and shame. His old pride restrained him, that pride of old respectability which is too often the only safe-guard left. He would wait till he saw if the Squire had any suspicion; after that it would not matter what became of him.
And then, on an autumn evening, as he went by the wall of the Farm, going down into the village after his work for the Squire, the little door in the wall opened suddenly before he reached it, and Tina Gillan came out, without seeing him. She was in black, except for a knot of red ribbons in her hat; she walked with uncertain steps as if she were quivering. In this strange, restless manner she went down the road; and, at some distance, Nat cautiously followed her.
It was a grey evening, and there was a stormy wind. About the streets lay straw fallen from the loads of corn; the dead leaves had been whirled into drifts, or lay scattered upon the path; the rising ground in the distance was dull with purple mist. A mournful time, as full of suggestions of trouble as the restless, black figure that went down the village street, that passed the old tree with its yellow, withering leaves, and pushed open with difficulty the heavy church-yard gate. Nat followed her—she went down the church-yard path, and turned through the open door into the church, into the dim church where she at length stood still, and in which his footstep at length became audible. In another instant she had turned round, and then turned upon him, with the wildest gestures, and with wild, flashing eyes.
‘Oh, have you come here to taunt me,’ cried Tina, ‘to repeat to me again what my brother’s letter tells, to remind me how clever you have all been in deceiving me, so that he has been able to disgrace and ruin us both? It was a fine scheme you concocted with my brother—you and your sister, the low, hateful, village hussy—but if it brings shame to us I can assure you that at any rate it will bring no good to you. If I had known more I need not have wished for the Squire’s letter, in order to try and discover what my brother would not tell me! Mr Lee will not forgive us, you need not think he will; you will not be able to squeeze money out of him!’
She put out her hands as if she would have torn him; and, as she did so, Nat seized her in his arms. He was so much excited that he did not know what he did ... he poured out protestations .... he grasped her arms with his hands. And, even at that instant, he became aware in his turn of a footstep—Alice Robson was standing in the dim church by his side.
A terrible moment! He felt blind and faint, he could not resist the escape of Tina from his grasp; with a blind movement he put out his hands, and leant on the font to keep himself on his feet. And as he leant against it, in darkness and bewilderment, he heard the voice of his old companion.
‘Oh what have you done, Nat, what will become of you? Mother came to fetch her hymn-book, she has heard and seen everything.’
No answer. The lad slowly raised himself from the font, and stood with his head bent, looking down upon the ground. For once, Alice was excited, and could not restrain herself, although he had not so much as looked at her. For, whatever the meaning of this intimacy might be, she could not imagine that it would bring aught but ruin to him.
‘Oh, if she was good and would do you good,’ cried Alice, ‘I wouldn’t say a word to you, I’d be glad as you was glad. It’s not so, it isn’t, she’s bad, she flatters you, she tries to persuade you as she cares for you. What’s this as she’s been telling you about a letter? you haven’t been doing any wrong to the Squire for her?’
‘So you’ve been a-spyin’, Alice Robson,’ Nat screamed out in a frenzy—the overmastering frenzy, which is the result of rage and shame; ‘you do things as t’ dirt in t’ street ’ud be ashamed to own, and then speak to me as if ye was t’ parson, an’ had t’ right to preach. I’ll make ye t’ laughing-stock of all t’ lads, I will! I’ll tell ’em as ye cared about me though I’ve never cared for ye! Ye’ve gi’en me a lot o’ preaching as ye thort must win my heart, but I’ve never had a grain o’ love for ye—did ye ever think I had?’
He flung out the words as men fling blows in darkness, intent upon striking and hurting if they can; and, as if borne backwards by the violence of his passion, the farmer’s daughter retreated, and leant against a seat. For one instant her face was averted, and he could only see that she trembled; but then, with no visible effort, she turned to him again. Her voice sounded gentle, restrained, in the intense silence of the church; it was evident that she had regained her self-control.
‘Nat,’ said Alice, gently, though with a slight quiver in her tone, ‘there was mother with me, she’s heard and seen everything. Ye had better speak to her, ask her to be quiet; she might do ye harm with the village and the Squire.’
It is impossible to say what there was in her tone and manner that made these words have the sound of a farewell, but he understood them—he knew that a sense of duty would not allow her to leave him without a warning even then. She was turning away, but she changed her mind, and stood still, leaning her hand upon the back of a seat; her voice was as gentle in its utterance as that of a child, who wishes to confess a fault. ‘I’m sorry I’ve given you trouble,’ those soft tones said to him; and she went on to the great doors, reached them, and was gone. Her footstep was only just audible on the stones, but it had the sound of the departure of a friend.
And he—left alone in the darkening autumn evening, which was all the more dark and still within the church—he flung himself over the backs of the nearest seats, and lay there with his arms hanging down, and his face towards the ground, a shadowy, strangely extended figure in the gloom. He did not move, he was too miserable to move, he could not rouse himself to either tears or prayers. Some tears gathered slowly at length, so slowly that they could not fall—he dropped to his feet, and stole out into the night.