CHAPTER XXIX
THE SQUIRE SENDS FOR NAT
WHILST Jenny was making her solitary way through the darkness, the library at the Hall had been lighted with wax candles, and Nat was standing there before Mr Mallory. It was a more quiet scene than that of the tumult at the cottage, but to an observer it must have appeared to be still more fraught with doom.
For let us try to imagine it for a moment—the dark room, the wax candles, the pale face of the Squire in his usual seat by the table, the ill-concealed delight of the butler who stood behind him, the interest of the two footmen who guarded the criminal. And that criminal! a boy from whose face, hard, reckless, sullen, all beauty and even all that might interest had fled, whose whole nature appeared to be absorbed in the silent resistance which opposes itself to inevitable doom. A self-evident wrong-doer, a convicted criminal, this son of a respectable mother, who had been himself respectable. And this was the lad who had been the Squire’s favourite, the boy whom the Squire’s little son had played with, and had loved!
‘If I had not known you for so many years,’ said Mr Mallory, in the relentless tone Nat had never heard from his lips before, ‘I would not have treated you so mercifully, but I would have sent for the police, and let them deal with you. This matter would have been investigated earlier, but Mr Lee has been absent from the town; and, although he made some allusions to an enclosure he had sent, I never supposed it was of money that he spoke. I was writing about you at that time to Mr Lee. I have not the least doubt that you were aware of it. It is possible that you opened his letter from idle curiosity without any suspicion that money was within it. Confess everything to me. It is your only chance. It will be of some advantage to you to be kicked from the premises instead of being sent to gaol.’
The Squire pronounced all these words—even the last—in the same cold, even tone, as if he would not disturb himself enough to have anger in his voice; and the dark eyebrows that always seemed so black beneath his white hair were not drawn lower than usual on his eyes. But the lines of his face, which were always fine and subtle, appeared as hard as if they had been graved with an instrument; and, to one who had been accustomed to be treated by him with the utmost gentleness, his tone and glance must have been like a scourge of steel. A proud nature is not won in this manner to repentance and confession; but Mr Mallory was hardly in the mood for inducing penitence.
‘Did you open my letter?’ he asked, after a pause, with a glance which was not that of a dreamer now. There was time for the delight of the butler to become more strongly marked before the low answer was audible in the room.
‘No, sir, I did not.’
They were the first words Nat had spoken since he had been brought into the house, and he spoke in a tone that was in accordance with the expression of his face, the hard, sullen tone of defiance and despair. But it must be understood that, during the time that he was silent, burning waves and struggles had been passing through the boy, a doubt whether he should attempt to clear himself by revealing a tale that would be held incredible. He shrank inexplicably from pronouncing Tina’s name; he was not sure that his statement about her would be believed; he was convinced that any attempt to connect her with his fate could only end in involving her in ruin with him. And he told himself—the poor fool! he could tell himself even then—that if he betrayed her she would never speak to him again, and that it was even yet possible that of this dreadful action she might be as innocent as he was himself. If he had been himself absolutely guiltless the shock of the suspicion might have made him reckless about her; or if he had been secure that he could clear himself he might possibly have prevailed on himself to leave her to ruin. But on every side there appeared to be destruction, and he was not conscious of any desire to drag her down with him. His own fate was sealed, he knew that he had been condemned from the moment that he attracted the suspicion of the Squire.
The wax candles burned as if they were burning in a dream; the footmen stood by him, ready to lay hold on him; and then, after a pause that was not so long as it seemed, he heard the voice of Mr Mallory again.
‘You did not open my letter?’ said the Squire, in the tone of one who does not attempt to seem credulous. ‘Perhaps you will be kind enough to answer a few more questions. Was this letter given to you at the house of Mr Lee?’
‘Yes, sir, it was.’ There had been a pause before Nat could speak.
‘And it had been opened then?’
‘Not as I know on, sir.’
‘You brought it to me?’
‘Yes, sir—’ but with hesitation.
‘Was it opened in your presence?’
‘No, sir, it was not.’
‘It was not opened,’ said Mr Mallory, who spoke much faster now; ‘the seal was not taken off, and was not again replaced, replaced with a much larger drop of sealing-wax, and pressed with the seal that you take about with you?’ His tone and his manner were so terrible that Nat lost his self-command, and broke out into tears.
‘We will have no whimpering,’ said the Squire, sternly. ‘Come, sir, control yourself, and answer one more question—Did you seal this envelope with your own hands, or did you not?’
‘I did not, sir,’ cried Nat, in a voice weak with crying, and in a tumult of agitation that cannot be described, uncertain whether he should not fling himself before his master, and, revealing to him all that had happened, implore mercy at his feet. But the tempest of rage that broke at once upon him swept away all his strength like a thread before a storm. The Squire did not often lose his self-command, but on this occasion his self-command was gone.
‘You liar!’ he cried, ‘you ungrateful vagabond! Look at this!’ and he flung on the table the letter which he had held. ‘Will you dare to deny that it has been sealed with your seal, the seal which you dropped, and left in my room to-day? Oh, the seal is a plain one—you counted upon that—but the size is the same, the crack in the corner corresponds—you were very clever, no doubt, you imagined yourself to be clever, but you were not quite so clever as you supposed yourself to be! Come, sir, make your statement. We will have no more lies from you. Did you seal this letter again with your seal, or did you not?’
A moment of doom!—but if Nat had possessed the courage either to deny boldly or to confess the truth, he might even then have produced some reaction in his favour, or have made it at any rate more difficult for him to be condemned. He could not—at that moment there swept over him like a tempest the remembrance that Tina had given back his seal to him, and the sense of her perfidy, the conviction of her guilt, rushed on him like a flood he had no power to stand against. He could only declare with violent, broken words that he had not taken the money, he had not!—the protestations appearing to be that final vehemence which serves as the last outbreak of lying and despair. With a movement of frenzy the Squire put out his hand; but, recollecting himself, he drew it back again, drawing in his lips at the same time with an expression of disgust. And then, pushing away his desk with a motion of disdain, as if even that action gave him some relief, he rose from his seat and paced about the room. The eyes of his servants followed him, although they did not speak; no doubt they were expecting the order that had not been given yet.
The clock ticked, the wax candles burned, there was no cessation of the footsteps of the Squire. It seemed to the miserable culprit, who stood with hanging head, whilst the sound of each footstep trod upon his nerves, that the summons of a policeman would be more than he could bear, that he must make some desperate effort to save himself from doom. And still the footsteps paced up and down the room, and no voice broke the silence to pronounce the words of condemnation.
We ascribe merciful actions to the merciful, and Mr Arundel-Mallory was not a man of mercy; the kindness and even consideration that were habitual to him proceeded rather from indifference and courtesy than from lack of relentlessness. And yet it must be recorded that in these instants, whilst he walked, the Squire found himself more oppressed than he would have thought to be; this lad, his favourite, must have been closer to his heart than he had imagined—this relic of the past, and of the son whom he had lost. He did not like to be sensible of the triumph of his butler, it seemed as if that exultation were a reflection on himself; his mind wandered also to a remembrance of the wretched boy’s poor mother, who was so much respected, and who kept her home so neat! And then he thought how in that last day of the fever, in the last words that could be distinguished from his lips, his little boy, in the wandering of his delirium, had chattered of the boy who came to play with him. It seemed, indeed, as if it were weakness not to punish, especially when the miserable wretch deserved punishment so much! But then it might be possible to inflict pain and shame enough, without that punishment of a prison, that is held to be the last disgrace. And with this thought, with a firm and steady motion, the Squire came back to his chair, and sat down there again. He felt that he must resign himself to the loss of a sum of money, but he had never been a man who valued money much.
‘Listen! You!’ he said, with a movement of his hand to enforce attention. ‘And do not attempt to say a single word! I am entirely satisfied that it was you who stole my money. No doubt it is spent now. I will not ask for it. I ought to send you to prison. It is my duty to do so. But I cannot forget that—that Willy cared for you.’ His voice trembled strangely, but he recovered himself; and went on in a tone that did not tremble again.
‘Do you know what I will do to you? You shall be soundly thrashed in my presence, and then turned out of my house with your shame and disgrace. I will not hide the story from the village or your mother—from this time you must find employment where you can. Get one of my whips. Stripes that he will not forget will be the best medicine that you can give to him.’
‘If they dare to touch me,’ cried Nat, in an overwhelming frenzy, as he felt his arms grasped by the footman who remained, ‘I will never go back to my home; I will drown myself to-night.’ The words sounded in his ears with the ring of desperation, but he could see only a slight smile on the thin lips of the Squire.
‘Ah! drown yourself?’ Mr Mallory murmured languidly, ‘I do not think that a liar and a thief has spirit left for that.’ And then, as he saw that the footman had returned, he gave a sign to the butler to begin.
It was over. The butler, who was a powerful man, had fulfilled his task with the most complete good-will, but it must be owned that Nat had not opposed to him the smallest resistance of movement or of sound. He stood now, still quivering with the pain of his punishment, and turned to the Squire such a pale face and such burning eyes that, although he was aware of the absurdity of the sensation, the Squire could not refrain from a thrill of uneasiness. Checking it, he raised his head, with a languid shrug of his shoulders, and told his servants to turn him out, and to close the house. The burning eyes of the boy rested still upon his face to the very last instant as he was dragged away. He was dragged from the room, and forced roughly through the passages, and thrust through the side-door, and out into the night. He could hear the sound of the bolts that were closed behind him: he was left to be in the darkness and alone.