Nat sat down, soothed in spite of himself by a kindness more delicate in expression than that of the housekeeper had been. With some nervousness, for he had much natural diffidence, he drew out a carved chair from the table and sat down upon it, having placed his cap on the floor. Into this luxurious library, this room with its books and busts, and appliances for study, he had been admitted sometimes in earlier years that he might play with the Squire’s little son. No doubt to this circumstance he owed his present employment, but in spite of that it did not enter into the mind of the lad to suppose that this past intimacy gave him any particular claim upon the Squire. And possibly Mr Mallory appreciated this reticence, not often a quality of those who accepted help from him.
‘I have had you in the garden every day for the last fortnight,’ the Squire observed, whilst he wrote leisurely. ‘I hope you will be able to come even after the harvest has begun; you can apply for more wages at that time, if you like.’
‘My mother says I’ve enough, sir,’ muttered Nat, in reply to this suggestion; ‘she told me I wasn’t to ask you for no more.’ And as the Squire raised his eyes in some surprise, his glance fell on the swollen eyelids and pale cheeks of the boy.
‘Ah, yes .... I know .... your mother .... an honest woman ....’ he murmured over his writing, for he had bent his head again; and then, when he had finished and laid aside his pen, he added a few more words with a gentle utterance.
‘You are in trouble to-day?’
The kind words and the kind glance were more than could be borne, though Nat tried to hold up his head, as if he didn’t care. In vain! his face became red, and his eyes filled with tears.
‘Yes, sir, we are.’
‘Would you rather not be sent into the town? Is there anything else you wish to do? Tell me.’
‘I can’t do no good, sir; I’d as lieve be there as here.’
‘You do not wish then to be near your mother?’