Jenny: A Village Idyl

by M. A. Curtois

‘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.