Having thus ignominiously failed in her attempt to bring about Miriam's downfall, Mrs. Darrow judged it wise, for the time being at least, to desist from further attempts in the same direction—in fact, she left her governess severely alone. She realised that her abortive experiment had resulted not only in failure of her object, but that it had utterly destroyed her chance of obtaining from Uncle Barton that little cheque which was looming up so distinctly and pleasantly on her mental horizon when she conceived her little plan for the undoing of Miriam Crane. And, worse still, she realised that Uncle Barton now knew the reason for her proposed hospitality. Nor was he long in taxing her with it, and administering in a series of expressive periods verbal chastisement as severe as any Mrs. Darrow had had to swallow from him for long past.
In vain she tried to excuse herself.
"It was all in the interest of the dear child," she protested plaintively. "Surely you would not have Dicky entrusted to the care of a common music-hall singer?—it is so horribly low and vulgar, not to say worse."
"Miss Crane is no music-hall singer. What she told you is perfectly true, for I know her brother well—indeed, it was through him I heard of her. He is a young ne'er-do-well, and happens to be in the employ of my own solicitor. Hearing that his sister was seeking employment as a governess through the agency of an institute in Kensington, I went there, saw her, and engaged her. I think the wisdom of my choice is evident."
"Oh yes; so far as teaching goes she certainly does very well. But so she should, seeing she is well paid for it—far too well paid in my opinion."
"But this happens to be one of the many points upon which your opinion is not of vital importance, Julia. I pay the lady what I consider is due to her for her services. The fact of the matter is, you cordially dislike Miss Crane."
"No, that is not true," replied Mrs. Darrow. "All I say is that there is something queer about her—very queer. For one thing she dresses absurdly above her position."
"Does she? It seems to me she dresses very plainly."
"Oh yes, to your eye, no doubt. But you must excuse me if in your own words I reply that the 'cut' of a lady's dress is not one of the points upon whichyouropinion is of vital importance. You may take it from me that her dresses, 'plain' as you think them, come from a first-class dressmaker, and cost a large sum of money. What I want to know is, how did she pay for them?"
Now this of course Barton knew very well, seeing that he himself had written the cheque for them. All he said was,
"If Miss Crane chooses to pay an extravagant price for her clothes, it is no business either of yours or of mine. She does her duty excellently well, and leaves absolutely no cause for complaint. Unfortunately, you are one of those people who do not need a cause. Your fault-finding capacities are endless and illimitable. Now either you accept Miss Crane as the very satisfactory person I consider her to be in her position, or I send her away without further ado, and you can attend to Dicky yourself."
This was not at all to Mrs. Darrow's mind. In such circumstances she would be forced to get another governess, and the chances were, as she knew well, one vastly inferior to Miriam. Not that the boy's educational welfare weighed with her so much as the fact that she would have to pay for her out of her own pocket. Such a proceeding with her extremely finite income would entail personal sacrifices, for which she was in no way inclined. Therefore did she readily promise and vow that she would not again dig or delve into the past of Miriam Crane, and while declaring that she was altogether satisfactory as a teacher, hazarded the hope that if in time to come her suspicions should prove to have been well founded, Uncle Barton would not forget that she had warned him. All this the Squire took for what he considered it was worth, and left her without any effort to disguise the contempt he felt for her. So far as she was concerned he thought Miriam was safe, for the time being at all events. Self-interest was the securest of all possible dams to the verbal torrent of the irrepressible Julia.
But that the widow lady still nurtured her feeling of enmity for Miriam was evident from the hundred and one petty ways in which she contrived to show her spite. And while Miriam, on her part, was altogether above taking notice of such trifles, she felt the sting of them nevertheless. So the days and weeks and months went by, without open rupture of any kind, though with much silent fortitude on the part of the unhappy governess.
By this time she had no doubt as to the strength of her feeling for Gerald Arkel. She saw him continually, sometimes in the company of Hilda Marsh, often alone. Of this latter young lady, further opportunity seemed only to confirm her opinion. She was selfish, shallow, and altogether without heart. With the sharp swift instinct of a woman in her position, Hilda saw the real state of affairs, and despite all Miriam's endeavours to avoid the existence of any spirit of rivalry between them—such a position being to her undignified and wholly detestable—she found herself being more or less forced into it.
And the young man himself could not but see how things were. But he seemed in no way to object. On the contrary, although he did not lessen his attentions to Hilda, he continued to spend a considerable amount of time with Miriam, just—as he pleased to phrase it to himself—to "keep the pot boiling." Had she so wished it, Miss Marsh could probably have brought him to an open declaration at any moment. But she did not, and that for the very excellent and weighty reason, that it was not at all certain in her mind which of the two nephews Uncle Barton had determined upon making his heir. And so for the same reason when Major Dundas visited Lesser Thorpe, which indeed he did but rarely, he was kept thoroughly well in hand by this young lady, who had made up her mind to be the future mistress of that very desirable property. And, in truth, the gallant Major was rapidly succumbing to the charms of Miriam Crane, and his feelings were only fanned the more to vigour by the absence of any encouragement on her part. So the daily wheel revolved in sight of the whole parish, and not a little to its diversion. To Uncle Barton most of all its convolutions afforded the greatest satisfaction, not to say amusement, pending the time when it should come "full circle."
Such a position as that in which Gerald Arkel found himself was tenable neither with dignity nor with any degree of nobility. But then this young man was not endowed even in a minor degree with either of these estimable qualities. He was in truth the most material and nonchalant of mortals, rejoicing in the possession of a comely person, and an invariably imperturbable disposition—not infrequently miscalled "sunny" by many who knew him. He had the greatest aversion to work of any kind. In the enjoyment of a liberal income from his uncle, he gave himself over to a life wholly useless, purposeless, and by no means above reproach. Once a week on an average he ran down from town to the Manor House, and, usually at Barton's expressed desire, remained for two or three days, dividing his favours between Hilda and Miriam. So weak and invertebrate was his character, and so horribly pronounced his vanity, that in her heart Hilda owned to an active dislike of him, and she tolerated his attentions solely because ambition, coupled with a desire to free herself from her present poverty-stricken existence, were with her for the time being paramount feelings. On the other hand, Miriam, so far as this young man was concerned, appeared to have lost herself utterly. Noble woman as she was, with the highest aims ever dominating her life, she saw no bad in the man. He was, in her eyes, unfortunate, weak, misguided; and, by virtue of those very failings, seemed only the more to appeal to her strength. With her—how sure she felt of it!—he would rise to the highest things, and she longed unutterably for the right to guide his steps and turn them in the right direction. With such a woman as Hilda Marsh—the Squire was right—he was doomed. For that and for that reason only, she allowed herself gradually to be drawn into rivalry with this other woman. The end, to her thinking, justified the means, and the conviction grew upon her so, she became so absorbed in it, that she was heedless completely of any sense of degradation in her own eyes, which in other circumstances she would have been the first to feel, as well as of the fact that in the parish she had come to be looked upon as an impudent adventuress, aiming by fair means or by foul at the capture of Squire Barton's heir. Those were very bitter times for the friendless Miriam.
Since Gerald's whispered intimation that he knew her as a woman he had seen at the Frivolity Music Hall, there had been no reference to that matter between them. The day after the dinner-party he had left for town, and although he had met her almost immediately on his return a week later, the subject had been avoided by tacit and mutual consent. But Miriam knew that an explanation would have to come. Without it she would never feel sure of his respect, and that she felt she must have before all else. Her opportunity came some three weeks later, and the absolutely free and unfettered statement she made was only characteristic of her.
On that warm August afternoon she had taken Dicky into the woods around the Manor House for one of his readings from Nature's book. There would be ample time, she knew, for indoor teaching, when the short days and long nights of winter came upon them. So for the present, despite his mother's grumbling that the boy was always idle, Miriam strove to keep him out of doors as much as possible that he might acquire that bodily health and vigour without which she could not hope for him to thrive mentally. Of this Barton approved most highly, and more than ever did he congratulate himself on the success of Miriam as a governess. Indeed it began to come upon him very strongly that she was altogether too good to be thrown away on a wastrel such as Gerald. But he would allow nothing to interfere with his design. He was obliged to confess to himself that Miriam impressed him more favourably than any other member of her sex with whom he had come in contact hitherto, and in truth, had things been otherwise than they were, it is quite possible that he would have come to offer his shrivelled body and not particularly spotless soul for her acceptance. The piece of glass picked up on Waterloo Bridge that night had proved to be a diamond of first water, too late though it was to set it in his crown.
On the dry grass under a pine-tree, where the ground was strewn with needles and cones, sat Miriam, whilst Dicky scampered and frolicked about, climbed the trees, and behaved generally after the manner of his kind. This day the boy seemed full of vitality and the very joy of life. The strong sun drew out the resinous odour of the pines, and the whole wood was filled with their spicy fragrance. Through the green branches Miriam caught sight of the blue sky overhead, and watched the strong shafts of the sun-god smite into the twilight heart of the woods. She sat with a book on her lap, drinking in the pure air and revelling in the gambols of the sunlight through the trees, though ever with a watchful eye upon Dicky as he played.
"This is a fairy wood, Miss Crane; and I am the knight who seeks a lovely princess enchanted by a magician. She has gone to sleep for a hundred years, so you must shut your eyes, please."
Miriam laughed too.
"Now I am fighting my way through the wood. Whist, Whist! oh how strong the branches are; but here is the palace. I walk upstairs and find the room where the beautiful princess is sleeping on her purple bed. I kiss her, and——"
"She wakes!" cried Miriam, catching the boy in her arms, and repaying the kiss with a dozen. "Oh, Dicky, how I wish I could sleep for a hundred years!"
"I don't," replied the boy seriously. "You would not be with me then."
"But think of the long holiday you would have, dear."
"I don't want any holiday without you. There would be no jolly games like we have now. Come on, Miss Crane. I'm going to be Samson now, and slay the Philistines; I——"
"All right, Dick, my boy, here's one of them; come on!"
It was Gerald Arkel who spoke, and the instant he did so, Miriam noticed that his voice was quite unlike himself. There was always upon him that look of hereditary delicacy, but now there were dark circles under his eyes, and he wore a haggard and weary expression which unmistakably betokened sleepless nights. When he saw who it was, Dicky threw himself into his arms with a shout.
"Oh, I'm so glad it's you, Cousin Gerald; come on, we can play at horses now."
"No, no, Dicky, I can't. I'm not on for games this morning. You go on being Samson and find some more Philistines to slaughter. How are you, Miss Crane?"
"Oh, I'm very well, thank you. And you, Mr. Arkel, you're not looking quite yourself; are you ill?"
He flung himself on the grass beside her, and picked up a fir-cone which he began to pull to pieces.
"I feel nearly dead," he said irritably; "I suppose I must expect to. I was playing pretty well through the night, and worse luck, dropped a good deal too. I never can get on without my sleep, and lately my nerves have been playing Old Harry with me!"
"Then why in the name of goodness do you go on like this—you are ruining your health."
"Oh, a fellow must live, and enjoy himself somehow!"
"And do you call playing cards into the small hours and shattering your nerves—not to speak of losing your money—enjoyment? I really am surprised, Mr. Arkel, that a man like you, especially when you know your constitution won't stand much, should behave so foolishly. It isn't as if you hadn't sufficient means——"
Gerald shook his head.
"Sufficient means?—that's just it. I know nothing about my means. For the present, yes, my uncle allows me—well, I suppose really you would call it a sufficiency. But in the future? I am all in the dark. He may make me his heir—on the other hand he may not. You know how eccentric he is. He may leave me without a penny. He's quite capable of it. That's really why I gamble, so that I can put by something and be independent of his whims."
"You should be independent of anyone's whims, certainly. But hardly by gambling. In any case, you must know it is a fool's game waiting for dead men's shoes, Mr. Arkel. Why don't you work and make your own fortune—you have a great deal in your favour?"
"Oh, come now," interrupted Gerald, "that's pretty rough on me. I've never been brought up to work. 'Pon my soul, I shouldn't know how to go about it. Besides, why should I, when there's no absolute need?"
"For one very good reason if for no other. You must not be offended with what I'm going to say—but you're one of those men who are not fitted to be their own master. Whilst you are idle you are bound to get into mischief. Work—right-down hard work would be the salvation of you."
"Well, upon my word—I suppose you would have me grub away in some beastly office all day!"
"Well, better an honest grub than a—yes, I'll say it—than a dishonest butterfly. You know quite well what I mean."
He flushed, sat up, and faced her.
"Miss Crane, I thought you liked me!"
It was Miriam's turn to flush now, and it was a very crimson face that looked at him.
"I do like you, Mr. Arkel," she said, "otherwise I should not be speaking to you like this. I want to be able to think well of you."
"You don't think well of me then?"
"No, I do not. I don't see how you can expect me to. How can I think well of a man who is content to occupy a position such as yours? You accept money from—indeed you are content to be wholly dependent upon a man whom you know you dislike, and you tolerate his whims simply that you may step into the shoes which you are waiting for him to vacate. You cannot hold that it is an honourable employment, Mr. Arkel."
Now Mr. Gerald was wholly unaccustomed to this order of treatment, more especially at the hands of a comely young lady. From them he had come from experience to expect treatment vastly more solicitous and sympathetic. And he was quite inclined to resent this change from the tactics upon which he had been reared, so to speak; more especially, seeing that his ill-luck and shattered nerves should of themselves have been sufficient to enlist the condolence of anyone—certainly of one who pretended to a liking for him as Miss Miriam Crane had just done. Such methods of exhibiting "liking" this spoiled child did not understand. And he did not quite know what to say, so he deemed it best to maintain for the moment a dignified silence. She might take what she liked from that. She saw his attitude, and felt hurt at it, but undaunted she went on.
"You will get plenty of people, I know, to flatter and to spoil you, Mr. Arkel, and I suppose you think me a very objectionable person for speaking to you like I am doing. But I have had a bitter, hard, and cruel life, and it is deep down from experience that I speak. If you knew—but there, all I can say is, that no matter how difficult it has been for me, I have always stuck to it, and tried to do my duty. You know I don't want to preach, I——"
"You have not always been teaching," hazarded Gerald, in the hope of changing the subject.
"No, you know I have not. Did you not tell me that you yourself had seen me at the 'Frivolity'?"
"Yes, I did. But mind you, I have not breathed a word of it to a soul. You were in the chorus, weren't you, in one of the musical sketches?"
"I was," replied Miriam calmly. "But I felt obliged in my present position to deny it point-blank to Mrs. Darrow—not for my own sake altogether, but for the sake of others. Besides, although I know well the sort of capital Mrs. Darrow and her friends would make out of such an incident, I was doing nothing to be ashamed of. I was earning an honest living when I could do so by no other means, though it was only ten shillings a week."
"But however did you manage to get yourself into such straits, may I ask, Miss Crane?"
"I will tell you. My father was a captain in the merchant marine. He was lost at sea, leaving my mother and me penniless. I thought that as I had received a good education, if I came to London I should be able to find employment as a governess. But I found it quite impossible, as I had no one to speak for me. Little by little my funds dwindled away, until in sheer desperation I applied at the music-halls for work of any description. My voice helped me there, and I managed to get this engagement at the 'Frivolity.' But I was not there long, for shortly after that I met an old friend, a school teacher, through whom I obtained an introduction to an agency in Kensington, and so came to be engaged by Mr. Barton for Dicky. But what I have come through and what I have suffered—well, it is because I have so suffered that I speak to you as I do, because somehow such acute trouble seems to impel one to warn—anyone they are interested in."
"You have been very plucky, Miss Crane."
"Because I have put honour first, Mr. Arkel; one cannot be plucky without it. In the very depths of despair I have always clung to that, and though as I say, I have suffered, yes, even to starvation, thank God there is nothing to which I can look back with shame. I concealed from Mrs. Darrow what I did because I know the kind of woman she is, and because I knew that I was justified in doing so for the sake of others—for the sake of this dear little fellow here who needs me, and whose little life it is my thought to care for and to guide. Do you think if it were otherwise I could stay beside him, Mr. Arkel? Still, even now, if you think it right, you can tell Mrs. Darrow everything—or I will."
Gerald protested hotly.
"I am not quite the black crow you paint me, Miss Crane. I most heartily approve of the course you took. It would have done nothing but harm all round if you had taken any other. No one shall ever hear a word of it from me. Whatever I am, I'm not the man to think lightly of a woman because she has had to come through the rough and tumble of life a bit. You have had a hard fight for it, but you have won, and although you have told me pretty plainly that you think precious little of me and my present mode of life, my opinion of you is—if you care to have it—that you are a very fine and noble woman, and worth a hundred Julias any day of the week."
This was sweet music to Miriam's ears. He believed in her withal. She was, in his mind, on an equality with the best—on an equality with Hilda, fenced off as she had been by the protective pale of home influence from the harsh and bitter realities of the world. How good it was to know that! It had cut her to the quick to think that perhaps she stood in his mind on a lower plane. But thus reassured from his own lips, she felt she could bear anything—almost to lose him.
"Indeed, indeed, I care to have it, Mr. Arkel," she said. "It is not because I urge you to take up your own fight in life that I value your good opinion the less. I know you are capable of good things, and I want to see you achieve them. You do not start handicapped as I did; you have not the sins of others to hamper you——" she stopped, for with the words came the thought of Barton and his diabolic scheme. "You have but one enemy worth the counting."
"And who is that?"
"Yourself. You are weak, and your love of pleasure dwarfs all else with you. At least you can strive to put a check on your desires—to indulge yourself less. Then gradually the rest will come; if you will only try. Will you?"
There was a whole world of meaning in her tone; and the expression upon her face was very beautiful. His eye met hers, and he took her hand.
"I will try, Miss Crane," he said. "No one has ever spoken to me before as you have done. I know that what you say is true. You are a brave woman, and as good and kind as you are brave. I will try and deserve the interest you take in me."
"And you will succeed," said Miriam. "All I would ask of you is to be worthy of yourself."
In every community or family there is generally one person who is strong enough to play the part of the cuckoo in the nest. The relative with a temper, who always gets his or her way—the bully of the tribe—the despot of the nation—these types are well-known if not appreciated. They dominate all those with whom they come in contact; they storm down opposition, and rule by sheer force of terror. Mrs. Darrow had the instinct and will to be one of this sort, but neither was her brain of sufficient capacity, nor her will sufficiently dogged to permit her attaining to such eminence. But the parish had its despot, and that in the person of Mrs. Parsley, the vicar's wife. She was a domestic Elizabeth crossed with Zantippe, and her sway was absolute.
Mr. Parsley—the Reverend Augustine—was a tall, imposing-looking man, who should surely have been a bishop if looks went to the making of one. He was learned in a dry-as-dust sort of way, and was at present engaged in writing a book on the Hebrew syntax, though of what use this would be to the world when it was finished—if it ever did reach the finite stage—no one knew, himself least of all. However, as Mrs. Parsley said, his labours served to keep him out of mischief, and therefore she encouraged him in his digging for Jewish roots.
For forty years had the Rev. Augustine been vicar of Lesser Thorpe, so by right of possession his wife had a title to her social throne. In contrast to her imposing husband, she was a dry chip of a woman, tall and marvellously lean, with a clacking tongue, a wonderful comprehensive vocabulary, and a thoracic resonance almost as deep as the vicar's. To hear the two of them discoursing was to listen to the bell of St. Paul's discoursing with Big Ben. As a rule, on such occasions, Mr. Parsley's part was closely analagous to that of confidant to a stage heroine, which is as much as to say he threw out remarks, provocative of arguments, recollections, scoldings, and scandal. Mrs. Parsley was a notable gossip, and had the history of the parish for the last forty years at the tip of her tongue. Her memory was renowned, her tongue was dreaded, and all, not excepting Mr. Barton, bowed to her sway.
Not for some considerable time after she had become a member of Mrs. Darrow's household did Miriam meet this formidable lady, for, taking into her head that she was threatened with pulmonary disease, Mrs. Parsley had insisted on starting for Davos Platz at a moment's notice, and on remaining there until she felt quite sure the dreaded visitor had given up all claim to her very imposing person.
For a wonder she left the Rev. Augustine behind, and he enjoyed his holiday prodigiously wrestling with the letter "Jod," while his curates—he had two of them, the meekest of their kind—attended to the church services and to the other spiritual requirements of his parish. When shortly before Christmas Mrs. Parsley returned, she immediately called at Pine Cottage to see the new governess of whom she had already heard the most conflicting accounts. Then a most wonderful thing happened—she took a fancy to Miriam.
More than this, Mrs. Parsley told Miriam so, and forthwith enrolled her under the ægis of her own tongue, so that all gossip suddenly ceased, and Miriam was as much praised as formerly she had been blamed. For Mrs. Parsley approved of the way in which Dicky's education was being conducted, and congratulated Mrs. Darrow on having one sensible woman under her roof.
"The first time there has been any sense there to my knowledge," she sniffed, to which expression of opinion the widow did not dare to object lest worse should befall her. She had too many weak spots in her armour to allow of her defying Mrs. Parsley.
One consequence of all this was that Miriam visited the Vicarage frequently, and became as great a favourite of the Rev. Augustine's as she was of his wife's. He told her in his characteristic dreamy way that in Hebrew Miriam meant "the strong one," and that it was eminently suited to her, since she was strong of body, brain, and will. And Dicky sometimes went with Miriam, and played in Mr. Parsley's study, where he found many things grateful to his imaginative faculties. For the vicar was something of an antiquarian, and had a store of ancient coins, still more ancient images, and wonderful reproductions of Assyrian and Babylonian sculptures, all of which the child delighted in. It was always a happiness for Dicky to visit that wonder-room.
A week before Christmas the weather turned cold and raw. There had been a slight fall of snow, and, owing to the absence of sunshine, much of it still lay on the ground. A bitter wind swept inland from the sea, and whistled through the bare branches of the trees, so that the woods around reverberated like harp-strings. Night was drawing in, but in the Vicarage parlour all was snug and cosy. The vicar himself was buried in his books in his study. So Mrs. Parsley and her visitor had the drawing-room to themselves, and were drinking their tea before a bright and cheerful fire. As she listened to that never-failing verbal flow, Miriam threw in a word occasionally because she knew it was expected of her, and in order to show her appreciation of the words of wisdom showered upon her with such reckless prodigality. The conversation—or, to be more correct, the homily—turned upon the personality of Mr. Barton.
"He is a bad man," said Mrs. Parsley, shaking her head at the fire, "a free-thinker, and a walker in darkness. But we must not be too hard on him—indeed who could be hard upon a lunatic?"
"Do you really call Mr. Barton insane?" asked Miriam.
"Why not? I don't think he has ever been sane since he had brain fever!"
"I never knew that he had had brain fever."
"Yes, indeed—some thirty years ago—it was all about some woman, or rather women, I believe. I wonder you haven't heard about it."
Miriam judged it best to assume entire ignorance of Mr. Barton's past.
"Do tell me all about it, Mrs. Parsley," she entreated.
"Well, it's not a very complimentary story to our sex, my dear. But, there, I never did think much of women. Who could," she exclaimed, with sudden gusto, "when there are such fools as Mrs. Darrow and minxes like Hilda Marsh to be found in every parish? I'd give them both the ducking-stool if I could. Hilda—there's a smiling cat for you, and as deceitful as—as a weasel. She never helps her wretched mother, but thinks of nothing but dressing herself up in fripperies that are never paid for. She thinks to secure that idiot of a Gerald Arkel by her mincing. But she shan't. I'll put a stop to that. We've got more than enough with the two of them, without letting them marry and produce more fools."
"But about Mr. Barton?" asked Miriam, bringing the good lady back to the subject in hand. "I am very curious to hear this story of his."
"I can soon tell it to you. Barton was a younger son—a gay, light-hearted young fellow, not unlike Gerald Arkel, but of course with ten times the brains. He was engaged to marry a pretty, and, strange to say, sensible girl, who would no doubt have made him an excellent wife. But one of his sisters—Arkel's mother—took it upon her to interfere (so like them!), with the result that the girl married somebody else. Well, Barton, who was always a nervous, highly strung sort of creature, went off his head altogether, and was seriously bad for years. While he lived his elder brother looked after him, but unfortunately the brother died, and Barton came in for the property. He then had to go his own way, and a pretty mess he made of it."
"But what reason had his sister for interfering—surely it was very wrong?"
Mrs. Parsley rubbed her nose, as she was wont to do when puzzled.
"Of course it was wrong, my dear; but I never did get at the exact truth. There was a great deal of talk about it at the time—some said one thing some another. Barton and Mrs. Arkel—she was Flora Barton then—held their tongues you may be sure. But I had my own opinion, and I still have it," concluded Mrs. Parsley, frowning at the fire.
"And what is it?" said Miriam. "But perhaps I should not ask."
"Oh yes, you may, my dear. You are very discreet I know. I don't mind telling you. Well, Flora was very much in love with a man named Farren, a penniless scamp though of good family. She ended by eloping with him, and Barton (our friend) followed her and brought her back. The man went off to India—was bribed to go!He'snever been right in his head since either, I believe. Flora never forgave her brother, and out of revenge she made up some disgraceful story about him, and went straight with it to the girl with whom he was in love, a Miss Cotton, who, without giving him the benefit of the doubt, sent back his ring, and of course broke off the engagement. He tried to see her, but her mother, who was also prejudiced by Flora's story, took her away at once, and eventually the girl married some other man. The thing so preyed upon Barton's mind, that he got brain fever, as I told you, and Flora married—was forced, I think, to marry—Arkel. She had one son, and died. But Barton never forgave her. And," added Mrs. Parsley, with great emphasis, "that is the part I never could make out!"
"What do you mean?" asked Miriam, much interested.
"Why, when Arkel's father died, Barton took his nephew and had him educated, and, in fact, has allowed him an income ever since. From all accounts he intends to make him his heir. Now," said Mrs. Parsley, looking directly at Miriam, "why, I ask, should a vindictive creature like that be so kind to the son of the sister whom he detested?"
Miriam could have answered that question very quickly; but she felt she had no right to betray the Squire's confidence; she therefore contented herself with asking Mrs. Parsley in what particular way she considered Barton "queer."
"Oh, my dear!" and the good lady lifted up her hands, "have you seen the books in his library? Of all criminal literature!—I'd burn the whole lot if I could. The man has a perfect mania for reading about murders and robberies, and all that sort of thing. He goes up to London, and associates with the blackest criminals, haunts the slums; in fact, takes a fiendish delight in contemplating the worst side of human nature. A curate of ours, who went to work in the East End, saw him one day in the company of a Chinaman—fancy, a Chinaman! From that you may judge the sort of company he keeps in London. He's not only queer, in my opinion, but mad—right down mad!"
But all this did not let in much new light on the vagaries of the gentleman in question so far as Miriam could see. If he haunted the slums, as Mrs. Parsley said, she could easily understand how he came to be on Waterloo Bridge at midnight. What she could not explain, save by the theory of lunacy, was this criminal craze and love of associating with the lowest of human kind. And although she discussed this point thoroughly with Mrs. Parsley, that lady could supply no reason save the aforesaid one of "queerness," than which she did not think a stronger was necessary. So for the time being the subject dropped, and Mrs. Parsley, having finished her tea, and enjoyed it, was minded to "put on her things" preparatory to an evening jaunt.
"I will walk home a bit of the way with you, my dear," she said graciously. "I have to see old Pegwin, who is passing away rapidly. I must arrange with him about his funeral."
With this cheerful object Mrs. Parsley left the Vicarage with Miriam. There was a drizzling rain and a high wind, and walking was anything but pleasant. On the outskirts of the village—the church and Vicarage stood some way beyond it—Mrs. Parsley left Miriam to make the rest of her way home alone, and started down a side lane for the Pegwin cottage—so called—although it was little better than a pig-stye. As she battled against the wind, the lean figure of a ragged boy suddenly started out of the hedge, and ran past her in the direction Miriam had taken.
Mrs. Parsley, who knew every face in the village, saw that the boy was a stranger, and filled with curiosity immediately gave chase. In a very few moments she had the urchin by the scruff of the neck.
The boy wriggled and twisted, and kicked Mrs. Parsley's shins, but that indomitable lady held on, and whacked vigorously with her umbrella.
"You monkey," she raged, "who are you, and what are you doing here?"
He was a stunted, pale-faced brat, with a particularly repulsive countenance, rendered none the more inviting by his screwing it up with a leer.
"'Ere you, lemme alone, will yer?" he yelped, still wriggling. "I ain't a-doin' nothin' to yer, blarst yer!"
"Don't you swear at me, boy, or I'll have you locked up. Where do you come from?"
"Where d' yer think I come from—Paris? 'Tain't no bisness of yourn, any'ow."
"What are you doing here?"
"Shan't tell yer; wot's more, lady, I'll knife yer if yer don't lemme go; s'elp me, I will!" and the boy kicked again.
Mrs. Parsley shook him.
"You horrible little creature! how dare you speak like that to me? We want no vagrants here, so if you don't take yourself off out of this village I'll have you put in jail, do you understand?"
"Oh, my eye, 'ere's a bloomin' shaime," wailed the boy. "I ain't a-doin' no 'arm, mum. Father's 'ere, too, and I'm only a-goin' arter 'im. 'E's got a carawan 'e 'as, an' 'e's perfect rispect'bl'. Le' go o' me, will yer? I don't want t' 'urt yer!"
Mrs. Parsley was about to question him further, when, with a sudden wriggle, he escaped from her clutches, leaving the collar of his coat in her hand. Without even a look behind, he dodged up the lane, emitting sounds which Mrs. Parsley could only take to be derisive, and disappeared in the waning twilight. She would have followed, but as Pegwin demanded her attention, she was reluctantly obliged to forego the chase. In the meantime, like a hound on a scent, the boy had darted off in the direction Miriam had taken, and, having caught up with her, spoke to her.
"'Ere," he said hoarsely, "I want to speak to yer!"
"Shorty!" she exclaimed.
She recognised the creature at once. It was Shorty, the pilot-fish of the Jabez shark!
The sudden apparition of Shorty at once dismayed and disheartened Miriam. It seemed as if she were never to shake off the past—never to be allowed entirely to emerge from out the mire into which she had sunk through no fault of her own. If Mrs. Darrow were to see her in confidential discourse with this Arab of the gutter, Heaven only knew what would be the result. With apprehension she glanced swiftly up and down the road. But no one was in sight. Then quietly she glided to the lee-side of a cottage, where she was sheltered both from sight and from the wind. Shorty followed her with rat-like activity, and snuggled in his rags against her skirts. The night was closing in around them, and she shuddered and shrank back from the contact of this obscene creature who had crawled out of the darkness, as it were, across her path. The urchin gazed at her admiringly.
"My eye, y'are a stunner, y'are," he croaked, hugging himself; "wot 'ud old Mother Mandarin say t' ye now?"
"Hush!" Miriam glanced round again. "Nonsense, Shorty; someone might hear! What do you want—money?"
"I cud do with a bit. Travellin' fust clarse fro' London costs a 'eap; an' m' close ain't wot they shuld be fur wisitin'."
With a hasty gesture Miriam drew away her skirts, and producing two half-crowns handed them to the boy.
"This will get you food," she said hurriedly. "I can't give you any more. I am little better off than you are."
Shorty clinked the coins together, and whistled shrilly—much to Miriam's dismay. But the wind was so loud that the sound was drowned in the sweeping of the blast.
"How did you find me out?" she asked.
"Jabez knew. Y' sent him twenty quid fro' Craven Street, didn't y'?"
"Yes, but I didn't tell him where I was going."
Shorty hugged himself again and uttered a dignified screech.
"I foun' yer out, I did. Jabez 'e sent me t' the 'otel as y' guv the name on the letter y' sent the quid with, an' I went there, an' sawr the ole cove as Jabez tried to scrag."
"But how did you find out? Did Mr.—did he tell you?"
"Ho yes! 'e tole me, leastways 'e tole Mother Mandarin, an' she tole me, an' I tole Jabez; an' 'e sez, 'you jes' go down,' 'e sez, 'an' say to Miriam as I wants to 'ave a word with 'er, I does,' an' I sez, 'right y'are,' an' I pass off down 'ere, I does, and sleep in barns an' 'aystacks, an' dodges the bloomin' peelers. An' I gits 'ere to-day, an' I sees you a talkin' to that skinny laidy; an' wot does she do but ketches me a clout on the 'ead an' arsks questions; but she didn't fin' out nothink fro' me, no, blarst 'er!—not a bloomin' word, an' I clears out arter you, an' 'ere I am;" and Shorty, having exhausted his stock of breath for the time being, executed a shuffle by way of keeping himself warm.
The cold would have killed a delicately nurtured child, but Shorty, like the man in the Greek story, was "all face," and the cold affected his hardened carcase but little. He shuffled and slapped his hands, and leered at Miriam until her very soul was sick within her. What had she done to be thus visited by this horrible reminder of the past?
"Did Mr.—did the old gentleman tell Mother Mandarin I was with him?"
"Ho yes, 'e tole 'er. Mother Mandarin's fly, she is, an' there ain't much she wants to know as she don't git t' know."
Miriam started, and, seizing the boy by the arm, looked at him searchingly.
"Does the old gentleman——?" but Shorty interrupted her with a grin.
"Yes, that's it. Ho, 'e's a bad 'un, 'e is. As wicked a ole cuss as ever wos. 'Satan,' Mother Mandarin calls 'im, an' Satan 'e is."
"Does he often go to Mother Mandarin?"
"'E goes there a lot, 'e does. But look 'ere," continued Shorty crossly, "I can't staiy torkin' 'ere all night, I'm orf to git grub. 'Twas Jabez sent me 'ere, it wos."
"What does Jabez want?" Miriam had a premonition of ill.
"T' see y' an' 'ave a jaw, didn't I te' y' so?"
"I can't see him. I daren't leave here, Shorty."
"There ain't no ned. Jabez is a-comin' 'ere."
"Shorty!" Miriam seized hold of the boy again, and looked at him. He glanced at her and wriggled free with a yelp.
"Don't look at me like that; I ain't done nothink."
"He can't come here," said Miriam hurriedly. "Tell him he must not—he dare not. If he leaves London, he is lost!"
"I don't know; I don't know a bloomin' thing about it," said Shorty sullenly. "All I knows is as 'e said 'e wos a-comin' 'ere next week. Goin' to keep 'is 'oliday in the country. An' I don't want no more lip, Miriam, d' y' 'ear? If you'd let Jabez scrag that ole Satan, 'twould 'ave been best for 'im Jabez sez ye're t' meet 'im outside the church 'ere next Friday."
"What! has he been here before then—that is, since I came here?"
"I don't know. That's all 'e sez, an' all I knows. I'm orf for grub I tell yer."
"Shorty!" Miriam detained the boy. "I have always been kind to you."
"Ho yes—you're a good 'un as ever wos."
"Then don't speak of me to anyone about here. Don't say you've seen me; mind, Shorty, not a word."
"I'm fly." Shorty spun a coin like some horrible imp of darkness.
Miriam leaned against the wall of the cottage. It was with the utmost difficulty that she could keep up—she felt giddy and faint. Though on all sides she was environed with perils, it would never do to give way now. She would have to meet Jabez, yes, and fight him—otherwise he would betray her, and she would sink back again into the horrible life which she hoped she had left for ever. It was with a heavy heart and tread that she regained the road, and began to make her way home.
She walked along, a lonely figure on the lonely road—for the evening was so cold that the labourers and their wives were not inclined to loiter out of doors. More than once she had half a mind to turn back to the Vicarage, and tell the whole truth to Mrs. Parsley. She seemed kindly disposed to her—indeed fond of her; perhaps she would help her. But then, again, Mrs. Parsley was at best a hard woman, reared upon relentless dogma of the Old Testament. It was quite possible she might spurn her when she came to hear her story. Miriam had never confessed the whole truth, not even to Mr. Barton, although, in her early weak moments she had said enough to enable him to trace the rest through the strange creature he had called the Shadow. And though Barton knew all, he still remained her friend. But after what she had learned from Shorty concerning Mother Mandarin's connection with the Squire, she felt she could no longer trust him. It might be best to risk confiding in Mrs. Parsley, who was above suspicion, and possessed of much social power. She could not make up her mind. What was best? What was right? She paused, hesitated, and looked up for guidance to the windy sky. The stars were there, and the moon, across whose face the flying clouds were driving in the sweeping east wind; but there was no guidance, no hint of what course she should take. Thrown back on herself, Miriam wavered and was lost. She walked on and on and on; but she did not go back to Mrs. Parsley. Alas! had she but turned back on that fatal night how different would her future have been! She had come to the cross-roads, although she knew it not; and she had taken the wrong one. Henceforth her path was difficult, tortuous, and weary.
As, battling with her conflicting thoughts, Miriam pressed on to Pine Cottage in the face of the wind—which seemed as if it would drive her back to the Vicarage and Mrs. Parsley—a shadow, as it seemed, emerged from out the other shadows and came towards her. Then she saw that it was human—a tall, gaunt figure, clothed in black. Instantly and instinctively she knew this was the strange person whom Barton called the Shadow. Her nerves were so shaken by her late interview, that at this unexpected encounter she could not withhold a sharp cry.
"Who are you, and what do you want with me?" she panted.
Then for the first time she heard his voice, deep, sad, and thrilling—a voice that once had been beautiful, but had been robbed of half its beauty.
"Who I am does not matter," he said slowly. "What I want you shall know."
"Tell me," said Miriam, recovering from her first alarm.
"Know then that I overheard you and that lad. But you need not fear. Your secret lies safe in my keeping. I know you, and I know of you."
"Was it you who found out all about Jabez?"
"It was I, and it is of Jabez I would speak with you. He comes here soon to see you."
"So Shorty says."
"Then warn him while there is yet time that he does not come, for there is danger."
"From whom?" asked Miriam with a white face.
"From him who lives in yonder Manor—he threatens to arrest Jabez."
Miriam drew closer to him, and laid her hand upon his arm. It was in a frightened whisper she spoke.
"For what—for that?"
"Yes, indeed; for that. He knows all, and will surely use his knowledge."
"He dare not do that," and Miriam twisted her hands together as if in pain. "He will not—not while I obey him."
"Put not your hope in such false reasoning, child. He is a man relentless and of devilish persistency."
"But why should he seek to harm Jabez?"
"I know not. He gives no reason. But he threatens. Be warned, and if you would save your Jabez, act while there is time. Farewell."
"No, no; tell me who you are, and what you know of Mr. Barton."
"What do I know of Barton?" The man laughed fiercely. There was that in his laugh which caused Miriam to shiver. "What do I know of him?—more, child, than I dare reveal—more than, for my own sake, I dare to tell you."
"Why not?"
"Because he holds me in the hollow of his hand. I am a nameless man, and must ever be his slave. In warning you this night even I have run great risk. But I would save any soul from such a fate as mine."
"Oh!" Miriam shrank back. "Are you like Jabez?"
The nameless man looked at her through the darkness, and it seemed to Miriam as though his eyes were luminous. Peering into his face she saw stamped upon it a look of abject misery; the look of a soul damned past redemption—past all hope. For a moment they looked at one another, then the man stole quietly away—melted, as it were, into the surrounding blackness. Miriam made no attempt to stay him. She read in his eyes the look that she had read in Jabez', and knew what he was, and why he obeyed Barton. For quite a moment after he had left her she stood still, clutching at her heart as though there lurked a cruel pain. Then with a sigh she turned homeward—to the only home she knew.
Before she had taken many steps the rain began to fall in torrents, and in a few minutes the High Street of Lesser Thorpe was flooded with water. A furious wind, wailing and angry, drove the slanting spears of rain against her form, and she splashed ankle-deep through the water, so quickly had the flood risen. But Miriam did not care. There was that in her heart which made her callous to her surroundings—impervious utterly to any physical inconvenience. When she arrived at Pine Cottage, Mrs. Darrow, having heard the gate clash, herself came to the door. She was aghast at the change in her governess.
"Good Heavens, Miss Crane, what is the matter?"
"Nothing," replied Miriam tartly. "What should be the matter? I have just come from the Vicarage, and have been caught in the storm—that's all."
But Mrs. Darrow did not think that was "all." She was convinced something serious was the matter. But as all her inquiries, direct or indirect, proved fruitless, she was forced to return to the drawing-room with her curiosity only the more keen because unsatisfied. Miriam ran up to her room, and locking the door, sat down to write a letter. It was a letter of but one page, but it contained the substance of the Shadow's advice to Jabez that he should remain in London. She directed it to him, care of Mother Mandarin, 20, Sago Lane, Lambeth; and having stamped and sealed it, was about to take it to the post. With her hand upon the key of the door she paused. Then she sat down and thought.
It came upon her overwhelmingly that no longer could she bear her burden alone. She felt she must confide in somebody—must have the sympathy of some friendly soul. Again her thoughts turned to Mrs. Parsley. She was inclined to go and tell her everything as she had been before. Together Barton and this nameless spy were working for the end of Jabez. She felt convinced of it. Anything to save him from that—and indeed she herself must suffer with him. His downfall was hers too, and then——Yes, she would go.
She unlocked the door, and with the letter under her cloak ran downstairs. In the hall she was confronted by Mrs. Darrow. There was an angry glitter in the widow's eye.
"Where are you going, Miss Crane?"
"To post a letter."
"Cannot the servant post it?"
"No," replied Miriam curtly, and left the house.
Mrs. Darrow peered after her.
"She goes out in this fearful rain to post a letter—herself," she thought. "More mystery! I won't stand it any longer. Dicky or no Dicky—money or no money—she goes this day month!"
When Miriam returned Mrs. Darrow gave her notice.
It is not to be supposed that during all this time Miriam had lost sight of Gerald. Their conversation in the wood had had the effect of drawing them much more closely together, so much so that there had grown upon Arkel the habit not only of going with his troubles to Miriam, but of taking her rebukes ever so meekly whenever she choose to mete them out to him. But so far only had things progressed. He was at no time in danger of falling in love with her, being as much as ever the slave of Hilda's physical charms. But that young lady did not seem to be in the least in a hurry to bring matters to a more definite conclusion between them.
"You see, I cannot yet be sure that Gerald will really inherit Mr. Barton's money," she explained to her mother. "Once I am certain of that, you will find he'll propose quick enough. He'd have done so half a dozen times already if I hadn't stopped him."
"And what about Major Dundas? I thought——"
"Never mind Major Dundas. I assure you, although of course he likes me, he's quite crazy about Mrs. Darrow's governess. And she is welcome to him for all I care—solemn long-nosed thing that he is!"
"But, Hilda; suppose after all Mr. Barton should leave the money to him and not to Gerald?"
"Then Miss Crane would have to take a back seat, that's all. I should have to put up with him, long-nosed as he is."
"You might not find it so easy to get him, my dear."
"Oh yes, I would. I tell you, mother, that Miss Miriam, with all her goodness, is awfully in love with Gerald herself. I know it. So even if Major Dundas did propose to her she wouldn't have him. As it is we all know Gerald is devoted to me, and as he is almost certain to inherit old B.'s property, that is as it should be. As soon as I am satisfied that there is no longer any 'almost' about it, why then our little affairs will settle themselves quite quickly and nicely, you shall see. Believe me, dear mother, I know what I am doing."
Mrs. Marsh, weary and untidy as ever, looked at this guileless offspring of hers with something like surprise.
"Really, Hilda," she said, "your feelings are delightfully adaptable!"
It was not often Mrs. Marsh indulged in sarcasm—in fact, it was something of an effort for her. But her daughter's utter callousness brought it out of her.
"Cannot you understand that either Gerald or Major Dundas would, in his capacity of future Squire, be equally able to take me out of this pig-sty and give me something like a decent life? And cannot you understand that the man who can do that is the man for me? I don't pretend to any sentimental feelings at all."
"Well, you are candid, to me, at all events, Hilda. But at your time of life I confess I should like to see a little more romance. It is terrible to hear such purely mercenary sentiments from a girl of your years."
"That's so like you, mother. You actually blame me for doing credit to your own teaching—that's what I call so ridiculous and unfair. Who has told me for years that my face was my fortune? Who has always drummed into me that it was my duty to help my family by making a good match? I think you know."
"It is true, Hilda; we are so poor," wailed Mrs. Marsh. "But I'm sure I always wished that you might marry someone you loved, only I said it would not do for you to love a poor man, or else what would become of us? I can tell you I lie awake at night thinking of what would happen to us if your father died. We should all have to go to the workhouse, for he hasn't saved a penny, and his life is not even insured."
"Then is that not all the more reason why on this occasion, at all events, I should forego the luxury of sentiment. You may thank your stars that I am as I am."
"I married for love myself," wept poor Mrs. Marsh, with a flush at the recollection of what had been, "and I was very happy—for a time."
Hilda cast an eloquent glance at the slatternly room and at her prematurely aged parent.
"Well, you must forgive me, mother, but if this is the result of marrying for love, I trust my heart will continue to be governed by my head. After all, it isn't as if I didn't like Gerald. I do, very much, and I am sure I could be perfectly happy as his wife."
"Then I hope you'll marry him, Hilda. I should like to know that you had some feeling for your husband, and at the same time—well, be able to help us. And I hope, too, it may be soon, dear, for the butcher's bill has been running these three months past, and I don't know how we are to pay him. His meat's very bad too. As for the grocer's bill, it seems endless. I'm sure I never spare myself, and I cut down expenses to the very lowest. Yet your father is always grumbling. He says now he can't do with one candle but must have two. The number we seem to get through is appalling. He is never contented."
"Job himself would grumble in this house," retorted Hilda, and leaving Mrs. Marsh in the lowest of spirits, she went upstairs to dress, for Gerald was due to take her for a walk.
Recently that young man had shared his time pretty equally between London and Lesser Thorpe. For one thing he was deeply in love with Hilda, for another he found the greatest possible comfort in Miriam's company. So far he was obliged to confess to himself that, notwithstanding his promise to Miss Crane, he had achieved nothing very definite even negatively speaking. His life in town continued pretty much as it had been. Every now and then he would put some mild restraint upon himself, but such times were few and far between, and the result but fleeting. There was no backbone in the man, and an entire absence of any power of resolve. But at Lesser Thorpe he was always the repentant prodigal. Hilda was his Venus, Miriam his Minerva; but like Paris he did not hesitate to bestow the apple on beauty rather than on wisdom. His choice was wholly characteristic of his nature. In life there was but one path for him—the path of dalliance and of ease.
Notwithstanding the circumstances, it did not take Hilda long to dress on this occasion. Within ten minutes she was downstairs, and greeting Gerald with a smile. As she looked at him she thought how young, good-looking, and altogether desirable he was. She was sure she liked him as well as she could like any man. Hilda Marsh was a shallow girl, a vain girl, but on the whole not a bad girl. With a judicious bringing up she might have turned out a very respectable specimen of her sex; vain always, since vanity was the essence of her being, but still a woman of good instincts and some sense of duty in the world. As it was, she had not been thus blessed, and her position of beauty to the family, to be sold to the highest bidder, had done the rest. She had been taught that her mission in life was three-fold—to be careful of her beauty as her stock-in-trade, to catch a rich man with it, and to help her family when the rich man had been caught. In that misguided and slovenly household and sordid commonplace existence, there was nothing to appeal to or in the least degree to stimulate any of the other and finer feelings which might have lain dormant in her. What she saw around her gradually became reflected in her nature. As she saw others do, so she did, until she came to look upon material satisfaction, and the securing of it, as the whole object of life. But even so, as has been said, she was not wholly without redeeming qualities.
After her first burst of spite against Miriam she came to like her, and even to appreciate her high principles and wholesale disdain of the petty vanities of everyday existence. Such a personality was something altogether new to Hilda—something "larger" by far in human kind than she had ever met before. And it said no little for the girl that she acknowledged this to herself, and allowed her better nature to have its say, even to the point of dissociating herself from Mrs. Darrow in the persecution of her governess. So it was that Mrs. Darrow, deprived of her ally, felt it incumbent upon her to carry on the war with that double energy which had so quickly resulted in the dismissal of Miriam. Had Hilda's attitude continued, as it had been in the beginning, it is probable that the lady's tactics would have been based more upon a "linked business long drawn out," wherefrom not only would she have obtained enjoyment, but would have saved herself much personal inconvenience.
"You are looking very sprightly to-day, Mr. Arkel," said Hilda, as they walked down the village. "Have you had any good news?"
"The best of news. But before I tell it, let me ask you why you always call me Mr. Arkel?"
"It is your name, isn't it?"
"Yes, but surely you might call me Gerald; it would be equally correct, and ever so much nicer."
"I don't know if itwouldbe quite correct," replied the cautious Hilda; "still, as you make such a point of it, I don't mind—if I can remember. Well—Gerald—and what is this joyful news?"
"Uncle Barton has decided to make me his heir!"
Hilda stopped. Although she had more than half suspected to hear it, now that the news had come she felt something like a shock. But the sensation was by no means unpleasant. On the contrary it brought with it a welcome sense of relief, for now no longer need she keep this young gentleman at arm's length. She could accept him with a clear conscience, and unless her powers of foresight were very much at fault, it would be as his affianced wife that she would return from their walk.
"I am very glad," she said. "You have my most heartfelt congratulations. Has Mr. Barton actually made his will?"
"Not yet; but he intends to make it this week. I shall start the new year, thank God, with my mind at peace."
"Very much so, I should think. I suppose it won't be long now before we have to congratulate you on another happy event—I am glad for Miss Crane's sake; she has had such a very bad time."
"Miss Crane! What on earth do you mean?"
"Simply that as Mrs. Gerald Arkel, Miriam Crane will at last say good-bye to the rough and tumble of life, of which up to now she seems to have had a good deal."
"Hilda! How can you talk like that? You know what my feeling is for Miss Crane. I respect her and I like her sincerely, but I have given her no cause to think anything else. Hilda, you know it isn't true—you don't really mean it. You know that for me there is no other woman in the world but you! You must have guessed it long ago."
"Guessed it? Dear me, no; how should I? I quite thought you were devoted to Miss Crane and she to you. Besides, you know it's very wrong of you to—to care for me. I am sure Mr. Barton would disapprove most highly if he knew."
"What has he got to do with it?"
"A very great deal, I imagine, seeing that if he likes he can revoke his will any day, and leave you without a penny."
"Uncle Barton wouldn't be such, a beast!"
"I'm not so sure about that. He has considerable capacity for being a beast. And you know how he dislikes me. But if you really do care, Gerald——"
"Oh, Hilda, you know I do—you are everything to me. Tell me that you care for me a little—that you will be my wife."
"Are youquite, quitesure you mean what you are saying—that you really——"
"A thousand times yes; I love you with my whole soul."
"And you are quite willing to take the risk?"
"Anything, everything—so long as I have you!"
"Then I will confess—I do care for you, Gerald."
She dropped her eyes, the very essence of humility. Her acting was beyond praise, and calculated to deceive a man very much less simple than Gerald Arkel.
"Dearest!" He clasped her in his arms; "and you will be my wife?"
"Don't, Gerald; you mustn't—besides, someone might see!"
"Well, let them—I don't care!"
"But I do." She released herself and sat down on the stile—the same by which Gerald had met Miriam for the first time. "Now do sit down, and do be sensible. You really must not behave like this. If I engage myself to you it must be on certain conditions."
"Make any conditions you like, darling, so long as you say 'yes.'"
"Very well, then, I make two. The first is that you are to keep our engagement an absolute secret until I give you leave to announce it. And the second is—well, the second is, you must be just the same before people."
"Well, naturally—if I agree to the first I must agree to the second. But I confess, dear, I don't like this sort of thing. Besides, I can't see the necessity for it. You aren't ashamed of me I hope?"
"Oh, Gerald, you dear goose—what nonsense! Haven't I told you that Uncle B. will make an awful fuss about it? That of itself should be enough for you. He is quite capable of altering his will."
"And in that case you wouldn't marry me, I suppose?"
"Indeed, yes; but I should hate to think that I had spoilt your chance—that I had been the cause of your losing five thousand a year. You must allow that what I say is common-sense."
"I suppose it is; then I hate common-sense, and I detest this secret business. At least, dear, when we are alone you will——" and Gerald proceeded to demonstrate how it should be when they were alone. But Miss Hilda was not inclined for such endearments. They were, to her mind, a trifle premature. She had her own little game to play, and for the present, at all events, they did not form part of it.
"Hush!" she said, "someone is coming."
He listened; and a light step fell upon the frosty air. It was Miriam. Her face was flushed, and her eyes seemed unusually bright. She was walking very quickly. She saw this Corydon and Daphne on the stile, and was quick to divine, from the expression on Corydon's face, what had been happening. She waved her hand and smiled, and passed on hurriedly. They watched her graceful figure dwindle in the distance, and returned to the discussion of themselves; with the result that Miss Marsh went home, as she had fully intended to do, under tacit engagement to the future Squire of Lesser Thorpe, and well content with her afternoon's work.
"They are engaged," she thought to herself; "I am sure of it: and I am dismissed! My life here is at an end, for I cannot—I will not lend myself any more to Mr. Barton's schemes. I must go back to Jabez, there is no help for it—back to the old life. Oh, how horrible it is!—and how hard! But he must swear to spare poor Jabez—heshall. If he refuses, I must force him to."
She walked on swiftly until she reached the house. The Squire was at home and in his library. She sent in her message, and was received at once. He looked more wrinkled, and if possible, more evil than ever, she thought, as he croaked out a welcome and placed a chair for her. Anxious to get it over, she came to the point at once.
"You are surprised to see me?" she said.
Barton's eyebrows went up at once.
"No, indeed; is it so very strange that you should visit an old man who has tried to show some interest in you? Perhaps you will allow me to say I am delighted!"
"Oh!" Miriam waved her hand. "I think you and I can dispense with compliments, Mr. Barton. I had better say at once that I have come here for a definite reason—to ask you a question."
"By all means; please don't hesitate."
"Well, then, is it true that you want to have Jabez arrested?"
"Let me answer you with another. Who told you I did?"
"The man you call the Shadow."
Barton frowned.
"Did he, indeed? I thought he was more discreet. I must speak to him. Well, and suppose I do wish to have Jabez arrested, what then?"
"I forbid you to!"
He could scarcely believe his ears.
"Youforbidme—well, really," he sneered. "So far I cannot congratulate you on the object of your visit. And pray may I ask how do you intend to enforce this prohibition, for I take it you are prepared—or rather, think you are—to enforce it?"
"By exposing you to the parish—to the world. I know Mother Mandarin, sir; therefore I know you. You are an opium smoker—and worse!" she said.
Then she waited.