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A Woman's Burden: A Novel

by Fergus Hume · English · Gutenberg #35240 · 538,683 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Woman's Burden: A Novel

Author: Fergus Hume


        
Release date: February 11, 2011 [eBook #35240]
                Most recently updated: May 18, 2014

Language: English

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Credits: Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the Online
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WOMAN'S BURDEN: A NOVEL ***




Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)









                         A WOMAN'S BURDEN

                             A NOVEL

                          BY FERGUS HUME

_Author of "The Mystery of a Hansom Cab," "The Expedition of Captain
Flick," "The Mystery of Landy Court," "The Lone Inn," etc._


    THIRD EDITION

    LONDON

    JARROLD & SONS, 10 & 11, WARWICK LANE, E.C.

    [_All Rights Reserved_]




CONTENTS.


PROLOGUE.

I. A QUEER ADVENTURE

II. A STRANGE ARRANGEMENT

PART I.

I. MRS. DACRE DARROW

II. A RED RAG TO A BULL

III. POVERTY HALL

IV. MR. BARTON'S VISITOR

V. BEHIND THE SCENES

VI. MRS. DARROW'S BOMBSHELL

VII. IN THE WOODS

VIII. SHORTY

IX. THE SHADOW

X. THE SQUIRE'S SECRET

XI. UNMASKED

XII. MIRIAM KEEPS AN APPOINTMENT

XIII. MRS. DARROW BECOMES REFRACTORY

XIV. ON CHRISTMAS NIGHT

XV. A NINE DAYS' WONDER

XVI. A LITTLE FEMININE DIPLOMACY

XVII. A ROMAN FATHER

XVIII. THE REWARD OF MIRIAM

PART II.

I. 5A, ROSARY MANSIONS

II. JABEZ REDIVIVUS

III. MRS. PARSLEY'S PROTEGE

IV. DICKY'S DISCOVERY

V. JUST IN TIME

VI. SOME MUTUAL COMPLIMENTS AND A CONFESSION

VII. MRS. DARROW SYMPATHISES

VIII. MRS. PARSLEY SEES A GHOST

IX. MORE TROUBLE

X. THE MAJOR'S POINT OF VIEW

XI. IN THE DEPTHS

XII. JABEZ SEEKS AN OLD FRIEND

XIII. THE END OF GERALD ARKEL

XIV. A QUEER STORY QUEERLY TOLD

EPILOGUE




PROLOGUE.




CHAPTER I.

A QUEER ADVENTURE.


It was midnight--midnight on Waterloo Bridge. A plague was over the
city--the concentrated vomit of a million and more chimneys wrapped all
in an Egyptian darkness.

The miracle of Moses could not have produced a deeper gloom--an
atmosphere more impenetrable. It clung to the skin, it even pressed
against the eyeballs. It might in truth have been that very outer
darkness which we are taught is reserved for those amongst us who are
sinners.

Big Ben and his brethren of the steeples struck a muffled twelve,
seeming to insist upon their strokes the more as if they knew their
dials were hidden from all sight. The very gas lamps entered into
rivalry, some looming out mere splotches of dirty yellow light, while
here and there one more modern than its fellows managed successfully to
penetrate the gloom. The bridge leapt across the river from fog-bank to
fog-bank, like the bridge in Mira's vision, and if the chill mist lifted
a trifle toward the centre, it was but a matter of a few feet. And above
it all presumably there shone the stars and moon in their spacious
firmament, they and their kindly influence shut out, it might be for
ever, by the relentless pall.

And in the darkness on the bridge, there crawled and lurked and squatted
the noisome creatures of the night. They could hear the sullen lapping
of the unseen river against the piles, as it swept full tide from the
sea. To their ears, sharpened by hunger and misery, the waters were all
articulate, inviting them to exchange their stony resting-place for its
softer bed below. And they pondered greatly at the invitation. Were it
not better to accept it, and let their half-starved bodies drift seaward
with the morning ebb? Nothing, they thought, and truly, could be worse
than their present plight. Were it not better to end existence now and
for all time? Yet so does the mind of man shrink from the
unknown--revolt against the almighty plunge from light to darkness, that
of all those hungry miserable creatures, not one got further than the
pondering--not one was there who would brave the momentary wrench which
should part him from this earthly wretchedness, and give him peace,
oblivion even, and that because he did not know, and dared not solve the
problem.

So the waters surged on ruthlessly through the arches into the heart of
the land, and the fog grew thicker, colder, and more clammy over the
city.

Yet humdrum respectability had its representative here withal; and that
in the person of an elderly, genteel, moneyed, and apparently
unexceptionable gentleman, who should surely rather have been tucked
away between blankets, than abroad at such a time and on such a night.
For ragged poverty, bedless and foodless, to camp on these stone
benches, and seek oblivion there, was in the ordinary course of
existence as it runs its way in the daily and nightly round of the great
city. Its victims have ample time for reflection, retrospective or
prospective--a ruined past, or a wholly problematic future. Workhouse or
prison, suicide or starvation--such is their food for thought, with but
little or no choice between the evils. But for an irreproachable
gentleman of years, who had every sort of comfort at his call, to be
pacing about the Surrey side was, in the existing circumstances, truly
remarkable.

He appeared to have lost his way, which of itself was natural enough
considering all things. He stopped every now and then, and paused,
obviously in doubt which way to turn. As he stood deliberating, a small
figure emerged, as it were, from nowhere--a very ragged imp--and huskily
demanded,

"Wot the blazes 'e was arter?"

Then the gentleman addressed the small figure:

"What bridge is this?" he asked, through the muffler which was tight
around his neck.

"It's wuth a tanner, any way, m'lord," answered the boy--such a ragged,
stunted, evil-looking boy, true product of the London mud.

Respectability felt instinctively that it was face to face with
Iniquity, and that, too, in no very choice neighbourhood, and in a thick
fog to boot. Respectability therefore took counsel for a moment, and in
the end produced a coin.

Iniquity snatched it, bit it, and spat upon it--why this latter it is
difficult to say--through all of which tests the coin seemingly emerged
triumphant. It was pocketed, and the sought-for information was hoarsely
supplied.

"It's Wat'loo Bridge, m'lord."

Then he vanished into the fog like a dismissed spirit.

The elderly gentleman groped his way on, ever keeping touch of the stone
balustrade. Suddenly he started at the sound of a shrill whistle. He
quickened his step, for he knew not what such a call might portend, and
he had no fancy for being the means of supplying the breakfast-table
next morning with sensational matter.

Yet as he moved quickly over the sticky pavement, there came upon him
the feeling that he was being followed. What if the boy were a
pilot-fish, and had returned to direct the shark towards his prey, and
the shark were close at his heels now? The thought was disquieting, and
took strong hold of him. He looked round for a policeman, forgetful in
his apprehension of the fog. At last he took to his heels. Such a thing
it was safe to say he had not done for years, and those years had had
their say, as was quickly demonstrated, for he got no further than the
centre of the bridge. There a murky halo of light was some small
comfort. He paused. What was it he heard? Hurried footsteps surely! His
blood seemed more than ever to chill, and he could feel his heart
thumping against his ribs. It struck him that this sort of thing was
very bad for him. He clutched at his umbrella for want of any stouter
weapon. Almost as he did so, a man lunged from out the darkness, and
grasped him by the throat.

That grasp meant murder, and he knew it. A hundred trivialities flitted
through his mind, as he had always been told they did in face of death.
He managed to look round, though choking and gasping as he was, he could
not cry for help. And now it came, as all else had come, apparently from
nowhere--unaccountably.

A woman rushed up and flung herself on the arm that was strangling him.
As in a dream he heard what she said.

"No, Jabez. No--let him go, let him go!"

"Miriam!"

The hand relaxed its grip, and its victim fell on the pavement.

"You here? Get out of it, can't you?"

"No, I will not. Leave the man alone I tell you. Would you murder him?"

"Yes--for your sake. Aren't you starving--aren't we both starving? Curse
him. I'll have his watch anyhow. Ah, would you!" (There was evidence of
some slight show of resistance on the part of Respectability, who was
now gathering together his scattered senses.) "Do that and I'll squeeze
the life out of you!"

A flutter of skirts and a rush. Then the sound of the woman's voice--a
refined voice--raised as in desperation.

"Jabez, Jabez! I'm on the parapet, Jabez, and I swear if you do not
leave him I will throw myself into the river!"

"Miriam, come down I say, come down."

"Only if you leave him!"

"Damn him then; let him go to the devil!"

With this he kicked the worthy citizen, who retaliated by suddenly
regaining power of speech, and calling loudly for aid.

Then the pilot-fish came in sight again.

"Nab his ticker!" he yelled.

"No, no; let him go!"

The woman leapt down, and held them both at bay.

"Go," she cried. "Go--the police!"

At which Respectability breathed a heartfelt "Amen."

"Slit 'is bloomin' whistle," said the small boy, who was as
uncompromising as he was impolite. He made off followed by the shark.
The worthy member of society, assisted by the woman, scrambled to his
feet. Then the gloom suddenly became illumined by the rays from a
lantern--an unmistakably official lantern.

"Hullo, wot's all this?"

"Constable!" gasped the rescued one, "constable, I have been violently
assaulted, and robbed of----"

"No, not robbed," interrupted the woman called Miriam, pointing to his
chain.

"Oh, it's _your_ little game, is it?" said the one having authority,
bringing his light to bear upon her. "Let's 'ave a look at you--a bad
lot 'less I'm much mistaken. Better give 'er in charge, sir."

"No, no, my man, on the contrary, I am very much indebted to this good
lady!"

"Lady, lady! Oh, yes, she's a real lady, she is, an' no mistake."

"At all events, officer, to her intervention I owe my life, so it will
be well if you refrain from alluding to her in that way."

The woman ignored the policeman, and turned to the man she had saved.

"I must leave you now," she said calmly. "The constable will no doubt
see you safely home--for a consideration."

X103 scowled. He did not like things put thus brutally. He was a trifle
subdued too by the elderly gentleman's attitude, which despite his
deplorable plight had not been devoid of pomposity, not to say dignity.
He felt he was a little bit out of his beat. It was quite right that he
should see the gentleman safely on his way home--it was more than
probable, too, that he would be offered a suitable reward for so doing.
It would not be for him to refuse such reward, no matter what form it
might take. So mused X103. He still continued to direct his bull's-eye
toward the woman. He could see her face clearly, so could the elderly
gentleman, who, he had been quick to notice, wore a fur coat. It was a
queer affair. The woman winced under his scrutiny.

"Red 'air, black eyes!" muttered the constable. "I'll swear she's a bad
'un."

The elderly gentleman did not again rebuke him. Even in such
circumstances he was not one to hear what was not meant for his hearing.
He thought the woman's face was a remarkable one, emaciated, pallid, and
hunted in expression though it was. Those dark eyes seemed doubly large
by contrast with the sunken cheeks--sunken for sure, by the ravages of
direst want. The locks of auburn hair, which fell on either side of that
low white forehead, could not hide the many lines of care and misery
with which it was imprinted. She was gaunt and wasted too; her hands
were as bird's claws, and she leaned heavily, almost lifelessly, against
the stonework of the bridge. Starvation, outward and inward, was there
in all its hideousness, having driven beauty far afield, and left the
bare suggestion of what had been, as if to accentuate the more the
horrible completeness of its work. Starvation was there in that
uncertain, hesitating manner--starvation in the very shawl clutched
strenuously with one hand to her bosom--starvation, which, having worn
the body, strove now to break the spirit.

But the spirit was strong in the woman, and while she was mute, she was
still defiant. She met the gaze of the policeman now, and though she met
it in silence, her eyes declared convincingly--and that to one whose
daily way was choked with crime--that she knew not evil. The elderly
gentleman understood it all.

"Constable," he said, "you will conduct this young lady"--he emphasised
the word--"to the end of your beat. There you can hand her over to your
comrade, and so on in turn until we reach the Pitt Hotel in Craven
Street."

The man saluted.

But the woman spoke.

"I cannot go with you, sir," she said feebly, "for I must return at
once."

"Return?--where to? Not to that man?--that Jabez!"

"To Jabez," she answered defiantly.

"But--but you will faint on the way--you are starved. At least allow me
to do something for you--you, who have done so much for me. You will,
you must take something to eat. I am afraid there is no cab to be found
in this fog. Try and walk, Miss Miriam----"

She offered no further resistance, but drew her shawl more closely round
her, and took the proffered arm of the man. X103 looked on somewhat
grimly. It would be incorrect to say he was not nettled--he was
distinctly, for by this arrangement he need not look for anything
substantial. But X103 had not been in the force these many years without
learning something of philosophy. So he vented his indignation and sense
of general injury by putting to utter rout certain shadowy forms that
had gathered round the halo of his lantern in the space of the last five
minutes. They thought, no doubt, he was unnecessarily abrupt in his
methods, but they dispersed without trouble, if a trifle reluctantly.

When the two had reached the far end of the bridge, constable X103 could
not resist one parting shaft.

"She's a bad 'un, sir, take my word for it. I should send her off, sir,
if I wos you. She's bound to get you into trouble."

"It strikes me you will get yourself into trouble, my friend, if you
don't hold your tongue. Ah, here is the man on the next beat. It is he,
isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. He'll see you into the Strand, sir."

"Very well then, here you are. Good night. Come, Miriam."

Saying which the respectable elderly gentleman passed a coin to X103,
and proceeded to button-hole his fellow. They vanished into the
thickness, and virtue rewarded turned his bull's-eye on to the palm of
his hand.

"Ten bob in gold! I'm blowed! He's a good 'un after all, that old rib.
Seemed to know her name, and use it pat enough. H'm!"

And in that last grunt there was a whole world of possibility.




CHAPTER II.

A STRANGE ARRANGEMENT.


When, conceivably out of gratitude and pure philanthropy, this
respectable elderly gentleman took this apparently disreputable, and, by
no means elderly female, under his wing, and in the early morning hours
appeared at the door of a sedate and wholly decorous hostelry, with a
demand for a night's lodging for them both, he ran a very great risk of
being misunderstood. They had been passed on from policeman to policeman
with every care, though the pilotage dues were by no means
inconsiderable. And, strange to say, they were admitted without parley.

Now Miriam had expected a vastly different reception. She was in no way
oblivious to the appearance she presented, and was naturally inclined to
exaggerate, rather than otherwise, its effect, notwithstanding the
irreproachable bearing of her cavalier. The fact that she was received
without demur by the landlady, made it, in her mind, only the more
remarkable. She had a fair idea of the tendencies of her sex. But
evidently the gentleman was known here, such knowledge being--it was
equally evident--beyond question, for Mrs. Perks, to judge by the look
of her, was not one to grant the benefit of any doubt. Her effect upon
blue litmus paper would assuredly have been most striking and
instantaneous. In spite of everything Miriam fell to thinking. But she
was too weary and famished to cogitate for long. She decided to accept
the circumstances as they were.

"Sir," said Mrs. Perks, addressing the elderly gentleman in the
shrillest of voices, "if you only knew what I've suffered this blessed
night--but that you never will. Oh, the awful 'orrors and ghastly
visions I've 'ad of your 'avin' your throat cut from ear to ear, no
less. Bein' a widder, and 'avin' no manly 'eart to lean on since Perks
went below--that is 'is body I should say, for, as is well-known to you,
Mr. Bartons, 'is soul soared straight upwards--I feel these things the
more. Thank God you're 'ere, Mr. Bartons, safe and sound, and not 'acked
about as I seed you in my mind's eye. 'Eaven be praised, I say, for it's
long-sufferin' to us all!"

Then Mrs. Perks looked fixedly at Miriam, and stiffened herself into a
very pillar of disapprobation. Then again she addressed Mr. Barton.

"And now, sir, p'raps you'll explain this."

"This," being, without doubt, indicative of Miriam, who, overcome as she
was, had been unable to resist the grateful ease of a lounging chair
close at hand.

So it was not going to be such plain sailing after all. The landlady
had, it seemed, no intention of foregoing her more purely feminine
prerogative. For a moment Miriam had it in her mind to make a clean bolt
of it even then. But her deliverer stepped forward. She saw him now, as
he stood in the light, for the first time clearly. A shrivelled-up
diminished countenance it was she thought. He was quite bald, too, and
his mouth was hard--almost ascetic. His looks belied him surely, for he
had been all kindness and solicitude for her in her plight. Divested of
his fur coat, his evening dress accentuated the leanness of his figure,
as it does accentuate either one tendency or the other. He was quite
short--hardly as tall as she herself. She wondered why he should so have
troubled himself about her. To judge from his face, gratitude for what
she had done for him would not go for much. Could it be that he had some
ulterior motive? Hardly--unless--unless; but her weary brain refused to
follow up the train of thought it had conceived.

As it turned out Mr. Barton made short work of the landlady and her
required "explanation." Turning after her sharply, he crushed her
volubility utterly by the adoption of a method nothing if not Socratian.

"Tell me, Mrs. Perks," he said, "how long have you known me?"

"Lawks a mercy, Mr. Bartons, sir, what a question! Why, maid, and wife,
and widder, 'aven't I known you these forty years?"

"Quite so. And during that time have you discovered me to have any
strong inclination towards your sex?"

"You 'ates 'em, Mr. Bartons, sir--'ates 'em, I know you does, and small
blame to you. It ain't much as I thinks of 'em myself--it's mostly
'ussies they are."

Then again Mrs. Perks' eyes rested on the unhappy Miriam. She was too
attractive altogether, despite her pitiful state, to please the good
widow.

"That being so then, Mrs. Perks, you must allow me to say, 'don't be a
fool!' Had I not had you in my mind as a thoroughly reliable and
sensible woman, I should not have brought this young lady here."

Mrs. Perks snorted. It was not quite so sonorous a snort as that with
which the policeman had accompanied his repetition of the word "lady,"
but it meant exactly the same thing. There was a world of contempt in
it. Mr. Barton continued:

"But I feel sure, Mrs. Perks, I have not been mistaken in my estimate of
your sound common-sense. Let me tell you that this _lady_ has preserved
my life--yes, Mrs. Perks, my life, and my purse. There are, I may say,
other reasons for my bringing her here, but that I think should suffice
for you. She has saved my life, Mrs. Perks. You will be so good
therefore as to send something to eat, and a bottle of wine here, and to
prepare the young lady's room."

"Oh, Mr. Bartons, so you _was_ in danger! I know'd it. I felt sure of
it." She pressed the candlestick she carried so close to her that for a
moment her curl papers were in imminent danger of conflagration. "Didn't
I see a windin' sheet in the wick o' the candle? didn't I 'ear the
'owlin' of a dog? Yes, Mr. Bartons, I did, and wot's more, when I tossed
a coin to see if it was true, it came up 'eads, which, as is well-known,
means death."

"Well, I am really very sorry to be the cause of dispersing such
overwhelming and convincing phenomena, Mrs. Perks; but, as you see, I'm
alive, and what's more I am exceedingly hungry. Now run along, there's a
good soul, and let us have something to eat."

With a final wave of her candlestick, Mrs. Perks retreated, muttering,

"If you was a kinder-'earted sort, Mr. Bartons, I could understand it;
but you ain't. It's well-known as a flint's putty to you, and I'm
puzzled at your goin's on, I am. Kindness--no, don't tell me; it ain't
no kindness. She ain't got no weddin'-ring neither. But food and drink
they wants anyhow, so food and drink they must 'ave, I suppose."

Mr. Barton poked the remnant of the fire. There was an unpleasant
expression in his eye, as he looked at the exhausted woman before him.
Mrs. Perks was unusually trying to-night. Miriam was leaning back now.
Her eyes were closed and her head drooped. She was an intensely pitiable
object. But there was no pity in Mr. Barton's expression as he looked at
her--no glimmer of it. He was scrutinising her searchingly, cruelly. His
gaze was something more than intense. She woke with a start.

"Don't speak," he said, as he saw her lips part. "Not a word--you are
much too weak to talk. After you have had something, then I'll talk to
you."

She obeyed. She felt as if all power of resistance of mind or body were
leaving her. He looked at her critically again. How wasted she was! The
cheeks were completely sunken. The lips were blue rather than red. Her
whole expression was one of weariness. Yet withal it was a beautiful
face--it had been of surpassing beauty. Intellectual, too, and refined
in every line. And Barton had studied many faces in his life--and he saw
more in this one than was apparent to the casual observer. He rubbed his
hands in satisfaction at the result of his inspection. Indeed, he could
not repress an audible expression of it--a kind of fiendish chuckle.

It roused Miriam again. She opened her eyes with something like fear in
them. A feeling had come over her of intense apprehension. She felt,
indeed, as though she were in the clutches of some enemy--an enemy not
of herself alone, but an enemy of mankind--of humanity. That such a one
could be before her in the shape and person of Mr. Richard Barton--this
respectable, middle-aged gentleman--was impossible. The mere idea was
preposterous. It was no doubt a symptom of her ill-nourished condition.
Yet later on she remembered what she had felt at that moment.

Then appeared Mrs. Perks, bearing the supper-tray herself. She placed it
on the table under the flaring gas-lamp, and was about to commence her
chatter, when Barton interrupted her.

"You can return in an hour, Mrs. Perks."

"Ho, indeed, and when am I to 'ave my natural rest, Mr. Bartons, I
should like to know, seein' as 'ow in an hour it'll be 'alf-past two?
But I'll go, sir, though I must say as I can't 'old with such goin's on
in my 'ouse."

"Your house----!"

"Well, if it ain't mine it ought to be, seein' as I work that 'ard that
I'm just skin and bone!"

"Now understand me, Mrs. Perks, if you don't take yourself off without
another word, you will not be even an inmate of this house to-morrow!"

The woman turned as pale as her sallow complexion would admit. She
opened her lips to speak, but with a great effort refrained. She seemed
to be within measurable distance of fainting. The man's expression as he
fixed his eyes upon her had been horrible. She felt deadly sick. In the
passage she paused, recovering herself somewhat, and shook her fist at
the closed door. Then she got herself a glass of brandy--a thing she
rarely did.

"That woman was born on my estate in Hampshire," explained Barton,
drawing a chair to the table for Miriam. "You'd hardly think it perhaps,
but she began as scullery-maid to my mother, and ended as housekeeper to
me. I brought her to London, and placed her here in this house, which I
may tell you is my own property. You understand now how I was able to
bring you here. An old gentleman and an unknown woman! What decent hotel
would have taken in the pair of us! He, he! I know my own knowing."

But Miriam made no protest. She ate and drank ravenously. Mr. Barton
sipped his wine and watched her. Occasionally he gave utterance to the
peculiar chuckle which had wakened her before. The same uncanny feeling
came again upon her. She could not shake it off.

"I wish now I had left you to Jabez," she said suddenly.

"Indeed, why?--that is the sort of speech which I should not make if I
were you, more especially whilst you are consuming meat and drink of
mine. Why do you wish such a thing?"

"Because I think you are very wicked."

"Wicked--how? Surely I have fed you. I have ordered for you a
comfortable bed, and, what's more, if you answer satisfactorily the
questions I am going to put to you, I intend to procure for you a
situation--how then am I wicked?"

"I don't know--but I feel that you are. You remind me of a rat, and I
loathe rats! I can see that woman who has gone feels as I do."

"Perhaps. Still she obeys me."

Miriam rose and took up her shawl.

"I am going," she said curtly.

"Indeed. I think you will also obey me, Miriam. Sit down I say."

He pointed to a chair. She strove not to meet his eye, but his gaze
compelled her. Their eyes met, and, for a moment, were in desperate
conflict. Then the woman sat down. She was in a cold perspiration, and
was trembling too.

"That's right--I thought you would. Go back to Jabez would you?--well,
we shall see."

"I thank you for what you have given me, Mr. Barton; but I feel under no
obligation to you, since I saved your life. The obligation, if any, is
yours. But we will cry quits, if you please."

"Not at all--as you say, it is my turn now. Let the benefits come from
me, and the--well, the gratitude from you."

"Mr. Barton, understand I wish nothing from you. Allow me to go."

"Where, back to Jabez--the man who murders strangers because you starve?
No, my good young lady. It is for me to save your Jabez from the gallows
by retaining you--that is if----By the way, what is your full name?" he
asked abruptly.

His eyes were full upon her again. She felt herself unable to shake off
their horrid fascination; all power of resistance seemed to leave her.

"My name is Miriam Crane," she said faintly.

"And what are you?"

"The daughter of a sea captain."

"H'm--respectable enough on the face of it. And how do you come to be in
this plight?"

"When my mother died, my father left me in a seaport town in charge of a
friend of his, having paid my board for a year. He was lost at sea, and
I was turned out of doors by his friend. I came to London thinking to
get some engagement as a governess."

"Oh, you are well educated then?"

"Sufficiently so to teach children. But without influence or references
I could get nothing. My small stock of money soon went. I pawned
everything I had, even my clothes. I even tried to make a living by
selling flowers, but I could not. Everywhere I went, in everything I
did, I was unlucky. I sank and sank until----"

"Until right down at the bottom I suppose you met this Jabez of yours.
He is your lover?"

"He does love me," blazed forth Miriam, "but I am an honest woman."

"Naturally," Barton chuckled, "otherwise with your beauty you certainly
would not be starving. Why are you so honest?"

"I believe in God," her eyes sought his searchingly. "You don't," she
said.

"Perhaps not--nevertheless, I am honest too."

"That depends what you call honest," retorted Miriam. "You have plenty
of money, no doubt, so you can't very well help behaving so as to keep
your freedom. But for that----"

She hesitated, but gave him quite clearly to understand her meaning.

"'Perhaps' again," said Barton. "You mean to say that I have not
sufficiently strong incentive to be anything else--that if I had, that
if I were a poor man for instance, I should probably land in prison."

"I am quite sure you would."

"Dear me, you seem to have made up your mind about me very
definitely--it hasn't taken you long either."

"I judge by your face. As I read it, it is a page of devil-print!"

Barton rubbed his hands. He seemed more tickled than anything else.
Certainly he was in no wise offended.

"I believe I have found a real pearl in the gutter," he chuckled. Then
he turned to her,

"Tell me now, why did you save me from your Jabez?"

"I did not know you then--perhaps if I had, your body would now be lying
in the river."

"And my soul--what about that?"

"You should know--if you are a man and not an animal."

"You are mistaken, young lady--you think me a libertine, no doubt----"

"Oh, nothing of the kind--you are too hard even for that. If I had any
doubt about it, I should not be here with you now."

"Well, well, let us hope that after a little longer acquaintance your
opinion of me will improve. For the present I wish to befriend you all I
can--that at least should be a point in my favour."

"But why--why, I ask, should you wish to befriend me? What is your
object?"

"That you shall know when the times comes. Let us resume your very
interesting story."

"You have heard it. I told you I met Jabez, and that he loves me. I
suspected when he went out to-night that he was desperate--that he might
steal, murder even, if by so doing he could obtain food for me--that is
why I followed him, to save him, and, as it happened, I did save him,
and you too."

"And the boy who acted a jackal to your lion--who is he?"

"Shorty--oh, he is a wicked little creature, who ought by rights to be
in a reformatory."

"Indeed. Now please attend to me, Miss Crane. I am no philanthropist,
nor am I a fool, and you yourself seem willing to acquit me of any
amatory intentions. You will easily believe then that it is from no
feeling of sentiment that I have brought you here to-night. One strong
dose of that kind of thing has lasted me through life. I suffered badly
at the hands of your sex once, but once only. I am never likely to
suffer again. Nevertheless, I confess that if it had not been for your
beauty, I should have left you there on the bridge."

"I am not beautiful," contradicted Miriam.

"No?--well, you must allow me to be judge of that. I repeat, my
intentions are perfectly prosaic. I am no Don Juan of gutter-girls. I
see in you exactly such a person as I need for the carrying through of a
scheme I have in hand."

Miriam rose.

"I refuse to have anything to do with it," she said emphatically.

"Had you not better learn what it is first?"

"No. I am sure it is vile."

She made towards the door.

But his eyes caught hers, and she had to yield. What power had this man
over her? It was horrible. She could make no effort of body or will
against him. And he stood there grinning, as she thought the devil
himself might grin at the capture of a spotless soul. She sank back
weakly in a chair.

"You seem exhausted," said he. "I'll ring for Mrs. Perks. You must go to
bed at once. We'll finish our little talk to-morrow. For the moment I
will ask you only one more question. Who is Jabez?"

"I refuse to tell you."

"Tell me, who is Jabez, I say," he repeated, keeping his eyes upon her
steadily.

And she told him. But when Mrs. Perks came in, she was lying in a dead
faint.




PART I.

A WOMAN'S BURDEN.




CHAPTER I.

MRS. DACRE DARROW.


Mrs. Dacre Darrow was a much misunderstood woman--at least she said so
frequently. Her husband, dead now some five years, had never been able
to comprehend her sentimental nature; her uncle, Richard Barton, hard
old cynic that he was, did not appreciate her tender heart; and the
world at large could not, or would not, understand her. And so Mrs.
Darrow posed as a martyr in her day and generation. The late Mr. Dacre
Darrow had been a barrister and a failure. He had left her with no
income and one child to rear. In this dilemma she had sought the Manor
House at Lesser Thorpe, and had proposed to keep house for her Uncle
Barton in return for her maintenance. Uncle Barton considered her
proposition, and ended by installing both mother and son with three
hundred a year in a small and quaint cottage on the outskirts of the
park. This was too much altogether for Mrs. Darrow. Could a woman bear
such brutal treatment silently? She thought not; nor, in fact, did she.
On the contrary she abused Uncle Barton daily and hourly. When not thus
occupied, she was as a rule busy in endeavouring to get money out of
him, though this latter was, as she expressed it, heartbreaking work. It
was rarely possible to extract from him anything beyond her stated
income. Small wonder, then, that Mrs. Darrow regarded Uncle Barton as a
brute and herself as a martyr.

"Just think, dear," she wailed to her friend, Hilda Marsh, "he has five
thousand a year and that large empty house, yet he lets me live in this
pokey cottage. Three hundred a year! It is hardly enough to buy one's
clothes."

Hilda, occupying her favourite position before a mirror, made no reply.
As the daughter of a poor doctor, and one of a large family, she
considered Mrs. Darrow very well off. She could not sympathise with her
in her constant grumbling. But she was wise in her generation, was
Hilda, and did not argue with the widow, firstly because Mrs. Darrow
never argued fairly, but dogmatised and invariably lost her temper; and
secondly, because Hilda had more to lose than to gain from quarrelling
with her. She was a pretty, vain, selfish girl, and calculating to boot.
Mrs. Darrow's social influence in the parish was useful to her, so she
trimmed her sails accordingly. At the present moment she was in the
little drawing-room for afternoon tea. She patted a rebellious little
curl into shape as in some sort of excuse for not replying to Mrs.
Darrow's latest complaint against Uncle Barton. The widow continued to
protest against the way in which she was being treated; and Hilda
continued, so far as was possible, to avoid contention, to admire her
own pretty face in the glass, until tea was brought in. Then, and then
only, did Mrs. Darrow, ever fond of her comforts and blest with the best
of good appetites, brisk up. But true to her indolent disposition, she
asked Hilda to make the tea.

"You do it so well, dear," she said coaxingly; "I taught you, didn't I?"

"Yes, Julia, of course you taught me, that is why I can make it to your
satisfaction," said Hilda, sitting down to the bamboo table.

She called Mrs. Darrow Julia at the widow's express request, for--in
Mrs. Darrow's opinion--such familiarity tended to diminish the
difference in their ages. How she arrived at this conclusion was known
only to Mrs. Darrow, who never condescended to explain her reasons for
either speech or action. It was so, because it was so, and there was an
end of it. And invariably the adoption of so uncompromising an attitude
was successful. By its means she managed to emerge triumphant from her
fiercest altercations. By alternately shifting her ground and refusing
to give any reasons, she always reduced her opponent to a moral pulp. In
effect, her tactics were undeniable.

Hilda's attractions were of that order which suited her present
occupation. She looked well at a tea-table. She wore white, touched here
and there with the palest of blue, and her hands moved ever so deftly
among the egg-shell china cups and saucers, with their sprawling dragons
of green and red. She was essentially the Dresden china type herself. A
dainty figure, a transparent complexion, dark blue eyes, and hair the
colour of ripe corn: such were the outward and visible attributes of
Hilda Marsh. She looked like an angel, and was frequently taken for
one--more especially by men. Her beauty was that of a peach, and, like a
peach, she possessed a very hard kernel. Not even Mr. Barton had a more
obdurate heart. However, she succeeded in hiding this from all save her
own family, and they, being anxious for Hilda to make a good match, were
so kind as to remain silent on the subject. Moreover, Hilda--her angelic
qualities being reserved wholly for the public, and not at all
discernible by the domestic hearth--was, in the eyes of her family, a
personage to be got rid of. That seemed clear, since she was a great
grief at home. Hers was a case in which the face is most certainly not a
correct index to the mind.

"Ah!" sighed Mrs. Darrow, soothed somewhat now with a strong cup of tea
and a particularly indigestible muffin, "if I wasn't the best-tempered
woman in the world how I should complain of my hard lot!"

"What is the matter now, Julia?"

"Matter! oh, nothing worse than usual. Only that Uncle Barton has
engaged a governess for Dicky, and I have had no choice in the matter.
Oh, it's nothing." Mrs. Darrow stirred her tea violently. "Of course,
I'm a mere cipher in my own house."

"Mr. Barton pays for the governess," suggested Hilda.

"And why shouldn't he? It's his duty to educate Dicky, and give the poor
boy a chance in the world. My life is over, Hilda, and I live only for
my boy."

This was one of Mrs. Darrow's stock pieces of sentiment, and she
produced it with surprisingly dramatic effect on every occasion. It
sounded well, and cost nothing, for she never troubled about Dicky, save
when he was necessary to a tableau on public days, and her reputation of
being a devoted mother was to be enhanced thereby. Although her husband
had been dead five years, she still mourned him in black silk, amply
trimmed with crape, and was careful to use nothing but the most
aggressively black-edged paper. Even her handkerchiefs mourned in a deep
border, and her cap of delicate white cambric called loudly on the world
to witness what a model widow she was. In addition to these mute
evidences of eternal sorrow, Mrs. Darrow gave tongue to her woes
vigorously. She really did not know, she said, how she bore it. Indeed,
if it were not for her dear child she would wish to die. No woman had
ever suffered what she had suffered--and much more to the same effect,
all of which was very genteel and laudable, and meant to be correctly
indicative of her noble state of mind.

"Uncle Barton is coming to tell me about the new governess, Hilda; I
expect him every minute."

Hilda rose quickly.

"In that case, dear, I had better go. Mr. Barton has no love for me."

"He has no love for anyone. I never knew so selfish and stingy a
creature. Don't go. I want you to stay and talk to me. Perhaps Gerald
may come too."

"Mr. Arkel's coming is nothing to me," replied Hilda, tossing her pretty
head.

"Really! I thought you liked him!"

"So I do; but then you see I like many people--Major Dundas for
instance."

"John!" Mrs. Darrow became reflective. "Oh, yes; John is very nice, but
not nearly so good looking as Gerald. Besides, Gerald is Uncle Barton's
heir!"

"That may or may not be; we don't know. But this I do know," said Hilda
pettishly, "that should either of Uncle Barton's nephews become engaged
to me, that one will not be the heir."

"I don't see why not?"

"Mr. Barton doesn't like me, that's why. Perhaps he'll even go the
length of marrying the new governess to Major Dundas or Mr. Arkel to
spite me." Then, after a pause, "What kind of woman is she?"

Mrs. Darrow threw out her hands with a wail.

"My dear, how should I know? I am quite in the dark. I have been told
absolutely nothing about the woman. But if she is not a thoroughly
satisfactory person, I'll have her out of this very soon, I can tell
you. I'm not going to be imposed upon in my own house by any spy."

"What is her name?"

"Miriam Crane. It sounds Jewish. I hate Jews."

"Is she pretty?"

"He doesn't say. But knowing how Uncle Barton hates our sex, I quite
expect he has chosen some raw-boned, prim, board-school monster, just to
spite me. I am sure she's horrid. Her name sounds horrid."

"Then she shan't teach me!"

The interruption came from behind the window curtain, and Hilda laughed
gaily.

"Hiding in there, Dicky? Come and have a piece of cake."

"You horrid child," cried his mother, as the pale-faced Dicky emerged
from his retreat. "What a turn you gave me! Why can't you sit on a chair
like a Christian instead of poking in window corners? What have you been
doing?"

"Reading 'Robinson Crusoe.'"

"You should be at your lessons; really, I never knew so idle a child.
You're breaking my heart with your horrid ways, you know you are! I'm
sure I'm the most afflicted woman in the world. If I didn't bear up I
don't know what would become of you!"

Dicky, well used to his mother's wailing, took no notice whatever, but
under the wing of Hilda devoted himself to the demolition of cake to a
most alarming extent. He was a delicate, nervous child, wan and peevish;
far too tall and old-fashioned for his age. Under judicious management
as to diet, work, play, and exercise, he would have developed into a
charming little fellow; but Mrs. Darrow, with her ill-disciplined mind,
was the worst possible parent to be charged with the up-bringing of such
a child. She overwhelmed him with caresses one moment, declaring that he
was her all, boxed his ears the next, and lamented that she was burdened
with him; so that Dicky came as near hating his mother as a child of ten
well could, and Mrs. Darrow, instinctively feeling this, bewailed his
lack of affection and sought to scold him into loving her. If ever Uncle
Barton did a wise thing in his life, it was when he engaged a governess
for the neglected boy, though of course everything depended upon the
personality of the governess. So far Mrs. Darrow was in the dark, and
out of sheer contradiction to Uncle Barton was prepared to make herself
highly unpleasant to the new-comer, and nobody could be more
disagreeable than Mrs. Dacre Darrow, as the parish of Lesser Thorpe knew
to its cost. She was a past-mistress in the arts of scandal-mongering,
nagging, and back-biting. The strength for a right-down hatred was not
in her.

"If my new governess isn't pretty, like Hilda, I don't want her," said
Dicky, when his mother had wailed herself into a state of momentary
passiveness. "I don't like ugly people."

"Would you like me to teach you, Dicky?" laughed Hilda.

"Oh, yes; we could read 'Robinson Crusoe' together!"

"I'm afraid that's not a lesson book, Dicky."

But Dicky insisted that Defoe was better than any lesson book.

"Lesson books make my head ache," he said; "and I learn a lot of hard
words in 'Robinson Crusoe' without thinking. Why can't lesson books be
nice like that?"

"You little imp," burst out his mother furiously; "the idea of talking
about what you like. You'll be taught by a black woman if I choose; and
I'll burn all those rubbishy story-books."

Thus did Mrs. Darrow, who had read nothing but society journals and
fashion magazines, blend discipline with criticism.

"I never saw such a child," she wailed; "he's not a bit like me. Oh,
Dicky, Dicky, why haven't you your mother's sweet disposition and sweet
temper?"

Before Dicky could reply to this truly overwhelming question, to which
but one answer was expected, a dried-up little man appeared at the
French window opening on to the lawn, and stepped into the room. Hilda
half rose to fly from her arch enemy, but being caught, decided it would
be undignified to retreat. So she resumed her seat and talked in low
tones to Dicky. Mrs. Darrow still lay on her sofa, and welcomed the
stranger in the faintest of low tones, meant to be expressive of great
weakness.

"How are you, Uncle Barton," she said. "I can hardly speak, I am so
ill."

"I know, I know," rasped out the cynic grimly. "I heard you talking to
Dicky, no wonder you can't chatter now."

"I must do my duty to my child," cried Mrs. Darrow with more energy,
"even though my health suffers."

Mr. Barton surveyed the plump recumbent figure with grim humour.

"You feel your parental duties too much, Julia, they will wear you out.
How do you do, Miss Marsh? I see you and Julia have been spoiling your
digestions with strong tea. Muffins too! Oh, Lord, think of your
complexions!"

Hilda laughed, and glanced into a near mirror. Her complexion was her
strong point, and she had no fear of its being criticised even by
disagreeable Mr. Barton.

"I'm afraid my appetite is stronger than my vanity," she said.

"Then you must have the appetite of an ostrich," growled Barton, sitting
down near his niece; "but Julia, poor dear, eats nothing."

"That I don't," murmured Mrs. Darrow. "I peck like a bird."

"What kind of a bird--a canary, or an albatross?"

"Uncle Barton!" cried the outraged Julia in capital letters.

"There, there, it's all right. Anyone can see you eat nothing. You are
all skin and bone. Dicky, come here, sir. Your new governess will be
here in ten minutes."

"In ten minutes!" screeched Mrs. Darrow, bounding from the sofa with
more energy than might have been expected. "She can't--she mustn't. I'm
not ready to receive her. Oh, Uncle Barton!"--the irrepressible feminine
curiosity would out--"what is she like?"

"Very ugly, small, dark-haired, dark-skinned."

"I knew it. I knew you would choose an ugly woman!"

Barton chuckled.

"Only as a foil to yourself, my dear. Now then, Dicky, what is the
matter?"

"I don't like an ugly governess," whimpered Dicky. "Can't Hilda teach
me?"

"I don't know about that, Dick. If beauty is the essential factor in
your teacher, then certainly Miss Marsh is more than qualified. What do
you say, Miss Marsh? Will you undertake this young gentleman's
education?"

Hilda shook her head, and laughed herself into a pretty state of
confusion. It certainly became her.

"I'm not clever enough," said she, wincing under Barton's regard.

"H'm. That's a pity, otherwise you might have had this fifty pounds a
year."

"What?" screamed Mrs. Darrow, "do you intend to give this creature fifty
pounds?"

"Why not? She's worth it."

"Who is she?"

"Dicky's governess--Miss Crane."

"But who is she?--where does she come from?"

"London. You had better make further inquiries of her in person, for
there's the fly driving up to the gate."

Dignity, or rather her exhibition of it, prevented Mrs. Darrow rushing
to the window. She seated herself like a queen on the sofa, and spread
out her sable skirts, so as to receive the ugly governess with the true
keep-your-distance hospitality of the British matron. At the same time
she remonstrated with Uncle Barton for his rash and unnecessary
generosity.

"If you gave her twenty pounds a year it would be more than enough," she
said snappishly. "I could do well with the other thirty."

"No doubt. But you don't teach Dicky, you see."

"I'm his mother."

"So I believe. But you don't want me to pay you for that, I suppose?
Well, here is my Gorgon."

Hilda remained to see the new governess. Like Mrs. Darrow, she was
devoured by curiosity; centred on this occasion solely upon the
new-comer's physical attractions--or lack of them. It was quite possible
of course that this creature might be better looking than Mr. Barton's
eyes could judge. With Mrs. Darrow she continually glanced towards the
door, and Barton chuckled. As his chuckle was invariably a prelude to
something disagreeable, even Mrs. Darrow felt uneasy at the sound.

Outside, in the narrow passage, could be heard voices, and the bumping
of heavy luggage being got in. Then the door opened, and the little
maid-servant announced, "Miss Crane." Immediately afterwards the new
governess entered the room.

"Why, she's pretty!" cried Dicky in surprise.

Barton led Miriam to the throne whereon, bitterly disappointed, Mrs.
Darrow sat in state.

"Julia, this is Miss Miriam Crane. Miss Crane, my niece, Mrs. Dacre
Darrow."

The widow gave her hand and murmured some commonplace; but from that
moment she hated Miriam with all the fervour her petty nature was
capable of. Barton looked at the three women taking stock of each other,
and chuckled again.




CHAPTER II.

A RED RAG TO A BULL.


Miriam, having been thus formally introduced into the parish of Lesser
Thorpe by no less a personage than the lord of the manor himself,
speedily settled down to her official duties in Pine Cottage. The
cottage was typical of its kind--a very fairy cottage, a jumble of
angles and gables, casements and rusticity, with a thatched roof, and
walls overgrown with roses. Now, in the month of June, the roses were in
full bloom, and the place was brilliant with them. It lay a short
distance off the village road, half clasped to the breast of the pine
forest, whence it took its name. The little garden a-bloom in front was
encircled by a white paling fence and a quickset hedge. At the back an
orchard of apple and plum trees stretched until it seemed to lose itself
in the woods beyond. A charming Arcadian place it was, for which, be it
remembered, Mrs. Darrow paid no rent. Yet she continually grumbled at
being compelled to live in it.

"I ought to be in my proper place at the Manor House," she confided to
Miss Crane, "but Uncle Barton is so selfish; don't you think so?"

"Really," replied Miriam, knowing that all she said would be repeated by
this she-Judas, "I don't know, my acquaintance with Mr. Barton is so
slight."

"Where did you meet him?"

"In London, at a governess' institution at Kensington. He inquired for
someone to teach your son, Mrs. Darrow, and as I seemed likely to suit
him, he engaged me."

It will be noticed that Miriam suppressed Waterloo Bridge, the Pitt
Hotel, and Mrs. Perks. This was by Barton's express desire, and indeed
by her own; for she had no wish to reveal her past to Mrs. Darrow, who,
as she had quickly perceived, bore her no love. Indeed, the widow was at
no great pains to conceal her dislike for Miriam. She was horribly
jealous of her, notwithstanding her expressed opinion that no woman with
red hair could be considered even passable. She feared her, too, because
she judged her to be a spy of Uncle Barton's; and, moreover, in her own
mind she was distinctly conscious of an existent air of mystery about
the governess which she was in no way able to explain. On her part,
Miriam rarely referred to the past, in spite of Mrs. Darrow's hints in
that direction, and her reticence in this respect only put that lady the
more on the alert. She had already made up her mind that Miriam was an
adventuress, and watched her, constantly hoping that in some way she
would commit herself. But Miss Crane was too discreet for that. She paid
strict attention to her duties, made herself in every way agreeable, and
soon became popular in the parish. The discovery that she possessed a
contralto voice of excellent quality, coupled with musical
accomplishment far before that of anyone else in Lesser Thorpe, did
nothing to lessen her popularity, whereat Mrs. Darrow of course hated
her more than ever. In all the world there is nothing so consistently
relentless as the hatred of a petty-minded vain woman. In her own
estimation Mrs. Darrow was a truly noble creature, but then her
introspection was notoriously short-sighted, and was invariably made
through the medium of rose-coloured spectacles. She admitted to herself
that she detested Miriam, and the stronger her detestation became, the
more she smiled.

With Dicky, the new governess speedily made friends. He was an
impressionable lad, and was at once attracted by her beauty and
fascinated by the music of her voice. He became her slave, much to the
disgust of his mother, who thought that no one should be loved or
admired but herself. On all possible occasions she thwarted Miriam's
wise regulations for the boy's comfort and health; but an appeal to
Uncle Barton soon put this right. Mrs. Darrow was inclined to rebel, and
but that her cynical relative held the purse, would most assuredly have
done so. When Mr. Barton intimated that Miriam was to have full control
of the boy, the widow grumbled and wept copiously. Such an opportunity
for hysterical display was not likely to pass her. But eventually she
gave in, and extorted from the old man a new dress in recompense for her
submission. She promised not to interfere with Dicky's education, but
entered a protest against Miss Crane's mode of action. In a word she was
as spiteful as she dared be, but not knowing exactly on what footing
Miriam stood with Barton, she judged it wiser to keep her venomous
tongue within bounds.

"Of course Miss Crane is very clever, Uncle Barton, but----" she began
tentatively.

"She ought to be clever," interrupted the old man. "I don't pay her a
pound a week for nothing. Go on, Julia, but what----?"

"She is too severe; she starves the child. The poor boy is allowed no
tea, very little meat, and not even a biscuit between meals. She insists
upon his taking cold baths, although he is far too delicate for them;
and every day she nearly walks him off his feet. Then she won't teach
him his lessons in the schoolroom, but is ridiculous enough to make him
read to her in the garden."

"What a mistaken _regime_, Julia, yet under it Dicky is growing and
improving every day. Any other complaints?"

"She doesn't make him study enough."

"Ah, she teaches him from the book of nature you see, and so relieves
his congested brain--quite right. I don't believe in cramming a delicate
lad like that. You let him read what he liked, Julia, and the poor
little chap was positively getting literary indigestion."

"Well, at all events, I don't approve of Miss Crane."

"I never thought you would."

"She dresses ridiculously--quite above her station."

"Oh, but you see, she is a pretty woman, eh?"

Mrs. Darrow tossed her head disdainfully.

"Pretty, indeed! with that red hair and pasty complexion! It is
extraordinary how you men like these unhealthy women." Then, after a
pause, "But she doesn't like you!"

"H'm! who does?"

"I do"--this with a most fascinating smile. "I love you!"

"Ah!" Barton chuckled. "You are so tender-hearted. I tell you what,
Julia, I am beginning to think I did very wrong to interfere with
Dicky's education at all. As his mother you have more right to manage
him than I. I've a good mind to send away Miss Crane, and you can engage
a twenty-pound governess--to be paid out of your income."

"Oh no, don't send Miss Crane away. I really think, with a hint or two
from me, she will do very well. But she is peculiar, to say the least of
it. Tell me, uncle, who is Miss Crane?"

"She is Miss Crane, that is all I know."

"Has she a past?"

"Seeing that she is some twenty-five years of age, naturally."

"Yes, but----" Mrs. Darrow hesitated, not quite knowing how to put it.
"Well, as you seem to think, she is not bad-looking, and there is John,
you know, and Gerald."

"Well?"

"They may fall in love with her."

"What--both of them? At all events they have not seen her yet, so
suppose we postpone discussion of that contingency?"

"Well!" Mrs. Darrow's expression and gestures spoke volumes, "I warn
you; don't say I haven't warned you. Mark me, there is something queer
about Miss Crane. I am not a suspicious woman, and I like to think well
of everybody; but Miss Crane--well, you take my word for it, she'll
astonish us all some day! Queer, yes, I should think she _was_ queer!"

Barton shrugged his shoulders, and went off without making reply, and
for the moment Mrs. Darrow was baffled. But she still continued to
suspect Miriam--Heaven only knows of what--and to keep a close watch on
her every action. It gave quite a new zest to her life, this new
pursuit. And shortly all the parish, that is, the female portion of it,
was in Mrs. Darrow's confidence; and Miriam was watched not alone by
one, but by a hundred envious eyes, and debated about at a dozen
tea-tables. But all this espionage resulted in nothing, and the suspect
went serenely on her way, as did Una through the Forest of a Thousand
Dangers. The toads spat venom, but the snakes could not bite.

"Dicky," said Miss Crane one warm and sunny morning, "I want you to put
on your cap and take me up the village."

"No lessons this morning?" Dicky jumped up with joy, after the manner of
boyhood.

"No lessons this morning," laughed Miriam, "some fresh air, dear,
instead. I'm not going to have you grow up a pale-faced bookworm."

"I love my books," said Dicky, as they left the cottage, not without a
disapproving word from Mrs. Darrow.

"I know you do, Dicky, almost too well. But you must get your health
first, and then the rest can follow."

The boy understood. He was thoroughly in sympathy with Miriam. And
without being aware of it, he was learning a great deal from her, apart
altogether from his studies. She told him stories, interested him in the
wonders of earth and sky--things which so frequently escape the
careless--and taught him generally how to use his eyes. In the very
hedges, Dicky found a new world of flower and berry, and tiny active
insect life. She pointed out to him the fluttering dragon-flies, the
beetle rolling his ball of mud; she revealed to him the miracle of a
grain of wheat, showing him how it bears upon it the image of a man with
folded arms. The boy had imagination, and did not need to be told twice.
Suggestion was everything to him. He was a dreamer--a poet in embryo.
Indeed, Miriam soon found that he had far too vivid an imagination, so
much so that she felt obliged to discourage any extreme stimulation of
it.

"Observe more, and think less, Dicky," she said. "I want you to notice
lots of things that you see every day and don't notice now, perhaps
because you do see them every day; there are lots of interesting things
you know in the fields and the hedges--lots of little worlds and their
inhabitants, all as busy as can be, and to be seen if we only look for
them."

"I believe you lived in the country," said Dicky admiringly, "you know
such a lot of jolly things, Miss Crane."

"I did live in the country once, Dicky," Miriam sighed. "But that was
long, long ago. I lived by the sea at one time--there are wonderful
things in the sea, dear."

"I've read 'Midshipman Easy,' and I should like awfully to be a sailor."

Miriam laughed.

"That is not exactly what I meant. Never mind, come along, there's the
church; I want to walk across the meadow to it."

"Oh, that's jolly, I want to see the bull."

"What bull, Dicky?"

"Oh, an awful bull--he gores people."

"Oh, Dicky"--Miriam looked apprehensive--"perhaps we had better go round
by the road. Don't, Dicky, don't."

The boy had jumped over the stile into the meadow.

"I only want to see if he's there," he cried, and scampered over the
grass--a little grey figure with a red scarf. Suddenly he stopped short
and looked down the meadow. Miriam looked also, to see the bull dashing
along towards the boy, who was too terrified to move. Reproaching
herself for not having prevented his bolting away from her, she jumped
into the meadow herself and ran to the rescue, and managed to reach him
before the bull did, for on seeing another figure the animal stopped
short with a comical air of surprise, and pawing the ground began to
bellow loudly. With a white face but a courageous heart Miriam caught
Dicky to her breast, and began slowly to retreat towards the hedge,
still facing the beast. By this time the frail little lad was sobbing
hysterically. The bull tossed his head and came nearer--so near that
Miriam could have screamed. Putting down the child for a moment, she
opened her parasol, and ran straight at the animal. Aghast and
disconcerted he turned, whereupon she picked up Dicky and raced for the
stile--fatal mistake! As soon as he saw her flying, the bull followed
fast. She was nearing the hedge, but the animal was close behind her,
and she screamed aloud, giving herself up for lost.

"Hullo!" cried a fresh young voice, "run hard--hard--for your life!"

A man jumped over the hedge, and flourishing a stick, got between the
pursuer and pursued. As he passed Miriam, he tore the loose cape she
wore from her shoulders, and threw it at the infuriated animal as he
came lunging along head downward. It caught on his horns, fell over his
eyes, and the next moment, quite blinded, he stumbled on his knees. The
man caught up with Miriam, and putting his arm round her, half pushed,
half carried her to the stile. In a minute the three were over it and in
safety, while the bull, having freed his head from the shawl, stood
looking at his escaped victims and bellowing his disappointment. It was
a dishevelled trio which dropped down on the grass beside the stile, out
of breath, and with violently beating hearts.

"Thank God!" gasped Miriam, taking Dicky on her lap to soothe him.

"You have lost your cape though," said their preserver.

"Better than losing my life. I have to thank you for that. Hush, Dicky,"
and she calmed the nervous child.

"I think you did most of the saving," said the young man admiringly. "I
came in at the finish, so I must decline the glory. I never saw a neater
and pluckier thing."

"Oh, Cousin Gerald," sobbed Dicky, "I'm glad the bull didn't gore you.
You were just like a torry-door of Spain. I've seen them in pictures."

"Am I to take that as a compliment, Dicky? What do you say, Miss Crane?"

"Oh, I think it is a very great compliment, Mr. Arkel."

The young man--he was a handsome, fair-haired young fellow in a grey
tweed suit--looked at her with a quizzical expression.

"You know my name, and I know yours. I think we can dispense with
further formalities under the circumstances--or perhaps you will look
after the social observances, Dicky, and introduce me to this lady."

Dicky did so most gravely.

"Miss Crane, this is Uncle Barton's nephew, Cousin Gerald; Cousin
Gerald, this is my new governess, Miss Crane."

Gerald Arkel jumped up, swung off his cap, and made a bow. There was a
very keen admiration in his eye as he looked at Miriam. Indeed, so
marked was his stare that she became a trifle uneasy, the more so when
he observed that her face was familiar.

"Surely I have seen you before," he said with a puzzled look.

"Oh, no," Miriam forced herself to say. "I don't think so. Are you
staying in Lesser Thorpe?" she asked hurriedly, to divert his attention.

"Yes, with my uncle at the Manor House. He came out with me this
morning. I left him fossiking about one of his fences. He'll be here
soon."

A chuckle close at hand revealed that Mr. Barton was not only near at
hand, but had been close enough to hear the entire conversation. He
looked inquisitively from Miriam to his nephew. Gerald took no notice of
his scrutiny, but Miriam coloured up, and lifting Dicky from her lap,
rose to meet the old man. She led him aside ostensibly to show him the
scene of the disaster, but in reality to ask him a question.

"Why do you look at me so, Mr. Barton? Is that--is that--"

"Yes!" Mr. Barton chuckled in his hateful manner. "Yes, that is the
man--now you know."




CHAPTER III.

POVERTY HALL.


What Miriam meant by her mysterious question, and what Mr. Barton meant
by his mysterious answer, was known only to themselves. They seemed to
understand one another without recourse to words for the
situation--whatever the situation might be--adjusted itself between them
on a swift interchange of glances. Mr. Barton was regarded by the parish
at large as being as deep as a well; had the parish seen him with Mrs.
Darrow's governess at the moment, it might have considered him even
deeper. But the young man whom these glances mostly concerned, saw
nothing of the by-play which was to influence his future. He chatted
with Dicky, and commended him for his prowess in having run into the
meadow to reconnoitre the whereabouts of the bull. Gerald knew better
than to scold the boy for his folly; he knew what a sensitive, nervous
child Dicky was, and chose this way of soothing him by applauding what
he knew had been his intention, so that the little lad plucked up his
courage, and recovered his nerve--so far as his feeble body could do so.
Poor Dicky, he had a weak heart, overstrung nerves, and an injudicious
mother; and between them, was fast being ruined body and soul, when
Miriam came to save him. But for that strange meeting on Waterloo
Bridge, Dicky's chances of life would not have been what they were. But
then that same meeting is responsible for so much of moment, as will be
seen hereafter--and all because Mr. Barton took one turning instead of
another, and so lost himself in a fog. If ever Providence worked to
great ends by small means, it was when Mr. Richard Barton, Squire of
Lesser Thorpe, was made to mistake Waterloo Bridge for the Bridge of
Westminster.

"I am so glad you are here again, Cousin Gerald," said Dicky, patting
the young man's slim hand. "You'll tell me stories, won't you, and play
cricket with me, and I've got such a jolly governess," finished Dicky
incoherently.

Gerald laughed in his pleasant fashion.

"I'll tell you any amount of stories, and I'll play cricket, and I'll
adore your governess, Dicky."

"Oh, you mustn't. Hilda will be so angry."

With his usual precocity, Dicky saw more than he was meant to see, and
said more than he should have said. Gerald flushed somewhat, and picking
up the boy placed him on his shoulder.

"You talk too much, young man," said he gaily. "Miss Crane," with an
anxious look lest she should have overheard Dicky's indiscretion, "shall
I carry this rascal home for you?"

"Isn't he too heavy, Mr. Arkel?"

"Heavy?" The echo came from Barton. "Why, Gerald is a champion athlete,
and plays with cannonballs like feathers. He is Apollo and Hercules both
in one."

"At present he is Mercury carrying a soul to the Elysian fields," cried
Gerald, and strode off with Dicky, who was delighted with this classical
allusion which, from that reading which Miriam so deplored, he was quite
able to appreciate.

"I am Achilles! I am Ulysses!" shouted Dicky in ecstasy. "Hermes takes
me to Pluto and Queen Persephone. Ai! Ai! Ai!" and Dicky lamented in
classical style.

Barton looked after the pair.

"You ought to be satisfied," said he to Miriam. "He is a handsome
fellow, though he is a fool."

"He neither looks like a fool, nor talks like one, Mr. Barton."

What reply the cynic would have made to this curt contradiction it is
impossible to say; but at that moment a shadow fell on the grass near
them. Only the shadow--the shadow of a man; yet Barton whipped round
with the sudden snarl of a startled wild beast. His snarl was even more
hateful than his chuckle, and Miriam winced as she also turned to see
the substance of the shadow. Even now, well-nourished, rested, and
having recovered her nerve, as she had, she still dreaded Barton. There
was something so uncanny about him--something akin to the satyr--to Pan,
the inspirer of causeless terrors--that she could never overcome a
creeping of the flesh, a sinking of the heart when in his presence. Mr.
Hyde, of fictitious fame, was not more hateful.

The new-comer was a tall lean man, so tall, so lean, that he might be
defined in the terms of Euclid as a line, having length without breadth.
His legs were long, his arms were long, even his head was long; and
clothed in a suit of solemn black, which reflected no lustre, he came as
a blot on the sunny landscape. His eyes were small and close together;
they looked everywhere but at the person he was addressing, past you,
about you, but never by any chance at you; and--as Miriam heard, not
then, but long afterwards--he had a deep, booming, cracked voice, such
as might come from a flawed and rusty bell. She did not know the man at
the time; she had cause to know him later; and he always appeared in the
same noiseless, stealthy, slinking way. If Barton was a rat, this man
was akin to the serpent.

And the queerness of the thing was that he did not speak to Barton, nor
did Barton speak to him. The two evil creatures--Miriam instinctively
felt that both were evil--looked at one another; then Barton, without a
word to the governess, passed away with the stranger, for all the world
as if the latter were the devil come for his soul. Perhaps Miss Crane
was unduly impressionable--perhaps she had not altogether recovered her
state of health--but she shuddered and grew pale to the lips as those
two black figures dwindled into the distance. Involuntarily she glanced
at the grass as though it had been scorched by their tread. Who was the
stranger? who was Barton? She knew as much about one as she did about
the other.

"I must go back," she muttered, clenching her hands. "I will not bend to
that man's power. It was bad in London--it is worse here. And Gerald
Arkel----" her thoughts made no further use of words, and her eyes
followed the stalwart figure of the young man as he bounded towards the
village, evidently playing at being a horse for Dicky's greater delight.
With a sigh Miriam walked rapidly after them. She did not look again in
the direction of Mr. Barton and his attendant demon.

When she came up with them, Dicky was a mediaeval knight, and Gerald his
war steed. Miriam could not forbear admiring the kindly nature of the
man. But his kindliness and love of play were characteristic of Gerald
Arkel. He was gay, indolent, and of a sunny disposition; everybody
else's best friend and his own worst enemy. He had never done a stroke
of work, and apparently never intended to, since he regarded himself as
his uncle's heir. Handsome and light-hearted, overflowing with animal
spirits, full of exuberant vitality, he was one of those rare beings who
seem created to enjoy life. Yet he was weak and self-indulgent, and
without the necessary will or self-control to guide his wayward course.
Miriam learned those weaknesses later--learned them, pitied and
tolerated them by the love which grew up in her heart. As yet she
admired him only. Young Apollo, young Hercules, a splendid specimen of
manhood; but love came in the end, and with it much sorrow. Not that
Miriam would have minded the sorrow so much; her life from her cradle
had been one long trouble, and she was well seasoned to it. The wonder
was that her evil fortunes had left no shadow, no line on her brow; for
now as she walked beside Mr. Arkel, and found him so pleasant and
sympathetic a character, she chatted gaily, and was, to all appearance,
every whit as light-hearted as he, whose life had been one long flood of
sunshine.

"I am afraid you will find this place dull, Miss Crane," said Gerald.

"I find it peaceful, Mr. Arkel, and that is enough for me."

"You have had trouble?" he asked with quick sympathy.

"My parents died while I was in my teens," explained Miriam, "and I was
left a penniless orphan. Yes, I have had trouble. Shadow has been as
much my portion as sunshine appears to have been yours."

Gerald set down Dicky, and took his hand.

"Oh, I have had my troubles too," said he easily, "but I don't feel them
much. Perhaps my nature is too shallow."

"Or too sunny, Mr. Arkel--if a nature can be too sunny. Did you ever
read Hawthorne's 'Marble Faun'?--I believe it is called 'Transformation'
in the English edition."

"No." Gerald stared at the apparent irrelevancy of this question. "Why?"

"Because you are so very much like one of the characters in it--a child
of nature, called Donatello. You are just the kind of man children love
and animals trust."

"Oh, I get on pretty well with everyone," cried Gerald, tossing back his
bright hair, "and everyone gets on with me."

"Ah, you are 'simpatico,' as the Italians say."

Arkel turned an expressive eye on Miriam. He was very sympathetic,
especially towards pretty women; and with one exception, this governess
was the prettiest he had ever seen. Yet the adjective was not one he
would have chosen deliberately as adequately descriptive of Miss Crane.
He would have said beautiful rather--imperious, regal; the word "pretty"
was but the outcome of his habit of loose expression. He knew quite well
that it could not correctly be applied to her. She was no white-frocked,
pink and white miss, with coquetry in every step she took over the
cobble stones of the village street. Such a one though, was now close
upon them, and as Arkel recognised her, he raised his hat, and his eyes
and lips smiled in greeting.

"Miss Marsh, where are you going?"

"Home," replied Hilda, swiftly glancing at the speaker and the
governess. "How are you, Miss Crane? Dicky, don't wink, it's vulgar. I
didn't know you were here, Mr. Arkel."

"Arrived yesterday," responded that young gentleman. "Uncle Barton asked
me down for a week. Why, I don't know! but I was glad to come." He fixed
his bright eyes on Hilda, and a colour came into his cheeks. "I was very
glad to come," he repeated.

"Of course, I know how fond you are of Mr. Barton."

"If you will excuse me," said Miriam, unwilling to be an inconvenient
third, "I will go--come, Dicky."

"I must go too. I will leave you with Mr. Arkel," and before either
Arkel or Miriam could parry so very pointed a thrust, Hilda tripped away
with a smiling face and--it must be confessed--an angry heart. Although,
of course, she knew nothing of the episode which had been the means of
bringing them together, her instinct told her that Gerald and Miss Crane
were in strong sympathy one with the other.

Like an ass between two bundles of hay--the simile, though
uncomplimentary, will serve--Gerald looked after Hilda, and then glanced
at the governess. She had already moved away, and was walking on rather
fast with Dicky dancing beside her. Courtesy demanded that he should
follow her, but a tugging at his heart-strings drew him in Hilda's
direction. With characteristic self-indulgence, Mr. Arkel obeyed his own
inclination rather than the other thing, and tried to catch up with
Hilda. But a side-glance informing her of this pursuit, Miss Marsh
thereupon resolved to punish this young man for his all too-patent
admiration of the governess--"that red-haired minx," as she called her.

Just as Gerald came up with her, and was on the point of speaking,
Hilda, in pretended ignorance of his presence, shot into a broken-down
gate, through a desolate garden, and into a dilapidated house. From
behind a torn curtain which partially veiled a dirty window, she had the
satisfaction of seeing him retreat with a somewhat sulky expression on
his usually bright face.

"Serve you right," she said to herself. "You'll find I am not the one to
take you from that carroty horror;" which remark was vulgar, unjust, and
spiteful--so spiteful that it could only be prompted by one feeling.

Hilda's home was a tumble-down old house set in a neglected garden. Mr.
Marsh was a physician--that is to say he was allowed by the laws of his
country to prescribe drugs and generally to administer in a medical way
to a small practice. Things were so with him that he had long since
given up any idea of a peaceful existence; and it was always a matter of
supreme amazement to him that his patients sought to prolong their lives
at the cost of swallowing the doses he prescribed for them. For himself,
he paid an infinitesimal sum yearly by way of rent for Poverty Hall, as
his residence was dubbed in the village; earned enough to feed and
clothe those dependent upon him in the most penurious way, and managed,
as he phrased it, "to drag them up somehow." Two of the boys were doing
for themselves in London, and had dropped out of ken, since they neither
sent money nor wrote to their father; three were at school, where Dr.
Marsh found it hard work to keep them, and since someone must pay, the
four sisters remained at home, and were furnished by Hilda with a
scratch education, she being the only one of the girls who had received
a good one. Hilda detested teaching her sisters, and gave them as little
of her time as she well could without falling foul of her father. For
the rest she was like a lily of the fields, and neither toiled nor spun.
Mrs. Marsh--she was of ample habit--did the toiling and the spinning,
with the assistance of the exhausted menial aforesaid. When not
scrubbing, or baking, or mending, she indulged in the most mawkish class
of fiction, and complained querulously of her lot the while. Yet even
the Marsh family had their idea of a millennium--when Hilda would marry
a rich man, and the rich man would rain gold on Poverty Hall. That was
why Hilda was pampered and much was pardoned to her. She was the
Circassian beauty destined for the seraglio of some millionaire sultan;
and the proceeds of her sale was to set up the family for life.

"Where have you been, Hilda?" asked her mother, looking up from a novel.
The room was a chaos of dirt and dust, and in the midst of it all sat
Mrs. Marsh, a very she-Marius amongst the ruins of Carthage, placidly
but thoroughly enjoying the sentimentality of her hero and heroine. The
carpet was ragged, the blind was askew; the table was littered with
plates dirty from the mid-day meal, and the furniture was more or less
dilapidated. Thus did Mrs. Marsh, in an old dressing-gown, with hair
unkempt, delight to read of the erratic course of true love and
Belgravian luxury, oblivious utterly to her surroundings.

"I'm sure, Hilda, I wish you hadn't gone out," she lamented. "Who is to
clear the table if you're not here?"

"Oh, bother!" cried Hilda all graciously, "where are the girls?"

"They took some bread and jam and went out with the boys," said Mrs.
Marsh vaguely. "I don't know exactly where--they were going to have a
picnic, I think. You really must help, Hilda. Gwendoline" (Mary Jane was
not to be tolerated) "has too much to do as it is. Your father will soon
be home, and will want something; and I'm that tired! Oh dear me, how
tired I am!"

"Well, I can't help it, mother. You will have to manage with Gwendoline
as best you can. I must get my blue dress cleaned and altered. Mrs.
Darrow has asked me to dinner to-morrow night."

"Who is to be there?" asked Mrs. Marsh with a ray of interest in her
tired blue eyes.

"Mr. Barton, Mr. Arkel, and Major Dundas. I suppose that horrid
governess will be there too. She was with Mr. Arkel just now."

"How did she come to know him?"

"Oh, she's a sly creature. She has managed to make his acquaintance
somehow, and I can see the fool is quite taken already with her airs and
graces."

"Hilda!" said her mother apprehensively, for Mr. Arkel was the second
string to Hilda's bow, and it was supposed would inherit the Manor
House. "That must not be."

"Oh, so far as I am concerned, they can please themselves. If Mr. Arkel
prefers red hair and freckles, he can do so. Major Dundas may have
better taste."

"But he is not rich, dear--he will never be."

"How do you know that?" retorted Hilda, who made a rule of contradicting
her mother on principle. "Mr. Barton may make him his heir instead of
Gerald Arkel. Or for that matter, I shouldn't be surprised if the horrid
old thing left his money to an asylum."

"Be sure of that before you marry either of them," said the anxious
mother. "Unless," with a touch of romance, "you are in love with----"

"Love!" Hilda echoed the word with fine contempt. "I want money, not
love. Either Major Dundas or Gerald would make a good enough husband. I
like Gerald the best--he is better looking and not so dull as the Major.
But I'd marry anyone--even old Barton, much as I hate him, to get out of
this pig-sty."

"It is your only home," said Mrs. Marsh with dignity.

"That's exactly why I want to get out of it, mother. If that red-haired
governess tries any of her pranks, trust me, I won't spare her."

"Whatever do you mean, Hilda?"

"Never you mind, mother," Miss Marsh nodded mysteriously. "I've been
talking with Mrs. Darrow, and she says--well, don't bother about it just
now. But Miss Crane--if that _is_ what her name is--is no saint, believe
me. I'm not altogether sure that she's respectable."

"Hilda!" Mrs. Marsh's middle-class virtue was up in arms. "If that is
so, you must not associate with her. Our house is lowly (she might have
added dirty), lowly, but genteel."

"Now don't you bother, ma. Leave the governess to me. If you talk you'll
spoil all."

"All what?" cried Mrs. Marsh, frantic with curiosity.

"H'm, h'm," Hilda nodded again. "Come upstairs, ma, and look over my
dresses. I must look particularly well to-morrow night."

"But the clearing and washing-up, Hilda?"

"Oh, the girls can do that when they come in; pigs! It's little enough
they do!"

"Your father will want something hot," suggested Mrs. Marsh with
compunction.

"Will he! Well, there's cold corned beef and pickles; he can warm them
if he likes."

So Mrs. Marsh went upstairs, novel, dressing-gown and all, and spent a
happy hour with Hilda over chiffons. Dr. Marsh came home to a cold
dinner, and was truly pathetic in the restraint of his language. The
picnic-party arrived back hungry and boisterous, to find that as the
baker had not called, there was no bread in the house. They lamented,
Mrs. Marsh nagged, her husband's patience gave way, and the whole house
was as pleasant as Bedlam. Hilda, the cause of the trouble, kept out of
it in her room--the only clean room in the house--and stitched away at
her costume. She thought of Miriam and smiled. It was not a sweet smile.

"So you're going to spoil my chance, are you, you horrid creature!" she
thought. "I'll push you back into the mud you came from--or I'll know
the reason why."

If Miriam could have seen her then, she might have felt still more
uneasy. What could Miss Marsh know of her past? Perhaps Mrs. Darrow,
always poking and prying, could have explained.




CHAPTER IV.

MR. BARTON'S VISITOR.


As a rule Mrs. Darrow was not very hospitable--unless there was
something to be gained from the exercise of such hospitality. She
revelled in the afternoon tea, because it cost little--a few spoonfuls
of "Lipton" and some slices of thin bread and butter--and afforded ample
opportunity for that small talk, which was the essence of her life,
since it enabled her to keep _au fait_ with her neighbours'
delinquencies. She had been known to go so far as a hot luncheon for
certain high and mighty people whom it suited her book to conciliate;
but never by any chance had she been known to give a dinner. Now--for
some weighty reason, known only to herself--she had actually requested
no less than five people to rally round her in the stuffy little
dining-room of Pine Cottage--Major Dundas, Mr. Arkel, and Uncle Barton,
to pair with Miriam, Hilda, and herself. When Mr. Barton was informed of
this festivity, he not only point-blank refused to go himself, but he
positively forbade his nephews, who were staying at the Manor House, to
represent him.

"So you can have a hen-party, Julia," he croaked, "and abuse better
people than yourself."

Mrs. Darrow sought refuge in her handkerchief, and shed a few careful
tears--I say careful, because she was made up for the day, an operation
which entailed the labour of an hour or more.

"Oh, Uncle Barton," she sobbed, "why won't you come?"

"Now why, I should like to know, are you so thunderingly generous all of
a sudden. There must be something very much amiss, surely, or going to
be!"

The widow raised her eyes to the blue sky--this conversation took place
in the open air--to call Heaven to witness how she was misjudged.

"As if I was a miser," she complained, "instead of one whose whole
thought is for my fellow creatures."

"At other people's expense--quite so," said Barton. He really was a
disagreeable old creature. "Come, Julia, tell me the truth. Why are you
giving this dinner?"

"I'm afraid Miss Crane is dull, and I thought it would liven her up a
little."

"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Barton, not believing her in the least.
"Then you and she and Miss Marsh had better come to dinner at the Manor
House. There is nothing for Miss Crane or anyone else to enjoy in being
poisoned by your cook."

Mrs. Darrow calculated that she could gain her end--whatever it
was--just as well at Uncle Barton's expense as at her own. But although
she accepted with avidity, she wept still as a tribute to her dignity.

"Of course, if you insist upon it, I will come," she said; "but my poor
little dinner would have been quite a treat for you all. I intended to
assist cook."

"Did you? worse and worse! Well, will you come to-morrow evening at
seven?"

Mrs. Darrow bowed her head.

"And I hope you won't mind giving me a cheque, Uncle Barton. Miss Crane
eats a great deal; she comes expensive."

Barton chuckled.

"What, at your Barmecidian banquets? I tell you what, Julia, my dear, if
you will tell me the truth to-morrow night I will give you something."
And he walked off.

As Mrs. Darrow knew, and as Uncle Barton knew she knew, it was
impossible for her to tell the truth without offending him. He guessed
that her purpose was spiteful, and one in some way connected with
Miriam; and he was right. The widow had discovered--as she
thought--something to Miriam's disadvantage, and wanted to explode her
bombshell in as public a manner as possible. Up to the present she had
told only Hilda about her discovery, and Hilda, being no less spiteful
against the unfortunate governess, was hoping to witness her
discomfiture before Major Dundas and Gerald. This being so, Mrs. Darrow
knew that if she told the truth Barton would refuse to pay for the
confession of so mean a purpose. Therefore she saw the promised cheque
eluding her, and calculating--in her own logical way--that up to the
present Miriam had cost her a possible ten pounds, allowed her feelings
full vent for the time being. She glared after Uncle Barton's retreating
figure; and would have shaken her fist at it had she not known from
previous experience that he had eyes at the back of his head.

"Horrid old man," she murmured. "I'll make you and your red-haired
creature pay for this!"

That evening and all the next day she was particularly sweet to Miriam;
so much so that Miss Crane, used to her by this time, began to think
there was something in the wind. She wondered if Mrs. Darrow could have
made any discovery likely to cause trouble, and recalled all her words
and actions for the past week. But she could think of nothing
injudicious that she had said or done. Nevertheless, she was on her
guard against Mrs. Darrow. She readily accepted the invitation to the
Manor House, because she wanted a private conversation with Mr. Barton.
Hilda also was informed that the little dinner would take place at the
Manor House, and was pleased by the change. She intended that a day
should come when the Manor should be hers by marriage, and in the
meantime she was in nowise averse to seeing as much as possible of her
future home. When she married Major Dundas, or Mr. Arkel--whichever of
them might inherit the Nabob's vineyard--she intended to make many and
great changes in the gloomy old mansion. Hilda's aerial castles
invariably took the architectural form of Lesser Thorpe Manor House.

The next evening after the primitive fashion of this Arcadia, the three
ladies, with lace scarves over their heads, and cloaks over their
evening dress, walked up the avenue and arrived at the great porch
precisely at seven. In the warm light of the July evening Miriam admired
the noble oaks, the trim gardens, the velvet swards; and most of all,
she admired the great house, with its windows aglow from the beams of
the setting sun. It was elevated on a rise, surrounded by stone
terraces, and stood out majestically against a background of pine-trees,
with its many gables, high roofs, and stacks of twisted chimneys. In the
Tudor style of architecture, built in Tudor days, mellowed by centuries,
and overgrown with ivy, it might well have been the palace of some
Sleeping Beauty buried in the midst of its sombre woods. The evening was
still and warm; there was no wind, and a quiet melancholy seemed to
brood over the great pile. It was a haven of rest to the weary, and
irresistibly attractive to Miriam, who had been buffetted so long on
stormy seas. Hilda caught her expression at that moment, and did not
fail to interpret it in her own fashion, looking an angel the while.

"You want to marry Gerald and have all this, do you?" she thought. "Well
then, you shall not, if I can help it. When he knows who you are, and
what you are, there won't be much chance for you, my lady!"

In the drawing-room Mr. Barton received his guests, and Miriam, in spite
of her self-control, could not help wincing. Since that
never-to-be-forgotten night on Waterloo Bridge, or rather at the Pitt
Hotel, she had not seen him in evening dress; and the sight of him now
recalled those past horrors with horrible distinctness. The shrivelled
little figure, the cruel clean-shaven face, the bald head and rat-like
eyes, made up an object of utter detestation to Miriam. With her
recovered health had come a resolve to throw off the mesmeric influence
he had exercised over her when she had been weak and starving. In some
degree she had succeeded, but although fear had gone, repulsion
remained, and Miriam regretted bitterly that she had been beguiled into
the clutches of this modern ogre. That night she resolved to seek her
freedom.

"Good evening, ladies," said the Squire in his grating voice. "You know
these two gentlemen, so there is no need for a formal introduction."

"I know Mr. Arkel," said Miriam composedly, since Barton's eyes were
upon her, "but not Major Dundas."

"John!" gushed Mrs. Darrow--"not know Cousin John? This is he, Miss
Crane, my cousin in the army. John, my dear friend, Miss Crane."

Barton lifted his brows on hearing this very warm allusion to Miriam;
but Major Dundas, not knowing Mrs. Darrow's little ways, accepted it in
good faith, and bowed gravely, being a man of but few words. He was tall
and stalwart, with a countenance which, though anything but handsome,
was wholly pleasant, and was so well groomed and generally smart and
trim in his appearance, that altogether he bore an air of supreme
distinction. With formal courtesy Miriam acknowledged his bow, but in
spite of herself she found her eyes wandering towards Gerald's bright
face and charming smile. He shook her by the hand, made some commonplace
remark, and almost immediately turned to speak with Hilda, whom he
greeted with unmistakable eagerness. It was easy to see in what
direction Mr. Gerald Arkel's affections lay for the time being. The
object of them looked this evening more than ever like a Dresden china
shepherdess, and sparkled all over her pretty face as Gerald came up to
her. Barton evidently did not approve of the state of things existing
between the two young people, for he frowned and bit his lip. On her
part Miriam felt an unaccountable pang at the way in which Gerald
ignored her for Hilda. Since meeting him she had thought more of his
gallant rescue of her, and more of his charming manner than was quite
good for her. Although she was as yet unaware of it even then Gerald was
gaining possession of her heart. She watched him furtively all the
evening, and could be seen to brighten up distinctly when he spoke to
her, a circumstance which seemed to cause the observant Squire the
greatest satisfaction.

"Come, come; dinner, dinner," said Barton, cutting short Mrs. Darrow's
small beer chronicles. "Julia, take my arm. Gerald, Miss Marsh is
waiting. Miss Crane, I am sure Major Dundas will be delighted."

"Charmed," murmured the Major with all gravity.

He could not but admire this tall and beautiful woman, and was
impressed, as Dicky had been, by the music of her voice. Miriam, in a
plain black silk dress, showing her beautiful neck and shoulders and her
shapely arms, looked as regal as a queen. Her red hair twisted in smooth
shining coils crowned her as with a diadem, and Hilda's girlish
prettiness paled before her graver splendour. As for Mrs. Darrow, art
had done its utmost, but it could not make her either fresh or young.
When she looked at Miriam she seemed to be conscious of this, and her
feelings may be left to the imagination, but she promised herself a full
revenge before the evening was over.

"Doesn't Miss Crane look charming to-night?" she whispered to her uncle.

"Charming," assented that genial gentleman. "Like Semiramis or
Cleopatra; and she doesn't owe anything to art either."

Mrs. Darrow grew red beneath her rouge.

"Oh, I dare say she has painted in her time!"

"What do you mean?" asked Barton sharply.

"Well, if you don't know, of course I don't," was Mrs. Darrow's
ambiguous reply; and as the occasion was unpropitious, Barton did not
press for an explanation. Still, he guessed that her remark had
something more behind it, and the look he gave her in consequence caused
Mrs. Darrow to devote herself exclusively to the soup for the next few
minutes. In that glance of disapproval she saw the final disappearance
of the cheque.

"I hope you like Thorpe, Miss Crane," said the Major in his ponderous
way.

"Very much indeed. I like the quiet and peace."

"Really! Have you then had so stormy a life?"

"Oh no," Miriam laughed, and her merriment extracted a glare from Mrs.
Darrow. "But I have lived a great deal in London, and the country is so
restful after the roar of the city. Of course you prefer town?"

"No indeed; I was cut out by nature I believe for a country squire. I'm
fond of soldiering of course," added the Major quickly, "but when I
retire it will be to a place like this. I am more of a country bumpkin
than my uncle. He's always running up to town."

"Is he?" murmured Miriam, thinking of Mrs. Perks and the hotel in Craven
Street. "Why is that?"

"Oh, I don't know; he hunts after books and that sort of thing. My uncle
is quite a student, you know."

Miriam did not think from what she knew of Mr. Barton that book hunting
took up a very considerable portion of his time when in London; but
evidently the simple Major believed the fiction in all good faith. But
his next remark startled her.

"His taste in books is so peculiar," resumed Dundas, "and rather morbid;
he collects all books dealing with crime."

Miss Crane paled, and hastily sipped her wine.

"With crime?"

"Yes, memoirs of Vidocq--Stories of Robbery and Murder, The Newgate
Chronicle, and Jonathan Wilde; his library is filled with gruesome
volumes of that kind. Did you ever hear of Selwyn the wit, the friend of
Horace Walpole, Miss Crane?"

"No," murmured Miriam, self-possessed but colourless to the lips.

"His great delight was to see men hanged. My uncle seems to have the
same queer taste. If public executions were in vogue I believe he would
attend every one."

"John," called out the Squire, "what are you saying to Miss Crane?
You're making her nervous, surely; she has lost all her colour."

"No, no," cried Miriam; "I am quite well."

"What a brute I am," said Dundas aloud; "but the fact is I was talking
of your penchant for crime."

"Oh yes," said Mrs. Darrow vivaciously; "it's really horrid of Uncle
Barton to be so fond of these things."

"Crime!" chuckled the Squire; "and what do you call crime? I'm a student
of human nature in the depths, if that's what you mean. I like to search
out the springs of action--to learn what moves man, the machine."

"In short, you are a realist, uncle," said Gerald.

"Oh, I don't know. I find the lower orders vastly more amusing than the
higher, if you call that realism. I like to explore the slums and the
thieves' kitchens, and talk to the detectives; and I like to hear of
crimes that are impenetrable." And here his eyes rested on Miriam. She
drank more wine.

"But I thought no crime was impenetrable nowadays," said Hilda.

"Indeed, my dear Miss Marsh, a great number are. Those crimes which are
reported in the newspapers, those murderers who are hanged, constitute
the minority. The clever crimes, the really interesting criminals, are
never discovered."

Mrs. Darrow here entered a protest. She would not sleep she said if
Uncle Barton thus rode his gruesome hobby, which was really a skeleton
horse, or something horrid. She did think such things should not be
spoken about in the presence of ladies; Miss Crane was quite pale with
horror, so she would leave the gentlemen to discuss their wine and crime
together, and carry the ladies off to the drawing-room--a determination
which she at once put into execution. When the door closed on them, Mr.
Barton became moody and silent. He left Gerald and Dundas to pass the
bottle and do the talking; and knowing his sombre humours they left him
to himself.

Shortly there entered a plethoric butler, purple of hue, as though all
the blood in him had turned to port wine. He bent over his master and
whispered.

"Eh? What do you say?" said Barton, rousing himself from a brown study.

"A gentleman to see you, sir!" whispered the man in a husky voice.

"Who is it?"

"The gentleman who was here before, sir."

"Confound you--how can I recognise anyone from that description? What's
his name?"

"I don't rightly know, sir. He told me to mention the name Jabez."

"Jabez!" Barton jumped up with the alacrity of a man half his age.
"Gerald! John! go into the drawing-room and entertain the ladies. I
shall be engaged for the next half-hour in the library." And he vanished
with the plethoric butler.

"Hullo! What's up with Uncle B.?" said Gerald.

Dundas shrugged his shoulders.

"One of his mysterious interviews, I suppose. He is a mystery in himself
is Uncle Barton."




CHAPTER V.

BEHIND THE SCENES.


In the drawing-room, Mrs. Darrow, feeling it incumbent upon her to
provide entertainment for those assembled, decided she could not do
better than relate to them the history of her married life--how good and
devoted she had been to a brutal husband, how she had been unable to buy
a rag of clothing for quite six months at a time, and consequently had
been obliged to go unfashionably clothed. How she could have married at
least a dozen men who were dying for her. But how foolishly she had
chosen the only one who never appreciated her, and much more to the same
effect. Such a theme she held, more especially when adequately set forth
and expatiated upon, must be all absorbing.

Hilda, it was true, had heard a vastly different version of her friend's
connubial existence. She knew, in fact, that the late Mr. Darrow had
been something more than glad to leave this sphere. But for the present
that mattered not at all.

Mrs. Darrow told her tale, and told it very well, and although neither
of her audience was in the least degree convinced by it, undoubtedly
many people would have been. Right in the midst of a sentimental
outburst, in which she was declaring how now she lived solely for the
sake of her darling child, being otherwise quite prepared to join the
late Mr. Darrow in Heaven, the two young men entered.

"Already!"--the good lady was in no wise disconcerted at having thus
abruptly to strike another note.--"Ah! our company is more attractive
then than your wine and cigars?"

"Can you doubt it?" said Gerald, making his way over towards Hilda.

Thus deserted, Mrs. Darrow captured the Major, who, too polite to evade
her, forthwith buckled to, and did his best to fall in with her very
obvious desire for conversation, if not for controversy. Miriam, without
a cavalier was thus left to her own devices. She scanned a photograph
album which was at her hand.

"Where is Uncle Barton?" asked Mrs. Darrow. "He should be here, if only
to entertain dear Miss Crane."

"I don't wish to be entertained, thank you," said Miriam, noting the
petty spite. "I think if you don't mind I'll take a walk in the fresh
air, it is so close here," she said, and, without waiting for approval
or otherwise from Mrs. Darrow, she stepped through the French window
which opened on to the terrace.

"Well, I'm sure!" ejaculated the widow. "What coolness! Don't go, John,
I have so much to say to you."

"But doesn't it seem rather unkind to leave Miss Crane alone?" said the
Major, who was already somewhat under the spell of Miriam's beauty.

"Oh, she likes being alone," smiled Mrs. Darrow--"she has the most
mysterious love for solitude. What she thinks about I don't know!"

"Who is she, Julia?"

"Ah! that's just it"--she wagged her head solemnly--"nobody knows. There
is something very queer about her. She is a _protegee_ of Uncle Barton's
of course, and I shouldn't be the least surprised to hear that he had
picked her up on one of those excursions amongst the criminals in
London, he's so fond of!"

"Julia, you shouldn't say that. Miss Crane is, I consider, a most
charming young lady."

"Red hair--I'm glad you think that charming, John!"

"Are you speaking of Miss Crane?" said Gerald, rising from his seat by
Hilda. "She's a plucky woman that--did you hear how she saved Dicky's
life?"

"Dicky told me what happened," replied Mrs. Darrow sharply. "I rather
think it was you, Gerald, who saved both her and my darling child."

"Oh, nonsense--I came in at the tag end," and Gerald related the whole
adventure, glorifying Miriam's bravery in a manner which made Hilda long
to box his ears. But the only outward and visible indication of these
turbulent sensations within her breast was as usual the sweetest of
sweet smiles.

Mrs. Darrow, having nothing to lose, was less careful.

"Bravery!--fudge!" she said politely. "I believe the whole thing was
acting."

"I don't agree with you," said Gerald drily. "The bull certainly was
acting, though hardly in the sense you mean."

"Then if it wasn't, she certainly isn't fit to be entrusted with Dicky's
life. If I had lost my boy!--just think of it! I should have died. He is
my life, my sole comfort on this earth--the image of my darling
departed," &c., &c.----

To all of which both Gerald and the Major, acting upon that wisdom born
of experience, agreed, though, needless to say, they retained their own
opinions of the young lady under discussion.

In the meantime, Miss Crane, not ill-pleased to be out of the society of
her enemies, paced meditatively on the terrace. The night was warm,
cloudless, and silent--save for the wild singing of the nightingales in
the woods. The gush of melody so piercingly sorrowful threw Miriam into
a melancholy mood. In truth she had much to mourn for--much to regret,
and the future was so full of doubt, its path so crowded with pitfalls
and snares, that she could foresee nothing to cheer her there. Walking
up and down, a black solitary figure in the white light of the moon, she
was in herself the true embodiment of her sad and lonely life. From her
earliest childhood she had known sorrow, and, on her of late had fallen
too, the shadow of disgrace, yet she was as pure as the unsullied
moonlight. For this beautiful, sad woman was a bearer in more than an
ordinary degree of other people's burdens. She had many foes, but no
friend--unless Barton could be called one--and he, as she knew only too
well had befriended her only to use her as a tool. From her present
environment there seemed to be no escape, unless she faced her
benefactor boldly, and refused to obey turn. But for more reasons than
one, she was unwilling to take the extreme course.

Her walk to the end of the terrace brought her abreast of the lighted
windows of the library. Just as she was near them--about ten minutes
after she had left the drawing-room--one of them opened. She shrank back
in the shadow, and saw Barton step forth with a tall lean man, the very
man she had seen on the previous day. The pair talked in low whispers
for a moment or so--then the man fluttered down the terrace steps like a
huge bat, and disappeared in the shade of the trees overhanging the
avenue. Barton looked after him, and shook his fist, an action at which
Miriam wondered in so hard and seemingly impervious a man. His back was
towards her, and not wishing to be found eavesdropping--although truly
she had heard no word--she stepped out again into the moonlight.

At the sound of her light tread Barton spun round like a beast at bay;
but when he saw who it was he smiled and saluted her. He was too sure of
his power over her to fear anything she might have overheard. But Miriam
had heard nothing, and said as much in reply to his sharp question.

"I was just taking a walk in the cool air," she explained. "The others
are enjoying themselves very well without me. I am only the governess,
you know--and a great thing in a governess is to know when her room is
preferable to her company, isn't it?"

"Oh, I know; but I wonder what they would say if they knew something
else. A governess! Oh, Lord!"

And Barton chuckled as he looked at the beautiful woman whose face was
so pale in the moonlight.

Perfectly calm, since she felt able now to resist Barton's mesmeric
power, Miriam stepped into the library.

"Come in here, Mr. Barton," said she imperiously, "I must speak to you."

Somewhat surprised at her tone, Barton followed her, and, having made
fast the window, looked at her in the yellow lamplight.

Miriam, with her hands loosely clasped on her black dress, looked, in
her turn, without flinching, at this man who considered himself her
master. His eyes--wicked as they were--fell before that clear resolute
gaze.

"Well, what is it?" he asked roughly, and threw himself into a chair.

Still standing, Miriam replied to this question quietly and with
curtness.

"I wish to go away."

"Indeed! You wish to go away--why?"

"Because I am not happy here, and I am doing no good."

"Indeed, I think you are doing a great deal of good," replied Barton,
with a gentleness far from common with him. "You are making a man of
Dicky. You have rescued him from the influence of his foolish mother.
Come, Miriam, let us sit down and talk this over."

"I am fond of Dicky," said Miriam, taking a seat; "he is a good child
and very lovable. If it were only Dicky I should not mind. But his
mother is jealous of me. She hates me; so does that Marsh girl. They
would do me an injury if they could. Besides," added she, looking very
earnestly at Barton, "I do not quite understand you--why did you rescue
me in London, and bring me down here?"

Barton rose, and began to pace to and fro. He prefaced his speech with
his customary chuckle.

"Oh, it was no philanthropy, believe me," he said. "If you had been a
plain woman, you might have gone your way. I told you that before. As it
was, I saw that you were not--in fact, not only were you a beautiful
woman, which was necessary to my plans, but you were a good one into the
bargain. I knew that, notwithstanding your somewhat equivocal position
when we met on Waterloo Bridge. So I brought you here. You know why."

"I know what you said--that you wished me to marry some one in whom you
were interested, and the other day you pointed out Mr. Arkel as the
gentleman. But why do you wish me to marry him?"

"I'll tell you that later. But, say, have I not been good to you--bad
man as you think me to be?"

"In a manner you have, but I cannot disguise from myself that what you
have done has been to your own ends. You have given me money for myself
and Jabez, and you have obtained me this situation----"

"You forget--there is something else. Did I not promise you two hundred
pounds if you succeeded in marrying Gerald, and taking him away from
that shallow hussy?"

"Yes, and I accepted your offer, so that Jabez might go to America, and
there start afresh--it was for his sake I did it."

"He is not worthy of it, believe me."

Miriam made a gesture of despair.

"Perhaps not; but knowing what you do you cannot wonder at my anxiety to
help him all I can--yes, even if to do it, I have to marry at your
bidding."

"But Gerald is a handsome fellow, Miriam. I can't see what you have to
complain of!"

"This," she replied passionately, "that my feelings threaten to upset
your scheme--that is what I complain of. If this marriage were one of
cold calculation, if I had but to play my _role_ of adventuress, and
marry your nephew, perhaps I could do it, and perhaps from a sense of
duty I could make him a better wife than Miss Marsh is likely to do. But
I----" She paused, and dropped her voice to a lower tone. "But I already
have a--a very sincere regard for Mr. Arkel."

"All the better; it will be so much the easier for you to carry out your
part of the bargain."

"No," Miriam rose grandly. "As an instrument for the sake of Jabez, I
was willing to be used, but as a woman--a woman who feels, who, as I
tell you, already has a feeling of respect, of regard, of----No, Mr.
Barton, I will not consent to marry him, unless--unless, perchance,
things should come about differently."

"What about Jabez then, and his new life in America?"

Miriam's head sank, and she clasped her hands together with a gesture of
pain.

"I don't know--I must think--I must consider myself as well as Jabez. He
has brought me low enough as it is without my sacrificing my last shred
of womanly pride for his sake--anything but that. I would do much for
him. Yes, I may as well confess it, I love Mr. Arkel; whatever you may
think of me, I love him. I suppose it is because you are such a
stone--because I hardly look upon you as flesh and blood--that I can
bring myself to say this to you. But it is true, true. You cannot
understand the birth of such a feeling in a woman's heart. But she knows
it, and cannot mistake it. I love Gerald Arkel. But I would not marry
him unless he loved me--no, not for thousands! That is why I say I wish
to leave, Mr. Barton."

"But, my good young woman, this is most extraordinary--you have hardly
seen the man. I should have thought you had a mind above the fascination
of good looks."

"His looks have nothing to do with it. But pray spare me. You cannot
understand. Consider my position, Mr. Barton. I have laid bare my soul
to you. I should love him were he ever so ugly--perhaps, who knows, he
may come to love me, though I can hardly believe such happiness will
ever be mine--there, now you know!"

"Would you tell him your past?"

"Yes, even at the risk of his shrinking from me in horror. I am not a
wicked woman, you know that, whatever my past may have been."

"Quite so. That is exactly why I want you to marry Gerald."

"But why, why?--me, a nobody, why should you want _me_ to marry him?"

Barton's brow gathered. He resumed his seat.

"I will tell you why in a very few words," he said grimly and savagely.
There was a look almost of insanity in his eyes. "It is because I seek
revenge--revenge against the woman who ruined my life--his mother!"




CHAPTER VI.

MRS. DARROW'S BOMBSHELL.


For a moment Miriam stood aghast at the man's abandoned confession of
his feelings. How anyone could nurse such venom in his breast it was
beyond her to conceive.

"It is very terrible, this idea of yours, Mr. Barton," she said; "to me
very horrible! Do you mean to say that you would make the living suffer
for an imaginary wrong done you by the dead? for I cannot but think it
is imaginary."

Barton scowled, and gripped the arm of his chair.

"Miriam Crane," he said, "you don't know what you are talking about.
Gerald's mother--my sister--ruined my life--ruined it as utterly and
hopelessly as ever man's life was ruined. Thirty years ago I had the
chance of marrying the woman I loved, of settling down and becoming a
decent member of society, of having my wretched hereditary weaknesses
curbed by a gentle wife--in a word, the chance of happiness was mine,
and this fiend-woman, Flora, sister of my blood, put an end to it. For
that, I hated her while she lived. I hate her memory a thousand times
more now that she is dead. For me, her son represents her, and he must
bear the punishment she escaped."

"But how--why? I do not understand. You seek to punish him by marrying
him to me? I am surely not such a pariah as that?"

"Of course you do not understand--how should you? Later on perhaps you
will understand many things that seem unintelligible to you now."

"I shall never understand that the innocent should suffer for the
guilty."

"Oh, you know well that I pretend to be no saint. I tell you this son of
hers, to me, represents her. I was not able to take vengeance upon her
while she was alive--he must bear it now. Let that suffice--I need tell
you no more; you now know my motive."

Miriam was perplexed. She looked searchingly at Barton. Was he mad? She
thought he must surely be. She did not like the light in his eye.

"But," she said, "even so, I cannot see how his marriage with me is to
act as the punishment you would have it. I cannot marry him against his
will, even if I would; and if it were his wish to marry me, I--I--I
think he would be happy."

"Exactly so; exactly so. His future lies in your hands. You can avert
his punishment--that is to say he can avert it through you. Listen to
me. You may love Gerald Arkel, but you do not know him. He is the
weakest, blindest, most easily led of men. It is through his weakness
that I intend he shall suffer. It shall be my strength--unless he be
wise in time and grasp the chance fate offers him. I intend he shall be
my heir. I need not name the sum he will inherit; but it will not be
small. And it shall be his damnation, his ruin. By means of it he will
sink to the depths of infamy--of degradation, to perdition utterly. So
shall he expiate the bitter wrong that has ruined my life--so shall he
suffer for the sin of his cursed mother. Still I am not merciless. He
has two women now from whom to choose. If he choose the right one, well
and good. Such an influence as yours over him is the only thing that can
save him, for you are a good woman. That is why I brought you here. But
if he choose the other--the brainless, shallow minx with whom he thinks
he is in love, then will his downfall be more rapid a hundred times. Now
you know his chance and yours."

"But--but." Miriam was more and more bewildered. "But why choose me--you
know nothing about me really, and what you do know is not on the face of
it very reputable. How can you be sure that I am what you seem to think
me?"

"I am sure of it. I knew it the first moment I saw your face; but still,
I did not trust to that. I made inquiries; nothing was overlooked. I was
very careful--you forget I had ample time and opportunity whilst you
were recovering your health at the hotel."

Miriam turned pale.

"But how could you do that? I told you nothing of myself. You had
nothing to go upon."

"I had sufficient for my purpose. I had Jabez, you told me about him. I
learned what you had been to him--how in the midst of all corruption you
had kept yourself pure, how your strength of purpose and never-flinching
spirit had been exercised for him, how you had encouraged him and helped
him and stuck to him through all tribulation, even to starvation--for
you were starving on that night, Miriam. All this I learned, and more,
and so I determined that you were the woman who should stand for the
salvation of this man, and I brought you here that you might marry him
if you would, and save him from himself. You see, I am not altogether so
bad as you think me."

"Indeed, I don't know what to say, Mr. Barton. It is all so very strange
to me. Surely it would be better to leave your money where it would do
good, not evil--to Major Dundas, for instance."

"As a matter of fact, the money is at this moment left to Major Dundas;
but I intend to alter my will in Gerald's favour. At first I thought to
punish him by leaving him nothing. But I soon found out my mistake. As a
poor man, obliged to work for his living, Gerald Arkel would stand a
fair chance of happiness. As a rich one and his own master, he stands
none. And so I have determined to offer him at one and the same time his
ruin and his salvation. Now do you begin to understand?"

Still Miriam knew not what to say. The whole scheme was to her so
fantastic and so abominable, and at the same time so extraordinary, that
its genesis seemed hardly human. It was impossible to believe the man
was sane. She decided she could have nothing to do with it.

"I am afraid," she said coldly, "that so far as I am concerned your
scheme is quite impossible. Indeed, I can understand your wishing to
salve your conscience in the face of so abominable a design as you
contemplate for the ruin of this young man's life; and God knows I would
willingly save him if I could. But much as I am interested in him, much
as I--I feel, that is I think--oh, I don't know what to say," she broke
off in despair. "I must return to Jabez, Mr. Barton. Let me pass out of
this life of yours. I will go out of it--I refuse to do your dirty
work!"

"And so you call it dirty work to save a human soul?"

"I must go back to Jabez, I say."

"That is to poverty, to disgrace, and--to crime!"

"To poverty, yes. But not to crime, no, nor to disgrace. I will leave
to-morrow, Mr. Barton."

"You shall not."

"I must--I will. I do not fear you now. No, I defy you!"

"Take care, young lady; you had better not defy me."

"And why not?" She winced, though she spoke haughtily enough.

With a sudden pounce the man seized her wrist and bent so close to her
that his lips almost touched her ear. So low, too, did he speak, that
she could with difficulty hear what he said. But enough she heard to
make her colour come and go; and when he had finished, the beads of
perspiration stood out upon her forehead.

"Who told you?" she gasped. "Who told you?"

"The man who left me just now. He tells me all I wish to know."

"What is his name?"

"He has no name--for you. Call him 'The Shadow,' if you will. It will
serve as well as any other name. Now, do you go or stay?"

She leaned against the writing-table, breathing heavily. For more than a
minute she stood thus, battling with herself. Then slowly she turned and
looked at him.

"I will stay," she said. Then she fell helplessly into a chair and
sobbed bitterly.

Barton looked at her with a sneer. He went to the side-board for a
decanter and a glass. As in a dream she was conscious of his holding
wine to her lips, and as in a dream she drank it, and heard him speak to
her.

"Remember," he said, "on your implicit obedience depends the future.
Thwart me, and----"

"Hush, hush!" she cried, looking round in fear lest already someone
should have overheard. "I will do all I can."

"Very good. Now, if you feel better, we will return to the
drawing-room."

At the door she laid her hand upon his shoulder.

"One moment, Mr. Barton; you will keep this man--this shadow, as you
call him--from doing harm?"

"I will. He is as much my slave as you are."

And Miriam, although she shuddered, did not dare to contradict him. She
was indeed his slave. His whispered communication had given her no
choice. Again, from that moment, poor Miriam had taken up her burden.

For long after that, the impression left by this extraordinary interview
was deep upon her. Circumstances altogether beyond her control compelled
her to obey Barton; but she could by no means understand him. He puzzled
her completely. She could not reconcile the man's wish to ruin Gerald
with his apparently co-existent desire to give him a chance of escape
from the trap prepared for him. It was so utterly inconsistent to her
mind. She could only surmise that the man had a conscience, and that in
this way he strove to quieten it. The desire for vicarious punishment
which seemed to have taken possession of him was, to her thinking, as
childish as it was reprehensible. She could not reconcile it with either
a normal sense of morality or with sanity.

It was no doubt a species of mania. Besides, in many other ways Barton's
actions were such as to cast the gravest doubts as to his mental state.
His behaviour became more and more perplexing, and his actions almost
invariably baseless and inconsequent. And it was not until long after,
when the skeins of the various lives with which her own had become
entangled, began to unravel themselves, that she understood what was now
perfectly inexplicable to her. Then, knowing what she knew, she was no
longer surprised.

"Wherever have you been, Miss Crane?" demanded Mrs. Darrow with some
asperity, as she and the Squire entered.

"Oh, she has been talking to me on a little matter of business,"
interrupted Barton before Miriam could reply. "It's all right, Julia,
there is nothing for you to disturb yourself about."

"Oh, really, I don't mind in the least," said Mrs. Darrow, seeing she
had made a _faux pas_; "but now that Miss Crane has returned to us,
perhaps she will be so good as to sing something?"

Miriam's first impulse was to decline, for her interview with Barton had
shaken her nerve a good deal. But she saw the sinister look of curiosity
on Mrs. Darrow's face, and she determined she would give that lady no
further ground for suspicion.

"I will sing with pleasure," she said, moving towards the piano. "But I
am afraid I have brought no music."

"Oh, I saw to that," said Mrs. Darrow producing a roll. "I was quite
sure Uncle Barton would like to hear your voice, so I brought a few of
your songs for you."

"A few of my songs?" repeated Miriam; "and where, pray, did you get
them?"

"Oh, it was Dicky who found them, in your room, dear. The child brought
them down to show me a picture on the title page of one of them which
seemed to have attracted him."

"Indeed! Perhaps you will give me the music?"

Mrs. Darrow rose to fetch the parcel. Then she proceeded to open it and
read out the titles of the songs. On Hilda's face there was the blandest
of smiles, masking, if the truth had but been known, the keenest of
interest. She knew that Mrs. Darrow's bombshell was now about to
explode. To her, as to the wily widow, this was _the_ incident of the
evening--in fact, the whole _raison d'etre_ of it.

"I hear your voice is a contralto, Miss Crane," said the Major, admiring
the contour of her head. "I am so glad; it's my favourite voice."

"Really, Major?" observed Hilda. "I should have thought you would like
something more lively--to me a contralto, no matter how beautiful, is
always rather doleful."

"There I can't agree with you," put in Gerald. "To my thinking the
contralto is always full of pathos--it is the voice which goes straight
to the heart."

"Now, you too surprise me, Mr. Arkel," replied Hilda, smiling ever so
amiably. "I did not think you were so susceptible in the--what is it the
doctors call it--the cardiac region?"

"I think you, of all people, should know me better than that," murmured
Gerald, bending towards her.

"Nonsense; I admit no such superiority. But hush, let us hear what it is
Miss Crane is going to sing to us!"

Ever suspicious at any kindness however trifling on the part of Julia,
the Squire had moved up close to the piano, and was keeping a pretty
close watch upon her. But Mrs. Darrow was all unconscious of his
scrutiny, being too deeply absorbed in the effective lodgment of her
bombshell to pay much attention to anything else.

"'The Sands of Dee,' 'The Clang of the Wooden Shoon,' 'Down the Long
Avenue,'" rattled off Mrs. Darrow. Then, with the prettiest air of
surprise, "Oh, and here is a comic song!"

"I think you must be mistaken," said Miriam coldly. "I do not sing comic
songs."

"Now, now, Miss Crane, you know you are hiding your light under a
bushel," cried Mrs. Darrow with horribly artificial mirth. "What's more,
I expect you sing them delightfully. Come now, confess."

Miriam seated there at the piano might in truth have been carved out of
marble, so cold and so perfectly calm was she.

"I am sorry to disappoint you, but I don't sing any songs of that kind
at all."

"Oh, but really!" Mrs. Darrow was smoothing out the folio of music; "you
can't say that, in the face of this. Surely this must be yours--'It's a
Funny Little Way I've Got!' M. Crane, Frivolity Music Hall!" She handed
the sheet over to Miriam.

Barton bit his lip, and began to see at last what she was after. Mrs.
Darrow proceeded.

"Really, Miss Crane, I don't think I deserved to be so deceived at your
hands. You might at least have told me that you were a singer at that
class of--entertainment."

There was a dead silence. Barton looked daggers, and was in truth
somewhat fearful that more of Miriam's past life than he liked was on
the verge of discovery. Major Dundas raised his eyebrows, and Gerald, to
conceal his surprise, hastily turned away. With a faint smile Miriam
took the music, and looked coldly at Mrs. Darrow.

"I never sang a song in public in my life," she said, "and most
certainly I have nothing to do with the Frivolity Music Hall."

"But the name is yours, and, I think, the handwriting too. How do you
explain that?"

"The handwriting, as you say, is mine. But the name is not. If you must
know, the song belonged to my brother, Michael Crane. He was very fond
of the Frivolity Music Hall. He heard the song there, and bought it to
sing himself. He was quite absurd in his liking for that class of thing,
and really sang songs of the kind remarkably well--so much so that I
often used to say he would end by becoming a music-hall singer. I
happened to write his name upon this song, and I added 'The Frivolity
Music Hall' simply by way of a joke. I little thought when I did so that
it would be the means of placing me in my present position. I can only
say that it is one I don't appreciate in the least."

Thus did Mrs. Darrow's bombshell burst with but little real result--so
little that the lady could but with difficulty conceal her
disappointment. She was ready to discredit Miriam's explanation
altogether, but Barton, delighted at her discomfiture, put an end to
that.

"I knew Michael Crane very well myself," he said. "Indeed, I have often
heard him sing his comic songs, though I cannot say I have heard this
particular one. So I think you owe Miss Crane a very deep apology,
Julia, for the most unpleasant way you chose of putting things."

Miriam gave the Squire a glance full of gratitude.

"Oh, not at all," she said. "It was a very natural mistake to make--I
mean about the name. As for the other thing, that hardly matters, does
it?--after all, whatever I have done in the past can concern no one but
myself. Now that it is settled that I am still a respectable member of
society, if you really wish to hear me, I will sing." And without taking
any notice of the effect of her words, Miriam turned to the key-board
and commenced the prelude of the song she had chosen.

As her noble voice rolled through the room, Hilda and Mrs. Darrow
exchanged glances of extreme significance. Their little plot had failed.
They had been ignominiously beaten, and they knew it. Mrs. Darrow
rapidly surveyed the position in her own mind, and decided to make the
best of a very bad job. So when Miriam had finished her song she
approached her.

"I am afraid I was very wrong, Miss Crane," she tittered. "But you must
admit it was a wholly excusable mistake."

"I have already said so, Mrs. Darrow," replied Miriam coldly, "very
excusable. Please think no more about it."

But when the party broke up, Gerald managed to get close to Miriam, and
to whisper something in her ear.

"I knew your face was familiar to me," he said. "It was at the
'Frivolity' I saw you. But fear nothing from me. I will keep your
secret!"




CHAPTER VII.

IN THE WOODS.


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 which _your_ opinion 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."




CHAPTER VIII.

SHORTY.


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 aegis 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's_ never 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!




CHAPTER IX.

THE SHADOW.


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.




CHAPTER X.

THE SQUIRE'S SECRET.


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 it _would_ be 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 you _quite, quite_ sure 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--he _shall_. 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.

"_You_ forbid _me_--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.




CHAPTER XI.

UNMASKED.


Miriam's accusation came on Barton like a bolt from the blue. For a
moment he seemed utterly incapable of speech--while of emotion he showed
not a trace. Casting a terrible look on the woman who at once defied and
threatened him, he rapidly counted his chances against her. A very brief
survey of the existing circumstances sufficed to assure him that the
power to coerce her was his. Then an ironical smile broke over his
withered face. He glanced at door and windows to assure himself that
they were closed. The subject under discussion was too dangerous a one
for him to run any risks in that direction. When he spoke it was with
all calmness and some irrelevance.

"Won't you sit down, my dear?" he said. "We can talk as easily sitting
as standing--more easily perhaps."

As composed as himself, Miriam took a chair, and prepared for the
encounter.

"I won't have Jabez harmed," she repeated, "especially by you, who are
every wit as bad, if not worse than he is. In a moment of weakness you
extorted from me his real name, and thereby you learned more about him
than I intended you should learn. But why you should desire to have
arrested a man who, whatever his sins, has never harmed you, I do not
know. But, understand, I shall stand between you and Jabez--I will
protect him. I know too much about you, Mr. Barton, for you to treat me
with impunity, and I think you know it."

"And this is gratitude," said Barton, casting up his eyes. "I drag you
from the gutter, feed you, clothe you, introduce you to respectable
society, and you turn on me!"

"What you did, you did for your own ends," retorted Miriam coldly, "and
you know well that I am not from the gutter. There can be no question of
philanthropy on your part, or of gratitude on mine."

"Do you think I counted on your gratitude, you jade! If you did, you
were wrong. I know that you, like the rest of your sex, would turn on me
the first time your uneasy virtue touched your conscience. However,
enough of this. As you say, you gave me sufficient information to enable
me to obtain more, and I did. So you may as well realise that I am in
the position to talk of force, and not you!"

"Not if you harm Jabez, for it is only through him you have any hold
over me."

Barton stroked his chin, and looked at her strangely. She was
unpleasantly concise--for a woman. He changed his tone.

"Miriam, Miriam, you are but a child after all; you believe all that is
told you. Why this man should have informed you that I meant to harm
Jabez I cannot say, unless it was to make bad blood between us, and to
thwart my scheme in which you are concerned. But I shall find out his
reason, and make him pay--as I _can_ make him pay--for his interference.
But you may set your mind at rest, you silly child. I have no intention
of molesting Jabez, if only because by doing so, as you say, I should
lose my hold over you. So long as you do my bidding, Jabez is safe; of
course, if you don't--well, we won't talk about that for the present. As
to your threatening to disclose my secret vice--I am not afraid of that
threat. To tell every one here about me would do you no good--and it
certainly would not do me much harm. But if you were to do anything so
spiteful, I may tell you that I should have Jabez under lock and key in
a week."

"So long as you do not harm him I will be--as I have been hitherto,"
replied the woman wearily. "It was only from what your Shadow Man gave
me to understand that I spoke as I did. I will do all I can to meet your
wishes."

"Marry Gerald then!"

Miriam shook her head.

"I said I was prepared to do what I could," she observed, "but so far as
Mr. Arkel is concerned, I can do nothing. I may as well tell you at once
that he is engaged to Hilda Marsh."

"Damn her!" said Barton, without moving a muscle. "How do you know?"

"I saw them sitting together on the stile near Farmer Bell's. One glance
at them was quite sufficient for me. They are engaged, Mr. Barton. You
will find that I am right."

Barton mused.

"I am not surprised," he said, after a pause. "I have no doubt you are
right. I fancy I know, too, what has brought it about. Last night I told
Gerald that I intended to make him my heir; he has, of course, gone
straight to her, the hussy, with it, and she--by Heaven, what fools men
are!--well, she's lost no time in bringing him to the point. Well,"
Barton chuckled, "it is not too late to remedy my little mistake. I
shall just contrive to let Miss Marsh know that I have changed my
mind--that for Gerald I intend to substitute John Dundas, and I fancy
you'll see that she'll change hers pretty quickly too."

"Even if she does, it can make no difference so far as I am concerned.
As I told you before, I tell you again, there is no chance of my
marrying Mr. Arkel."

"But I thought you said--your feelings----!"

"Yes, I know that to my cost, but he does not love me, and will never,
never ask me to be his wife. He respects me, he admires me--I am sure he
likes me very much. But I must have more than that, Mr. Barton--or less.
Let me go, please. I have tried to win Gerald; but he is not for me."

"But think of _him_--you would not see the boy ruined? With Hilda for
wife and my fortune his ruin will be very complete. As his wife you
could save him--you know you could! And you have three times the brains
of that minx. Surely you could manage----"

"Enough, Mr. Barton. I will not hear what you are going to say. I could
save him. Yes, I know I could," cried Miriam, and the tears rose in her
eyes. "But, much as I love him, and God alone knows how much that is--I
cannot lower myself in his eyes and in my own. I cannot do more, Mr.
Barton. The salvation of Gerald is in your hands, not in mine. If you
hated his mother, who wronged you, that is no reason you should ruin
him, a young man, who has done you no harm. It is a villainous, mad,
horrible thing to do!"

"You think so? Well, it must suffice for you that I know what I am
doing. If Gerald, aft

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