"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 helples
sly 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 mat
ters, 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.
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