"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 wa
s 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.
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