Shaking his fists, the old man dropped into his chair, and burying his face in his hands, burst into tears. His paroxysm of anger had exhausted him, and he was now weak as a child.
Miriam was amazed and terrified by what she had heard. Here was a man with the awful instinct of murder in his blood, possessed of a hideous love of crime. Within him lurked a monster ravenous as a tiger—a source of danger to all around him, although they knew it not. Miriam wondered whether in truth he might not already have followed the promptings of his mania—whether his hands were not even now stained with blood. Or, perchance, he had watched others do this devil's work at his bidding, while he had stood aside, and thus kept himself within the limits of the law. She could not say, she could not guess; but, silent and aghast, she looked at the sobbing man. Filled with the instincts of terrible crime, what a life he must have led! What tortures he must have experienced! Was he really sane or insane? Should he be allowed to go free or not? She could not decide. She could only sit there fascinated as it were by the sight of him—a human being abject and impotent from abandonment to the vile instincts which had clamoured for expression. She could almost find it in her heart to pity him!
* * *
CHAPTER XII.
MIRIAM KEEPS AN APPOINTMENT.
Of all things in this most inexplicable world, one of the most inexplicable is why some people, deserving of real happiness, should be predestined by circumstances to a misery they cannot avert. They may be honest, kindly, intelligent, industrious, praiseworthy in many respects, deserving in all; but some malignant fate misguides them, and drags them, as with invisible chains, to that abyss which is the scoundrel's natural goal. Every step they take is in the wrong direction, on the downward path; every act they do, however deliberate, leads only to trouble. With the ingenuity of a fox pursued they may twist and turn and double, only to end in running directly into the foreseen trap. How Fate must laugh at their futile efforts to avoid the inevitable, and sneer at their attempts to fend off a danger which is destined to overwhelm them. Kick against the pricks they may for a longer or a shorter period, according to their capacity for stubborn resistance; but in the end, worn out, terrified, despairing, they must perforce submit their bodies to the relentless whips of the gods. Why this should be so, why these innocents should suffer a fate than which no malefactor can suffer worse, is unilluminable by the light of either science or religion.
Poor Miriam was a prominent example of such relentless and predestined misfortune. Born with a noble nature and a kindly heart, gifted with beauty and with talent, she had been dragged down to the depths by some power she could not defy. When Barton had come to her aid she had thought that the tide of fortune had turned at last in her favour, and would drift her into a haven of peace. Such she had trusted to find in this quiet country village; but even here it seemed she was to be pursued and crushed by the same ubiquitous fate. Mrs. Darrow, on no reasonable grounds, hated her; Gerald, the one man whose love she now craved, withheld that love from her; Barton had her in his toils; Jabez was coming out of the darkness to haunt and trouble her; and on every side she was surrounded with difficulties. Since Mrs. Darrow had given her notice, she had almost in despair resolved to take what money was due to her and disappear—to break off with the past, and try once again to begin her life afresh and unhampered by the sins of others. But a very brief reflection showed her that she could not even do this. She was too keenly conscious of her duty to shirk her responsibilities—to do that would be with her only to carry remorse in addition to her other burdens. So she resolved to abide where she was, and face the worst. But her spirit was broken, and her power of resistance to evil fortune well-nigh gone.
Mrs. Darrow still held to her intention of dismissing her governess; but at the same time she had no fancy that Uncle Barton should know anything about it for the present. That would inevitably mean direct conflict in which she was sure to be worsted. It would be well, she thought, to put things to Miss Crane from that point of view.
"There is no need because we are going to part that we should do so in anger, Miss Crane," she said frigidly. "For my part I am quite willing that things should be just as they were until you go. Nor is it necessary really that Mr. Barton knows anything about it—it would only upset him, and lead to unpleasantness all round. Indeed, it might even hasten your departure, so I don't think if I were you——"
"I understand perfectly, Mrs. Darrow," interrupted Miriam. "I will say nothing to Mr. Barton for the present I am quite willing to go."
"You must understand, Miss Crane," pursued the widow, egotistic and tactless as ever, "that I must be mistress in my own house. I approve of you in many ways, and I admit that you have fulfilled your duties with discretion. At the same time I confess I do not like the mystery with which you choose to surround yourself."
"There is no mystery about me, Mrs. Darrow. Mr. Barton made such inquiries as he thought necessary, I presume, before he engaged me."
"Then what satisfies Mr. Barton does not satisfy me. I find it impossible to reconcile your very mysterious behaviour with an absence of mystery in your life. You lock your bedroom door, and write letters to mysterious people of whom I know nothing, and you are intimate—far too intimate—with Mr. Barton himself, for that matter. I speak only for your good."
"If, as you suggest, we are to remain friendly until I go, I think you had better not speak at all," replied Miriam coldly.
"Miss Crane, this insolence——"
"Had better come to an end—so I think. You will observe, Mrs. Darrow, that hitherto I have treated you with scrupulous politeness, and I demand the same in return. Whether I go or stay is a matter of complete indifference to me, but I decline absolutely to put up with impertinence from you. Any further interference with my private affairs, and I complain to Mr. Barton—either that, or you behave properly to me, and I remain till the end of the month, as you wish. I don't think that leaves much room for misunderstanding, Mrs. Darrow. At least, there is no need to continue this very undignified wrangling."
And Miriam, with her head in the air, walked out of the room.
"Miss Crane, come back!—I insist—I command!" screeched Mrs. Darrow, like an angry parrot.
But Miriam paid no heed, and the worsted one was constrained to take refuge in tears.
"To be treated so in my own house!" she wept, "and by one of the lower orders, too! Bad woman—and red-haired minx that she is!"
But all Mrs. Darrow's expletives could not alter the situation. If she turned Miriam out of the house, as she would have dearly loved to do, there would be trouble with her uncle; and if, on the other hand, she kept her for the month, she would have to treat her civilly, since Miss Crane did not—as she put it—know her place; the word "place" being construed by Mrs. Darrow to mean a capacity for swallowing meekly as much of her bullying and bad temper as she might choose to indulge in. And as for this Miriam showed no kind of aptitude, she perforce had to make up her mind to the inevitable. So she went to bed, and dosed herself with a wondrous mixture of the combined "bromides," and brooded over her wrongs. She was a spiteful and malicious woman, with an element of hysteria thrown in, and she would freely have given a year of her life to do Miriam an injury. For the next few days she kept a cat-like watch on her. Possessed of a trifle more brain power she might have been dangerous. But, as it was, she inclined more to that peculiar class of cantankerous and neurotic female for whom the ducking-stool was surely designed.
Meanwhile, Miriam anxiously awaited a reply from Jabez. Two days before Christmas she received it. A dirty envelope, containing an even more dirty half-sheet of paper, was thrust into her hand by Mrs. Darrow herself, who, noting the particularly soiled appearance of it, immediately became suspicious. On the paper was scribbled a curt announcement from the writer that he would be at Lesser Thorpe on Christmas Eve at ten o'clock. Miriam was to meet him in the churchyard at that time, or, as he put it, "it'll be worse for you and me!"
There was no help for it, the appoin
tment must be kept, though how she was to manage to get out at such an hour she did not know. When the night came, it was fine and frosty, although snow had been falling heavily during the day. She decided to put a bold face on it, and about nine o'clock presented herself to Mrs. Darrow in her hat and cloak.
"With your permission," she said briefly, "I am just going to run over and see Mrs. Parsley."
"Why on earth should you want to see Mrs. Parsley at this hour?"
"Well, the truth is, I have received a very important letter from London, and I want to consult her."
She felt half inclined to refuse, but remembering that Mrs. Parsley was a close friend of Miriam's, and had, moreover, anything but a soft tongue, she thought better of it, and consented. But she firmly believed her governess had some very different object for her errand, and determined to follow her.
"You can go," she said rudely, resuming her book.
"Thank you," replied Miriam, too grateful at receiving permission to be punctilious about the tone in which it was given. Then she went out.
As soon as the gate clashed after her, Mrs. Darrow put on her cloak, and followed swiftly.
The sky was clear of clouds, and though there was no moon, the frosty twinkle of the stars threw a steely light on the mask of snow covering the earth. Through the cold luminosity of this white world Miriam glided like a shadow, and after her stole Mrs. Darrow. There was no wind, no sound of any human voice. They two might have been the only denizens of that frozen landscape.
Resolved to give some colourable pretext in accordance with the excuse she had made, Miriam went straight from Pine Cottage to the Vicarage, at which Mrs. Darrow was not a little disconcerted, not to say incensed. She asked herself whether after all the girl might not have spoken the truth.
"But I'll wait and see you home, my young lady," she decided. "It is not Mrs. Parsley alone you are after at this hour, I'll be bound."
For a long time she waited, and waiting nursed her wrath. Several of the villagers passed along the road, more or less merry in honour of the festive season. But Mrs. Darrow was well hidden in the shadow, and they did not see her. When ten clanged from the square tower of the church, she was getting very tired of it, and had almost made up her mind to go home. She was nearly frozen, and there seemed to be no chance of catching Miriam in any mischief. But fate was kinder to her than she deserved, for hardly had the last boom of the hour died in the frosty air, when Miriam suddenly emerged from the Vicarage gate, and crossed the white road into the churchyard.
"Ah!" murmured Mrs. Darrow, with a thrill of pleasure, "so you are up to something after all, my lady!"
She hugged herself with malicious glee that she had at length got Miriam under her thumb, and darting across the road, followed stealthily in her wake. On the white surface of the snow she saw the girl's black figure turn the corner of the church. If discovered, she could always say that she had been alarmed by Miriam's long absence, and had come to look for her. But Mrs. Darrow had no intention of being discovered. There was too much at stake for that.
Keeping well in the shadow of the church walls, the widow stumbled over the tombstones ankle deep in the snow, turned the corner, and crept along the chancel wall under the great rose-window. Then the murmur of two voices struck on her ear, and she slipped behind a buttress where she could both see and hear. The friendly snow muffled her tread, and the deep shadows lent their aid in concealing her, and Mrs. Darrow found herself in an excellent position for the work she had in hand. Now at last she felt that Miriam was delivered up to her, and she rejoiced accordingly.
There, but a few yards away, stood two figures. The one was Miriam, the other that of a tall man, whose features Mrs. Darrow could not discern. But she gathered that he was ragged and unkempt, and, from the way he kept looking over his shoulder, evidently apprehensive. Miriam had her hand on his arm, and was speaking hurriedly and low, but in that rarified atmosphere Mrs. Darrow had no difficulty in following every word.
"Oh, Jabez, why did you come here—it is so dangerous."
"No more dangerous than it is in London," growled the man. "Besides, no one bothers about me now."
"You are mistaken—Mr. Barton does for one."
"Barton!—what, the chap who took you up? What does he know of me?"
"Everything."
"You told him then!"
"No. But that night, weak and ill as I was, somehow he seemed to exert a power over me which I couldn't resist, and I told him your real name but nothing more, Jabez; I swear, nothing more!"
"You fool—what more need you tell him. That was quite enough to put him on my track anyway."
"God forgive me, yes!" wept Miriam, wringing her hands. "I know—he employed some man to find out all about you. Oh, Jabez, that is why it is so mad for you to be here, for I fear he knows the truth!"
"Who was the man?"
"I don't know his name. Barton calls him 'The Shadow'—he is a tall, dark, lean man, with a deep voice."
Jabez started.
"I've seen him. I know—he comes to Mother Mandarin's, but I have never spoken to him. The old hag knows his name right enough, but she keeps it mighty dark. So he has been hunting me down, has he?"
"Yes, yes—but he is friendly to you, Jabez. It was he who told me to advise you against coming here. That was why I wrote to you."
The man stamped impatiently.
"Now look here, Miriam, if that Barton of yours crosses my path, I'll slip a knife into him straight, so I tell you!"
"Jabez, don't—don't say it. Keep away, and I'm sure he won't harm you."
"Then why does he set this man on my track?"
"Only to gain power over me. He knows how afraid I am, lest—lest anything should happen to you, but I would do anything or suffer anything rather than you should come to harm. And so, knowing what he knows, he is able to force me to obey him. And, besides that, Jabez, I have an enemy in the person of this Mrs. Darrow, whose little boy I am teaching. She has dismissed me, and, if by any chance, she came to know my past, and my connection with you—well, I am afraid to say what might happen. You see how foolish you have been to come here!"
"So you are dismissed! Well, I'm sorry for that I thought you were well provided for. I can't help you. But I won't bother you. I'm going off to America, to make a fresh start—that's really why I came down here. I want some money, Miriam."
"I can only give you twenty pounds," said the girl, feeling in her pocket "Here it is in gold. I knew you would want some."
"Lord, is that all?"
"Yes, Jabez. It is every pound that I have—it is the remains of the cheque Mr. Barton gave me to buy my outfit when I came here."
"Well, I'll take it, but it's little enough," he grumbled, slipping the purse into his pocket "I suppose I'll get to America somehow."
"Oh, dear, do take care of yourself—perhaps I shall never see you again. I feel so terribly alone, Jabez, and when you are gone——"
She burst into tears almost uncontrollable.
"Come, keep up your pecker, old girl—you'll be all right. Why don't you fix it up with the old man?"
"Ugh!"
Miriam's ejaculation expressed the greatest loathing.
"Jabez! I would as soon marry a snake! You don't know what he is."
"Yes I do—a meddlesome old devil, who goes poking his nose into other people's affairs——"
"Hush," cried Miriam, grasping his arm, "someone is coming."
"They can't hurt——"
But he got no further, for the sound of footsteps crunching the snow came rapidly nearer.
"Good-bye, Miriam," he whispered. "You've been a brick to me. Take care of yourself," and hastily kissing her, he made for the low wall of the churchyard, scaled it, and disappeared into the pine woods beyond.
Miriam looked after him until he was lost in the darkness, then hastily made her way home.
* * *
CHAPTER XIII.
MRS. DARROW BECOMES REFRACTORY.
Mrs. Darrow's first impulse was to follow and confront her victim; but on second thoughts she considered she might do better than this. It would be more to her advantage she thought to go straight to the Manor House, and demonstrate to her uncle the terrible and awfulness of his protégée. It was late, and, as a rule, she knew he retired early, but she had a very shrewd idea that she would find him up on this particular night. The servants would no doubt want to attend the carol singing, and he would surely wait till they returned. It was his invariable habit to see personally to the locking up of his house, and he insisted on the inmates going to bed long before he did so himself. Indeed, she had often wondered at his scrupulous precautions in this respect, since such a thing as a burglar was hardly known in that part of the country. But then even Mrs. Darrow did not know everything about Uncle Barton.
Passing through the still lighted village she gained the Manor House gates, walked swiftly up the avenue, and climbed the steps on to the terrace of the house, directly opposite the library windows, which were still illuminated. She rapped smartly. She heard a sudden cry, and then the over-turning of a chair, as though someone had risen in mortal terror. Finally, the Squire's voice tremulous and low.
"Who is there?—who is there?" he asked.
"It's me," replied Mrs. Darrow. "Let me in, uncle; it's me, Julia!"
"Julia!" The old man pulled up the blind and opened the window. "What on earth are you doing here at this hour?"
Mrs. Darrow stepped into the room.
"I have something to tell you," she said.
The old man closed the window carefully, and turned on her. She saw that he was shaking and white.
"Why the devil can't you call at a reasonable time?" he demanded furiously, "and enter a man's house like a Christian? You know I am old, and not very strong, yet you deliberately shake my nerves in this inconsiderate fashion."
The widow, thoroughly exhausted, dropped into a chair.
"I am very sorry, uncle," she murmured. "I feel faint—is that wine? Give me some."
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