Barton poured out a glass of port and gave it to her. The colour began to return to her cheeks, and with it the spiteful sparkle of triumph in her eyes.
"Well, what is it?" asked the Squire irritably.
"It's about Miss Crane," replied the widow, plunging at once into the middle of her story. "She received a letter yesterday from London which made me suspicious. This evening she asked leave to go out at nine—a most unreasonable hour—but out of consideration for what I thought would be your wish, I gave her permission. But, at the same time, I thought it right to follow her, and see what she was up to."
"Very good of you I'm sure," sneered Barton, now more himself. "Well?"
"Well, I found your Miss Crane in very intimate communion with a man behind the church—a ragged, disreputable-looking person, whom she called Jabez."
To all appearances the Squire was not in the least impressed by this information. He betrayed no sign of emotion, but fixed his eyes steadily on the triumphant face of his niece.
"And you listened to their tittle-tattle, I suppose?" he said gravely.
"It was my bounden duty to do so, uncle—and, indeed, it is well I did, for now I am in a position to warn you. That is why I came at once. You are in great danger!"
"Oh, you think I'm in danger, do you? Well, go on, and repeat what you heard, and I'll tell you whether I think so."
"I can repeat it every word," said Mrs. Darrow, whose memory was stimulated to more than ordinary activity by the venom which had prompted her action.
Barton listened attentively, though outwardly perfectly immobile.
"Well," he said, when she had finished, "is that all?"
The lady was a trifle confused. She continued,
"Of course I shall not keep Miss Crane after this. Indeed, I had intended that she should leave at the end of the month. But now, of course, she must go at once. She is evidently associated with the criminal classes—we may have robbery and murder here in no time if she remains."
"Really, Julia, your imagination is positively repulsive in its abnormal activity. I am sorry in this case to have to deprive you of the pleasure of giving rein to it to other people."
"Indeed, I shall tell everybody," replied Mrs. Darrow viciously. "This wolf in sheep's clothing shall be known for what she is—she shall be punished!"
"That is my affair solely. About what you have heard you will maintain absolute silence—do you understand—absolute silence? Not a word either to Miss Crane or anyone else."
"Indeed, I refuse to do anything of the kind—the whole of Thorpe shall know—and, what's more, she shall go."
"In that case your income ceases from this day."
This was unexpected. Mrs. Darrow took counsel with herself, and realised that her position was hopeless. She made one final attempt.
"I'm sure I only did my duty," she wailed. "How can you ask me to allow my boy to grow up in the contaminating presence of such a creature? It is too bad, uncle—too cruel of you to place me in such a position."
"Julia, far from contaminating the child, Miss Crane has already done much to counteract the effects of your very injudicious management of him. What I have said I will do. You know I am not the man to break my word."
"Gracious Heavens! I believe you are in love with the woman!"
"No, you know better than that. My relations with Miss Crane are not of an amorous nature, but they are important, nevertheless, to me—and must be respected."
"Well, if this is all the thanks I am to get for warning you of a danger that threatens your life, I hope you'll be able to protect yourself—but, mark me, uncle, you will be sorry for having behaved so cruelly. What can I do? You know I am dependent upon you and must submit. But it is wicked and wrong of you to take advantage of that to force upon me the presence of a creature I detest. And for what good?"
And Mrs. Darrow once more opened the flood-gates wide, and with them her whole battery of accompanying gesticulations.
"There, there," said Barton, pouring out another glass of wine for her, "drink this, and have a little more confidence in me. You are quite wrong about Miss Crane. Be a sensible woman, Julia, for once in a way, and drop this. I have told you I won't have it, so there's an end of the matter."
She drank the wine, adjusted her cloak, and stepped towards the window which he held open for her.
"I must do what you wish," she blurted out, "because I am poor and defenceless—but the day will come, and that soon, Uncle Barton, when you will be sorry indeed for having trusted that wretch instead of me."
Without another word he shut the window on her. Then he returned to his seat, and gazed moodily into the fire.
"I must see Miriam," he muttered, "there is danger—great danger."
* * *
CHAPTER XIV.
ON CHRISTMAS NIGHT.
Christmas Day dawned—the day of peace and goodwill, of renewed friendships and Christian forgiveness. Mrs. Darrow was very careful to observe the day as behoved a righteous and gentle spirit. Compelled by the weightiest of reasons to keep silence, she restrained the horrid words which were on the tip of her tongue, and at breakfast addressed Miriam with something like a show of kindness. The girl looked terribly pale and ill; but was, as always, complete mistress of herself. She had gone straight to bed on her return from the church, and had of course no idea that Mrs. Darrow had followed her; she did not even know she had been out. But the change in Mrs. Darrow's demeanour in nowise imposed on her. She accepted it gravely and quietly for what it was worth, and welcomed it only as tending to lessen the chances of friction for the time being.
"I have been thinking over things, Miss Crane, and I have come to the conclusion that I owe you an apology," said the widow, after having passed the customary compliments of the season. "I lost my temper the other day when I spoke of your leaving. But my wretched nerves—mother's side, you know—must be my excuse. You are too pleasant a companion and too valuable a teacher to my beloved child for me to lose you. You must please forget the words I said, and accept my sincere apology for them. Miss Crane, I ask you, will you stay?"
This was a very neat little speech, and glibly enough expressed, but Miriam at once detected its falsity. Still, she accepted Mrs. Darrow's apology, and agreed to remain.
"I'm sure I like you very much," said the widow effusively, "and I think someone else does too—someone who will be at the Manor House dinner to-night. Need I say that John is in my mind?"
"Major Dundas and I are very good friends," replied Miriam gravely.
"Yes, indeed; and some day you may be more than friends!"
"I think not, Mrs. Darrow."
"Well, we shall see. At all events, we are all going to enjoy ourselves to-night. Besides ourselves, Dr. and Mrs. Marsh are to be there, and Dicky by special desire—fancy the dear boy at a grown-up dinner-party! Uncle Barton's Christmas dinners are always excellent. I must say he does it very well. He seems to love to gather us all around him on this day, dear man," concluded Mrs. Darrow sentimentally.
Miriam had to restrain a smile.
"Really! You surprise me; but of course I have never yet seen Mr. Barton at Christmas time."
"Oh, believe me, there is much good in Uncle Barton, although he is rough. He does not understand me, it is true, but there, I am a problem even to myself—I am one of those complex natures. Dear! how they suffer! Nor does he like everyone. There is Mrs. Parsley, for instance; I know he hates her, and I'm sure I don't wonder. By the way, you saw her last night—at least," added the widow pointedly, "you went out to see her." She looked directly at Miriam, who bore her scrutiny without flinching.
"Yes; I saw Mrs. Parsley, and remained with her for some time. I suppose you had gone to bed when I returned. I was careful not to disturb you."
"No; I was half asleep in the drawing-room," lied Mrs. Darrow glibly, "dozing over a stupid novel. I hope you had a satisfactory interview."
"Very, thank you," replied Miriam, and there the matter dropped.
<
br /> At six o'clock the Squire sent his carriage, the coachman explaining that he came thus early, as he had to go on to fetch Dr. and Mrs. Marsh and their daughter. At this Mrs. Darrow grumbled loudly, for it meant she had to hurry over her toilet, and Mrs. Darrow's toilet was one of those things which did not do with hurrying. However, at length it was achieved, and the good lady, excited and flushed, allowed herself to be conducted to the carriage.
On arrival at the Manor House they found Major Dundas and Gerald Arkel in the drawing-room. The Squire was not there to receive them, but almost immediately after they had entered, a message was brought to Miriam that he wished to speak to her alone in the library. Mrs. Darrow was alarmed. Surely the man was not going to chose this opportunity for betraying her eavesdropping? Then she reflected that even if he did she had it in her power to make it equally unpleasant for Miriam. Thus comforted, she fell to chatting with Major Dundas.
In the library the Squire received Miriam. He looked particularly frail and old, she thought. Bidding her sit by the writing-table, he recounted to her all that had passed on the previous night between himself and his niece. But Miriam expressed little surprise.
"I knew she hated me," she said, "and would gladly ruin me if she could. Why, goodness only knows. I am not aware of ever having done anything to offend her."
"I know," snapped Barton. "You have committed the greatest offence you could commit in her eyes—that of being beautiful and young. That is more than enough to secure the enmity of the perambulating mass of vanity which we know by the name of Julia Darrow. But let us leave her for the present. She will keep—unfortunately. What about Jabez? Is there any truth in what she told me?"
"Yes; it is quite true he came here last night—to get money from me. He is going to America; indeed, he may have started by this time. I feel that I shall never see him again."
"That oughtn't to trouble you."
"Perhaps not—but bad and selfish as Jabez has been to me, I can't help feeling it. What I have done for him I did freely; I expected no gratitude."
"And you didn't get it. Well, that's the way of the world. But tell me, Miriam, what is he like, this worthy?"
"You couldn't call him handsome. He is tall and very spare. His eyes are blue, and he has a freckled complexion. His hair is red."
"No, it doesn't sound attractive. However, he's out of the way now, and I for one am glad; though I don't suppose he would have tried any tricks on with me."
"I'm sure he meant no harm to you. Of course, if you had interfered with him, I can't say what might have happened. He has always had the most ungovernable temper. But I have never known him do anything right down wicked in cold blood."
"Well, so much the better. I've enough enemies and to spare as it is. I shouldn't have interfered with him, even if he hadn't gone. I utilised him, as you know, merely to control you."
"All that is past and done with now. There is no possibility of my carrying out your scheme. I want you to let me go back to London, Mr. Barton."
"And there, what will you do?"
"God knows! Begin all over again, I suppose."
"You are absolutely without means!"
"Yes, that is true. I gave him all I had."
"Like you," growled Barton, going to his desk. "You must take this, Miriam"—he handed her a bank-note—"for the present. And when you are in London you must stay at the Pitt Hotel. I have told Mrs. Perks to look after you, and to leave the rest to me."
"I really am to go, then?"
"It is your own wish, isn't it? I can see there is no hope for my plans about Gerald. He and Hilda will make their way to the devil together, in a very short space of time. Facile est, etc."
"Then you still intend to leave your money to Gerald?"
"I have done so." He took a legal-looking document from the still open drawer. "Three days ago I sent for my lawyers in London to come here, and I executed this will. By it the whole of my property goes to Gerald, excepting three hundred a year to Julia, and the same amount yearly to yourself."
"To me!" exclaimed Miriam in surprise. "Mr. Barton, why should you leave money to me?"
"For one reason, because you are the only decent woman I have ever met—save one. For another, because in spite of what I told you the other night you had some pity for me."
"God knows I pity you!" cried Miriam with emotion. "I can imagine how awful it must have been for you to battle continually against what is born in you. You have resisted the devil and he has fled."
"I have resisted him these many years," said Barton moodily, "but he has not fled; he is as strong within me as ever. God, Who created me thus, alone knows how I have fought against my overwhelming desire—the desire for the blood of my fellow-men. So far, by His aid, I have succeeded in my fight, and my daily and hourly prayer is that the end may even now not be far off."
"You have done well—it is terrible for you. Indeed, you have my pity—I would do anything to help you, Mr. Barton. But you must not, please, leave me this money. For one thing, Mrs. Darrow——"
"I have foreseen all that, and have, I think, effectually provided against any molestation from her. I have seen all along how she has plotted against you. You need fear nothing from her. While I live, Miriam, I shall look after you; when I die, you will have money of your own."
"I had rather a thousand times you did not mention me. There is Major Dundas—he would make good use of your wealth. But Gerald—poor weak Gerald——"
"My mind is made up, Miriam. This will supplants the will in favour of Dundas, which is at my lawyers' in London. As soon as I send them this in its stead, the old will is to be destroyed. With the new year I intend publicly to proclaim Gerald my heir. Now come along to dinner—that is what I wanted to say to you."
She saw that all protestation was useless, supplication futile. Without a word she took his arm and returned to the drawing-room, there to find that Dr. and Mrs. Marsh had arrived meanwhile with Hilda, who was looking her best. Her mother was dressed untidily as ever, but there was also evident about her an air aggressive as it was unusual of splendour, significant of a desperate attempt on her part to make herself presentable. Dr. Marsh, in the immediate expectation of an uncommonly good dinner, saluted the Squire with positive unction, and an immediate adjournment to the dining-room met with his most unqualified approval.
To attempt to single out this Christmas dinner in particular from Christmas dinners in general would be a task as superfluous as unprofitable. Suffice it to say that Dr. Marsh's anticipations were more than realised, and that when the ladies left the room he was in a state of mind bordering upon the transcendental.
Barton, ever the most unconventional if not the most genial of hosts, took refuge in the seclusion of his library, and remained there for the rest of the evening. Chatter worried him, and that was the one spot in the world where he could depend upon enjoying complete immunity from it. But he had reckoned without his guest, for on this occasion Mrs. Darrow had decided he should come out of his shell, and was now casting about in her mind for some method of accomplishing her aim without risk to herself. It was rather more than she cared to venture upon in person. An expression came upon her face which seemed to intimate that she had an inspiration. Dicky!—yes, Dicky should go and ask his uncle to join what she termed the "circle." So away the boy sped on his errand of mercilessness, when of a truth he should have been in bed and fast asleep.
"If anyone can persuade uncle to play a game of forfeits, Dicky can," piped Mrs. Darrow, when the door had closed behind the little fellow; "he is such a dear, nobody can resist him—he has my own nature," this last in all seriousness.
"And your high spirits, Julia," added the Major.
"Yes, I never seem to lose them, though it's wonderful I don't in the face of my many trials. Miss Crane, you will sing to us till Mr. Barton comes, won't you?"
Miriam assented, with the result that song followed song, and the time flew by unheeded. As the clock struck eleven she rose quickly.
"Whatever has become of Dicky?" she said; "he can't be with Mr. Barton all this time. I must go and look for him."
She left the room hastily.
"Such a good creature!" exclaimed Mrs. Darrow. "If she only knew her place she would be quite perfect."
"I think Miss Crane is perfect," retorted the Major with some asperity.
"So say I," echoed Gerald.
At that moment Miriam appeared at the door, pale, terrified, and scarcely able to articulate. Mrs. Darrow saw that something was wrong, and shrieked,
"My child! my child!—my precious Dicky! Is he ill?"
Miriam shook her head, and beckoned to Marsh.
"Come, doctor, quick—Mr. Barton!" she gasped, and everyone made a rush for the door.
On entering the library they found the window wide open, and poor little Dicky lying prone upon the floor. In the chair before his desk sat Barton, with his head embedded in his outstretched arms. With another shriek Mrs. Darrow fell on her knees beside her son. Dr. Marsh walked swiftly up to Barton and raised his head. He stepped back a pace in horror.
"Dead!" he said. "The man is dead!"
Again they raised the lifeless head. A black line was distinctly visible round the throat.
"Strangled!" exclaimed the doctor. "He has been murdered!"
* * *
CHAPTER XV.
A NINE DAYS' WONDER.
The murder of Barton made a considerable stir not only in the parish of Lesser Thorpe but throughout the county. From Southampton came the police to take charge of the body and the case; to discover, if possible, the murderer, and close the black chapter of the Squire's life. Barton had evidently been strangled about ten o'clock. Upon this Dr. Marsh insisted; the child had come into the library at half-past and had taken a fit from fright. Half an hour later they had both been found. The window was open, there were confused footmarks on the terrace, and the assassin—whoever he was—had had ample time in which to effect his escape. On such evidence did the police begin to build up their case. Needless to say that they were completely unsuccessful.
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