"Well, if you had taken my advice, you would never have married the creature," she said, handing him his third cup. "You'll never be far out if you trust to me. I saw what she was the moment Uncle Barton brought her here."
"Then why did you take her as governess to Dicky?"
"What could I do?" Here Julia's handkerchief went to her eyes. "You know I was absolutely dependent on Uncle Barton; but you don't know how brutally he treated me. But for my spirit I should have died. He threatened to deprive me of every penny if I didn't keep her. I protested and protested, but it was no use."
"Yes, yes, I can quite imagine all you had to go through," said Gerald, getting restive. He had no fancy for a scene.
The widow resenting thus being cut short became more than ever spiteful.
"Perhaps you can imagine, too, the pretty little meetings that used to take place down here between your wife and her lover!"
"Lover!—what lover?"
"A man rejoicing in the very unromantic name of Jabez!—the name's as ugly as himself."
"Jabez?—why, he was her brother. Hilda told me so."
"I gave Hilda credit for more sense—and who told her, pray?"
"Her husband. He had it from Miriam herself. Funny part of it is she never told me."
"Bah—lies, lies—all lies. The woman's a thorough bad lot, Gerald, and you did the wisest day's work you ever did when you left her. The man was her lover I tell you—a part of her former slum life. Don't you tell me. Left her? I should think you did leave her!"
"Well, then, Julia, let's be content with that. You've thoroughly upheld my action—very thoroughly I must say, which is of course quite right."
"Oh, you men, what fools you are! At all events I did give you credit for some taste—"
"Yes, I'm generally considered a man of taste. Hitherto I've not had much money to indulge it; but that's not my fault."
"Carroty hair and freckles, and a figure bobbing out where it should go in, and sinking into a great hole where it should bob out, and feet! Well——"
"Oh, come, that'll do, Julia—that'll do. I ought to be well posted in my wife's points by this time. I've left her I tell you for good and all, and she's got her own income, and——"
"Got—her—own—income! What in the name of common-sense do you mean, boy?"
It was so naïve of Julia to invoke common-sense.
"Exactly what I say. She has three hundred a year under this will."
"Three hundred——!" she gasped.
For the moment it was all she could do. A whiff at her ammonia brought her round.
"You mean to tell me that Uncle Barton left this woman an income equal to mine—equal—to—mine?"
"Certainly."
It is difficult to say what would eventually have happened to Mrs. Darrow if a knock at the front door had not then brought her face to face with another and even more stern reality. She gave a hasty peep through the window. What she saw had an effect homœopathic in principle, though it certainly was not so in dose. It was surprise upon surprise—like curing like. What she had seen was the figure of Mrs. Parsley, and with the sight had come a great calm over her. For she hated Mrs. Parsley more than she hated anyone at the present moment.
"Oh, my dear," she said, as the vicar's wife entered the room, "I am so delighted—this is a surprise. How are you?"
"It's easy to see there's not much the matter with you," returned her visitor, in her most aggressive manner.
"Indeed I am very ill," said Mrs. Darrow, in the faintest of faint voices, "if you only felt my pulse. I can hardly speak, it is so weak."
"Rubbish—that day'll never dawn. It's liver that's the matter with you. Liver, my dear—torpid liver. Too much to eat and too little to do!"
Mrs. Darrow felt that something within her must give if this kind of thing went on.
"I don't know how you can speak like that," she said. "I don't know I have a liver."
"Of course you don't—if you did you'd be more careful of it. But here, you——" She placed both of her sinewy hands upon her enormous green umbrella, and brought it down with a thud in front of Gerald. "It's you I really came to see. I heard that you were here. Nothing escapes me in this village. Where is your wife?"
"She appears to have escaped you, Mrs. Parsley—she is in town!"
"Then she oughtn't to be. Why haven't you brought her down here to share your good fortune? She should be at the Manor House beside you."
"I am shutting up the Manor House. I'm going abroad in a week."
"Is that her doing or yours?"
"Mine. Perhaps I had better tell you at once that my wife and I have agreed to differ. We are not living together for the present."
"That means you've been doing something—what is it?"
"I assure you he has been doing nothing," put in Mrs. Darrow, "except what is right. He has been very badly treated. Don't you know that——"
"Mrs. Parsley knows nothing, nor is it necessary she should," said Gerald rising. "What has occurred between my wife and myself concerns us only."
"Humph!" grunted Mrs. Parsley. "And where is Hilda, may I ask?"
Gerald flushed. He knew what she meant to insinuate.
"Mrs. Dundas is with her husband at Brampton, I believe," he replied.
"And you're going abroad?—well, that's as it should be."
"I'm glad you think so," said Gerald. He felt he was on rather rocky ground, and didn't altogether like it. He turned to Julia. "I must be going now," he said. "I'll see you again in a month or two. If I come across anything pretty in Paris I'll send it over. Good-bye."
"Humph!" grunted Mrs. Parsley again. "Good-bye. Just a word with you, Julia. I must be off too."
"Julia!"
"Well, I've known you for thirty-five years. I suppose I can call you by your name."
In earnest whereof Mrs. Parsley again thumped the floor with her "gamp."
Gerald hurried away, Mrs. Darrow following him to the door.
"Not a word to anyone about Miriam," he whispered. "And see that Dicky holds his tongue. Mind, you know what depends on it!"
"I believe he's got a sneaking kind of feeling for her still," thought the widow, as she returned to the little drawing-room. Mrs. Parsley was seated in an attitude quite characteristic of her—her chin resting on her hands, and her hands clutching the handle of her huge umbrella. She came to business at once.
"I want you to take the Sunday School for a fortnight, Julia—I'm going up to town."
"Oh, the Sunday School gives me a headache," protested Mrs. Darrow, who had no notion of obliging her enemy. "I haven't taught for years."
"Time you began then. Lady Dane has promised to take a class."
"Lady Dane!" Mrs. Darrow, like Tommy Moore, dearly loved a lord, and the prospect of teaching in the same room as an earl's daughter was irresistibly attractive. "Well, I'll do what you wish, Mrs. Parsley. I'm sure I'm the most unselfish woman in the world."
"Then that's all right," sniffed the vicar's wife. "I thought Lady Dane would fix it. If she isn't above it, I don't think you should be."
"I'm always ready to take my share of the parish work," said Julia. Then her curiosity began to assert itself. "What are you going up to town for?"
Mrs. Parsley waxed more amiable, and rubbed the tip of her nose.
"Well, my dear, I don't mind telling you I'm worried a good deal. I'm sorry to say Gideon Anab hasn't turned out quite what I expected. The scamp's been spending the money I gave him for his heathen companions on himself, so I'm just going up to see about it."
"You shouldn't trust such creatures. He was a vile boy that."
"He'll be a sore boy when I get hold of him. I hear he lives at Lambeth, in a horrid slum, with his grandmother. She's called Mother Mandarin. Odd name, isn't it?"
Julia pricked up her ears. She had heard the name before. She remembered distinctly hearing it mentioned by Jabez to Miriam. Even after that space of time her memory wasn't likely to fail her regarding
anything detrimental to Mrs. Arkel.
"I think you'll find Miriam can tell you something about that old lady."
"Miriam? What does she know about her?" asked Mrs. Parsley sharply.
"That's more than I can tell you," replied Mrs. Darrow. "I know I heard her mention the name, because it struck me as such a curious one."
"Humph!" said Mrs. Parsley to herself. To Julia she said no more on the subject. She knew how she hated Miriam, and was not therefore reliable in anything she had to say about her. She determined to find out for herself, nevertheless, how much Miriam knew concerning the grandmother of the wicked Gideon Anab.
"What has Gerald Arkel quarrelled with his wife about?" she asked.
"That I can't tell you either," replied Mrs. Darrow, "except that it was something pretty bad."
"Anything to do with Hilda Dundas?"
"Certainly not."
"Well, don't be violent, my dear, don't be violent I thought there might be something of that sort. Hilda's not the kind of young lady to take a loss of this sort lightly. Gerald was in love with her remember before he married. He has quarrelled with his wife now, and Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do."
"I don't understand you at all," said Mrs. Darrow testily.
"No? Perhaps you will in time, my dear," and the vicar's wife marched out of the room.
It was not long before Mrs. Darrow did understand. For, within a month, it was common talk in Lesser Thorpe that Hilda Dundas had eloped to the Continent with Gerald Arkel.
* * *
CHAPTER VIII.
MRS. PARSLEY SEES A GHOST.
One afternoon, some twelve months later, Miriam sat sewing in the drawing-room of the little flat at Rosary Mansions. The work she had in hand was a nether garment intended for old Mother Mandarin, whom for long past she had been trying to reform. But Mother Mandarin did not want to be reformed, though she sadly wanted nether garments. The only wants to which she confessed—which indeed she expressed—were gin, tobacco, and what she termed "blunt," this latter being her playful way of referring to the coin of the realm. For years she had inhabited her den in the Lambeth slums, where she was wont to receive all sorts and conditions of men—Lascars, Chinamen, and Europeans of every nationality. At eighty-five she was not inclined for learning any new tricks, and though Miriam—now on outside charity bent, it having of necessity ceased at home—did everything she knew to bring her to a sense of what was right and decent in life, Mother Mandarin was not to be roused to any degree of enthusiasm. Cleanly ways were not her ways, and her ways for the last five-and-eighty years had been good enough for her.
Still Miriam continued to persevere, choosing this neighbourhood for her work because it was known to her, and because more than any other neighbourhood it appeared to her to be crying out in misery for help. It held so many who seemed hopelessly bogged in the mire of the great city, and the thought that she had succeeded in persuading some few of these young men and women to a better life, was the greatest possible solace to her in her own trouble. And so she came to be known in the purlieus of the Archiepiscopal palace almost as well as that venerable building itself.
She felt very lonely at this time. The ingratitude and utter heartlessness of Gerald had come upon her as a blow from which she seemed wholly unable to recover. Since his flight with Hilda she had received no word from him save one short message from Paris to the effect that she was quite at liberty to divorce him if she choose. But against this she held out firmly, although Dundas, who was less rigid in his views, did his best to persuade her to grasp the opportunity. He himself had done so long since, and had of course experienced no difficulty in the doing of it. But Miriam remained firm on the point. And the worthy Major felt this hard to bear, for it closed his mouth effectually, and obliged him to refrain from asking the one question in the world he longed to ask. He could only live in hope that his constancy would tell, and that in the end she would give way. He sought what consolation he could in his profession. He withdrew from all social life, lived quietly on his income, and devoted himself body and soul to his work, striving thereby to drive into abeyance the one great longing of his life. For he loved Miriam Crane as he verily believed man never loved woman in this world before.
From the lawyers to the estate Miriam received her income regularly, and seeing that it had been left her by Barton himself, and in nowise entrenched upon her husband's moneys, she had no compunction in taking it. From Gerald she would have starved rather than accept a penny. She heard of him from time to time, and of the gay life he and Hilda were leading at various pleasure resorts on the Continent. They were, from all accounts, spending money lavishly and wallowing in what to them was the enjoyment of life. They neither of them possessed either heart or conscience to mar their happiness. They gratified every whim, and achieved at length complete satiety of the world, its pleasures—and themselves.
Furious indeed had been Dr. and Mrs. Marsh when they heard of their daughter's elopement, and still more furious when it became known to them that the two were passing under Hilda's maiden name. But righteous and deeply rooted as was their indignation, taking many divers forms in its expression, it did not take the particular form which might have made for a cessation of the income allowed them by the partner of their daughter's lapse from virtue. For in truth it was not so much the lapse from virtue itself which they deplored, as the consequent and inevitable social fall which it entailed. Never for one moment did it strike them that they themselves had been in any way to blame. They had sold her to the highest bidder—indeed they had helped no little in the bidding—and they had received and were still receiving the price. It was she who had played her cards so badly. So they looked at it. But gradually they were forced to realise that so Lesser Thorpe did not look at it: for Lesser Thorpe well knew their present source of income. And ere long the little community showed so very plainly how it felt that, with many regrets, Dr. and Mrs. Marsh decided to seek a cooler climate.
This they eventually found in a small market town on the borders of Wales, where the doctor—he had contrived to save a certain amount of Gerald Arkel's money—purchased a small practice, and commenced to thrive. And as they throve, so, slowly and by degrees, did these good people turn their backs upon their fallen daughter, and more slowly and by smaller degrees upon the man who had brought about her downfall. And henceforth, since they pass out of this story, we may turn our backs on them.
Miriam stitched away at Mother Mandarin's nether garment until a knock came to the door. She started as she heard it, because visitors were few and far between with her now, and so much trouble had come upon her that she was apprehensive of more. She waited to see who it was. Then the door was thrown open, and Jabez was shown in—not the Jabez jaunty and of gay attire whom last she had seen, but the Jabez she had known of old—Jabez come assuredly to ask for alms. Added to his otherwise dejected appearance he seemed to her to be completely broken down in health. Instantly all that great fount of pity in her was touched. She had not seen him since the time when in that same room he had come face to face with Major Dundas, and she had been forced to confess her relationship with him. She waited for him to speak. The words of welcome would not come.
"As usual you prefer my room to my company," he said, with a scowl, throwing himself down on the sofa.
"I am so surprised—I—I haven't seen you for a year or more, you must remember."
"And you would rather I'd made it two I've no doubt."
"I've never given you cause to speak like that," she answered. "I made inquiries about you—I felt anxious. But they did tell me at Mother Mandarin's that they had seen nothing of you. I concluded you must have left the country again."
"So I did. That Major of yours nearly spotted me last time I was here. I thought I'd better skip."
"Yes, he did spot you, as you call it," replied Miriam quietly. "But I persuaded him to leave you alone. I had some difficulty. But when I told him our relationship he consented."<
br />
"Damn! if I'd known that I wouldn't have skipped. Why the devil didn't you let me know?"
"How could I? I couldn't find you. Where have you been?"
"Oh, back to the Cape—cleared out there two days after you saw me. I didn't think it was good enough to run any risks."
"Do you still call yourself Maxwell?"
"No—chucked it for another."
"I see," she said sorrowfully, "you are in low water again."
"I swear I'm the most unfortunate man on God's earth," he whined. "I started square enough out there, and made a tidy pile. You saw for yourself last time I was pretty flush. Well, as I told you, I left my pal to look after our claim while I did a scamper round, and what did the devil do but clear out to America with the whole swag. That cleaned me out, and I had to start all afresh. But every blessed thing I touched went wrong, till I got so sick of it that I scraped what I could together, and here I am. You'll give me a lift-up, Miriam, for the last time?"
"All my life I have been doing that, Jabez, and each time has been the last, hasn't it? But it is more difficult for me to help you now; you see——"
"Oh, I know all about it—that husband of yours has cleared out with another woman. But I don't see you're so much the worse for that. You've got your income from the old man! 'Fact, I reckon you've done pretty well for yourself!"
"I am glad you think so," she said bitterly. "Further than as a kind of banker, an orange to be squeezed, you will never understand what I am. Of what my life has been you can have no idea. You are utterly heartless, brutally callous."
"Oh, stow all that preaching, Miriam, and come to the point."
"That means how much have I got, I suppose? Understand then, Jabez, once for all, this is the last money I give you, and I give it you on one condition only—that you never come near me again!"
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