"Oh, all right, no need to bother about that. How much is it?"
"Thirty pounds is all I have."
"Lord! what do you do with it all?—you never seem to have much about you. Wonder I do come near you—it's not worth it I'm sure."
His tone had roused her.
"You worthless scoundrel," she said, "to speak to me like that after all I have done for you. There is not one woman in a thousand but would have turned her back on you long since—criminal that you are!"
"Should advise you to drop that! If it comes to who's the criminal there's not much to choose between us anyway. How about thieving, eh?—who stole old Barton's will? Oh, I know all about you, my lady. Why, Shorty saw you do the whole trick."
"I think not," she answered. She had herself well in hand again now. "I fancy you'll find it was Mrs. Darrow he saw."
"Not a bit of it. He saw you right enough. That was all kid his yarn to the Major to squeeze a fiver out of him."
"I have no wish to hear any details of you and your associates' abominable blackmailing schemes. Anything I have done I am not ashamed of. At all events you are the last man who has a right to taunt me with it."
"I don't want to taunt you," he replied, changing his tone. "There's nothing of the saint about me I know. What we are, we are: we're much of a muchness, I suppose."
"I should be sorry if it were so," she said. "However, the less said between you and me the better. We are long past words. Wait here and I will bring you the money, and I trust you will go to some other country and remain there. It is not too late even now for you to make at all events an independence for yourself."
When she had left the room he ran over the position in his mind. She seemed in no way surprised at, and not to care in the least for, what he had told her. He was very much afraid that dodge would not work. She knew the Major, too, and the Major certainly knew him, and altogether he came to the conclusion that this was a case where a little oil was likely to be more efficacious than a large amount of force.
"All right," he said, as she returned with the notes. "I'll go, as you're so mighty anxious to get rid of me. But if I do make another pile you'll be sorry. And take my advice, Miriam, and don't get trying your hand at 'light-finger' work, or you mayn't come off so well next time, and then you mustn't expect any help from me, you know."
"Leave the house, you brute," she cried, losing all control of herself for the moment, "or I'll send this moment for Major Dundas, and hand you over to him."
"What do I care for you and your bully?" he retorted, laughing somewhat uneasily. But he put on his dilapidated hat, nevertheless, and swaggered out into the hall.
In the street the meaning of her words came back upon him with even greater force, and with all the speed he was capable of he made for Mother Mandarin's—the only hole in the vast city where he felt secure.
Left alone Miriam shed a few tears. In truth it seemed she was the very sport of Fortune. Was it never to end—this torment of her life? She hungered so for love and peace. All through she had striven to do right, to benefit in every way those around her, and how had she fared? The words of Queen Mary came to her mind:—
"Mother of God,
Thou knowest woman never meant so well
Or fared so ill in this disastrous world."
How well they applied to her. It all seemed so dark. There was no sign of dawn. Yet she did not lose hope. Her faith in God was infinite.
Within a few minutes of her brother's departure Mrs. Parsley called. There was a thick fog outside, and from time to time the rain managed to pierce it. Against such elements Mrs. Parsley was well protected by mackintosh, umbrella, and the thickest boots. Thus arrayed she was not a comely vision. But underneath that gutta-percha sheeting there beat a heart of gold—a heart worthy all protection. During the past year her visits to Miriam had been frequent, for she sympathised with her deeply. The younger woman had laid her whole life bare to her, even to her connection with Mother Mandarin and Jabez and old Barton.
Gideon Anab, alias Shorty, was still a sore point with Mrs. Parsley. She had learned through him a very wholesome lesson—that charity was but a business after all, and like most other businesses, if left to go its own way, was apt to go all wrong. Thus convinced she had taken all further charitable operations under her own immediate supervision, with the result that for three days out of the week she was obliged to come to London, and then she was only too glad to make the flat in Kensington her headquarters.
"How glad I am to see you," said Miriam, taking her unlovely visage between her two hands and kissing her. "But, my dear Mrs. Parsley, how pale you look!"
The old lady had thrown off her impermeable chrysalis, and had emerged therefrom a very sober fritillary.
"Pale?—of course I'm pale. I've seen a ghost I tell you—the ghost of a man I thought dead years ago."
"Where?"
"Outside—just round the corner here. He seemed to be following some miserable, red-headed, out-at-elbows creature. They were both walking fast. But the man I mean—the ghost—is a tall, pale, thin fellow, with eyes like burning coals. I believe I saw him once at Thorpe, but I was not sure at the time if it was he. But I'm sure now. He was wearing a soft hat and a black cloak——"
"The shadow!" exclaimed Miriam, "it must be!"
"Shadow, my dear! Well, shadow or ghost I know him. His name is Farren. He's the man who ran away with your husband's mother thirty years ago!"
* * *
CHAPTER IX.
MORE TROUBLE.
"Farren—Farren!" repeated Miriam thoughtfully, "yes, now I remember the name. Mr. Barton told me the whole story, how he bribed him to go to Australia and break off with Gerald's mother, and how in revenge she made mischief between Mr. Barton and the girl he was engaged to."
"Bribed him?" Mrs. Parsley rubbed her nose thoughtfully—a sure sign with her that she was puzzled. "I don't know so much about the bribing, although that was the story Barton told. Flora Barton had five hundred a year of her own, and Farren was deeply in love with her—no, I fancy it took something more than bribery to make him leave the woman and exile himself like that. I'm pretty sure Barton must have known something about the man's life, and so had him in his power."
"But this Farren, I suppose, was a man of position and reputation in those days, wasn't he, Mrs. Parsley?"
"My dear, he hadn't a rag of reputation—not a rag. He gambled terribly, and led a most dissipated life; all he did was just to keep on the safe side of the law."
"And you think now he hadn't even done that always?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Parsley, "that is my idea; as I have told you, I saw the man once at Lesser Thorpe, although, not being able to get a good look at him, I couldn't be sure it was he. Now if it was, Barton was the only man whom he could have come to see in our parish, and you'd think he'd be glad to keep out of his way."
"That of course I don't know; but that you are right and Mr. Barton did have some hold over this man, I do know, because he told me so himself." Whereupon Miriam gave Mrs. Parsley a succinct account of the use made by Barton of the man he called the "Shadow."
"Humph!" remarked the old lady, seeing the possibilities of the situation. "So Barton got Farren to hunt down your brother, did he? and just now Mr. Farren was very busy following a red-haired man who came from the direction of these Mansions. Putting two and two together, my dear, I should say you had received a visit from your brother."
Miriam was astonished at her accomplishment in the way of deduction. She tried not to betray herself.
"How do you make that out?" she asked.
"The man Farren was following had very striking auburn hair—very much like your own. Come now, it was Jabez, wasn't it?"
"Yes; since you know so much, I may as well admit the truth—it was. After his recognition a year ago by Major Dundas Jabez returned to the Cape. There he found that his partner had sold their claim, and had levanted with the proceeds. The result is he returns here with noth
ing in his pocket, and once again throws himself on me."
"Of course—exactly," said Mrs. Parsley grimly. "I know the breed. And how much did you give him?"
"Thirty pounds—it was all I had. But I made him promise never to trouble me again. Yes; and he agreed. He's going to America."
"Agreed! My dear, in spite of all your troubles, you are as innocent as a baby. The only way you'll ever get rid of that man is to tell the truth and have him put in gaol. Promises! Bah! His promises! He'll not go to America, not he! He'll spend the thirty pounds and come back for more, that's what he'll do, and you'll have him like a black dog on your shoulders all your life, unless——" Mrs. Parsley rubbed her nose.
"Unless what?"
"Well, my dear, to tell you the truth, I'm not exactly clear in my own mind as to the position. This Farren knows what Jabez has done, since Barton employed him to find it out. Now that Barton is dead, and Farren we may safely say is hard up, I rather fancy your thirty pounds'll go in blackmail. Or else Jabez, to escape the other man's clutches, will make for the States after all."
"Oh, I only hope he does. It would be awful if, after so long, he were to be given up to the police—you don't think really that will happen, Mrs. Parsley, do you?"
"Depends entirely, I should say, on his willingness to be bled. But anyhow I don't see why you should mind, my dear."
"Oh, Mrs. Parsley, whatever Jabez has done—whatever he is, he is my brother."
"Humph! There is a limit even to fraternal affection to my thinking. Jabez is a bad, bad man, and all your goodness won't turn him into a good one. While he has you to fall back upon he will never do any good for himself. Leave him to Farren's clutches, my dear, and let the pair of them kick it out in the mud."
"But if Jabez gets into trouble his real name will become known. Then think of the disgrace to me."
"Fiddle-de-dee; nobody can disgrace you but your own self. Besides, if the name of Jabez Crane does appear in the police report, who's going to connect it with you? There are hundreds of Cranes in the world."
"Mrs. Darrow, Major Dundas."
"What, that Julia creature?" Mrs. Parsley snapped her fingers. "My love, her opinion is not worth that. She has all the instincts but none of the brains of a really bad woman. As to Major Dundas, what can he know more than he knows already?"
"He doesn't know everything."
"Well I do," snapped Mrs. Parsley, "and there is nothing for you to be ashamed of that I can see. If there was, do you think I'd be sitting here? I approve of all you have done—yes, even to taking that will. I wish you had burnt it. And yet I don't know——" she added. "No; then you wouldn't have got rid of that idiot. After all, things are best as they are. Leave those two to themselves, my dear, and they'll finish each other sooner or later—sooner rather than later I fancy; though she'll manage to come out 'on top' as the Americans say—d'you know, I do like the Americans, dear!"
"But I really believe Hilda loves him—in fact, sometimes I think I was very wrong not to leave him to her."
"Loves him! Rubbish! It'll be a day with more than twenty-four hours in it when Hilda loves anyone but herself. Bless me, I believe you've a hankering after that man still. What you saw in him I never could make out."
"Sometimes I think he must have fascinated me—that it could not really be love I felt for him but pity. I saw how it was with him, and thought that I could save him."
"Save him! Strikes me, Miriam, you've gone through your life looking upon yourself as a sort of human rocket apparatus. You can't save people against their wills, my dear; and some of 'em won't be saved. Look at Shorty—and that Gerald Arkel is a pig if ever there was one. He prefers his own dunghill—that's vulgar perhaps, my dear, but it's expressive, and that's the great thing! Anyhow, I do hope you've got over all that sort of thing now, Miriam, because I have news of the scamp."
"News of Gerald?—Oh, Mrs. Parsley, he is not ill—not dead?"
The old lady snorted.
"Dead. No, my dear, 'naught was never in danger.' He's alive and sinning. But he's alone! Hilda has left him!"
"Hilda—left—Gerald?"
"Yes; is it so utterly impossible? Come, my dear, I don't deny he's good looking, but there are other men in the world you know. They've been going it properly, I can tell you. The Manor House is mortgaged—that I could have told you three months ago; in fact, now she's spent his money for him, he has ceased to be so far as she is concerned, and she hasn't lost much time in nominating his successor either—she's gone off with an American millionaire. What d'you think of that? They're in Florence, I believe."
"Poor Gerald," she said slowly. "He has reaped his whirlwind."
"And why not; he sowed it, goodness knows. You don't mean to tell me you pity him? There!—I do believe I'm right, you—no!—you wouldn't go to the fellow now?"
"Only if he were ill—if he were dying would I go to him. When he left me that night in this very room, I told him when I saw him again it would be on his death-bed. When the end comes I shall be there."
Mrs. Parsley rose and kissed her. She could not but admire deep down in her soul the unswerving steadfastness of this woman. It touched her more than anything in life had touched her for years past; for she had a very tender heart had Mrs. Parsley.
"You are a silly fool, my dear," she said, "a great big silly donkey. We are both silly donkeys, I believe, when it comes to the point. But after the way that man's insulted you—well, most women would have liked to dance a polka on his grave."
"You wouldn't—if he had been your husband."
"P'r'aps not—but although I said I was a donkey, not in my most asinine moments would I have gone as far as that. Gerald Arkel should never have been my husband. And if he had, that hussy would never have got him—that I swear! But you, dear, you've just been soft soap in their hands; you're so good-natured and gentle and sweet, that I could—but there, I love you for it all the more."
So saying, Mrs. Parsley expressed her affection in a warm embrace, and seeing it was hurtful to her friend, changed the subject.
She was never at a loss for a topic. There were all sorts of parochial and urban schemes to be discussed, among the latter a new home for strayed street boys, which the good lady had established in one of the Lambeth lanes. She was now well known in that neighbourhood, and though she had her people under well nigh despotic rule, was none the less beloved on that account. Even the recalcitrant Mother Mandarin yielded to her. As for the street boys, who were her especial care, she had banged so many of their heads together, that they now no longer swore at her so much as they swore by her. By sheer persistence and strength to enforce her commands, she had brought about a cleansing nothing short of Augean. Her sway was absolute as that of any Cæsar—her methods every whit as drastic and vastly more beneficial.
"Do you know I had rather a shock last week, Miriam?" said Mrs. Parsley, rubbing her nose.
"Did you; how?"
"Well, that wretched Gideon Anab—no, he shan't be called Gideon Anab since he has fallen away from grace—that wretched Shorty has gone back to live with his disreputable old grandmother!"
"You don't say so; and where has he been all this time?"
"Somewhere in Whitechapel, I believe. I know he went off last year with five pounds of my money. I'm disappointed in that boy, Miriam. I thought his instincts were good, and that if he had the chance he'd rise. But he hasn't; he's taken a rise out of me instead!"
"The young vagabond he wants a good flogging."
"No good, my dear. Take my word for it, when they're past me they're past everything. However, he has promised a lot now, and we're going to begin over again, Miriam, my dear, for the last time. But I haven't told you what really gave me the shock. How old do you think the wretch is?"
"Oh, I don't know; about sixteen."
"He's twenty-three! You may well stare. It's perfectly true. Not that he hasn't wickedness for ninety-nine; still, even now I don't despair of him. I'll lead him to the stool of r
epentance yet, if I have to lead him by the ear."
"I rather think that's about the only way you'll ever lead him in that particular direction," said Miriam drily.
Mrs. Parsley rubbed her nose with more than her usual vigour. Miriam waited, taking it as an infallible sign that there was more to come. The old lady looked troubled and embarrassed.
"Of course," she began, "the boy's an awful liar; still——" she hesitated.
"Oh, do go on, please."
"Yes; I think you ought to know. Well, Shorty, amongst other things, has had a fit—don't be alarmed, dear, on his account, he's all right—the devil looks after his own—a fit of repentance, or what stands for such with him. Anyway, he's been confessing certain facts which are rather serious for your brother Jabez. It appears he saw him hanging round the Manor House on that Christmas night—in fact, he saw him in the library with Barton."
"I don't believe it," cried Miriam vehemently. "Why, I had that letter from him from London——"
"Exactly, my dear; but you saw him afterwards at Southampton remember. The fact is, Shorty hints pretty plainly that Jabez killed Mr. Barton! and although it's terribly painful to me to say, all things considered, it does look very like it. You know, dear, it can be no surprise to us to learn that he is capable of murder."
"No; I know. What can I say—it may be so; yes, it may be so. But, dear Mrs. Parsley, I don't believe it is, I really don't. I saw him in Southampton it is true, but—oh, I don't know what to say. What shall I do?"
"Do? There's nothing for you to do. Only if Jabez is wise he'll clear out, that's all. You see, dear, if this is the truth, and he know it, we can't condone it. He must be got away. That's his only chance. In an affair of this kind his past life would handicap him greatly, you mustn't forget that."
"Would to God that I could."
"Well, well, you must keep calm, Miriam dear; it was best I should tell you. We'll do nothing hastily. We'll see Major Dundas first. Only you see my position. If this boy persists in what he says, he'll have to be taken to the police—there's no help for it."
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