In vain she tried to excuse herself.
"It was all in the interest of the dear child," she protested plaintively. "Surely you would not have Dicky entrusted to the care of a common music-hall singer?—it is so horribly low and vulgar, not to say worse."
"Miss Crane is no music-hall singer. What she told you is perfectly true, for I know her brother well—indeed, it was through him I heard of her. He is a young ne'er-do-well, and happens to be in the employ of my own solicitor. Hearing that his sister was seeking employment as a governess through the agency of an institute in Kensington, I went there, saw her, and engaged her. I think the wisdom of my choice is evident."
"Oh yes; so far as teaching goes she certainly does very well. But so she should, seeing she is well paid for it—far too well paid in my opinion."
"But this happens to be one of the many points upon which your opinion is not of vital importance, Julia. I pay the lady what I consider is due to her for her services. The fact of the matter is, you cordially dislike Miss Crane."
"No, that is not true," replied Mrs. Darrow. "All I say is that there is something queer about her—very queer. For one thing she dresses absurdly above her position."
"Does she? It seems to me she dresses very plainly."
"Oh yes, to your eye, no doubt. But you must excuse me if in your own words I reply that the 'cut' of a lady's dress is not one of the points upon which your opinion is of vital importance. You may take it from me that her dresses, 'plain' as you think them, come from a first-class dressmaker, and cost a large sum of money. What I want to know is, how did she pay for them?"
Now this of course Barton knew very well, seeing that he himself had written the cheque for them. All he said was,
"If Miss Crane chooses to pay an extravagant price for her clothes, it is no business either of yours or of mine. She does her duty excellently well, and leaves absolutely no cause for complaint. Unfortunately, you are one of those people who do not need a cause. Your fault-finding capacities are endless and illimitable. Now either you accept Miss Crane as the very satisfactory person I consider her to be in her position, or I send her away without further ado, and you can attend to Dicky yourself."
This was not at all to Mrs. Darrow's mind. In such circumstances she would be forced to get another governess, and the chances were, as she knew well, one vastly inferior to Miriam. Not that the boy's educational welfare weighed with her so much as the fact that she would have to pay for her out of her own pocket. Such a proceeding with her extremely finite income would entail personal sacrifices, for which she was in no way inclined. Therefore did she readily promise and vow that she would not again dig or delve into the past of Miriam Crane, and while declaring that she was altogether satisfactory as a teacher, hazarded the hope that if in time to come her suspicions should prove to have been well founded, Uncle Barton would not forget that she had warned him. All this the Squire took for what he considered it was worth, and left her without any effort to disguise the contempt he felt for her. So far as she was concerned he thought Miriam was safe, for the time being at all events. Self-interest was the securest of all possible dams to the verbal torrent of the irrepressible Julia.
But that the widow lady still nurtured her feeling of enmity for Miriam was evident from the hundred and one petty ways in which she contrived to show her spite. And while Miriam, on her part, was altogether above taking notice of such trifles, she felt the sting of them nevertheless. So the days and weeks and months went by, without open rupture of any kind, though with much silent fortitude on the part of the unhappy governess.
By this time she had no doubt as to the strength of her feeling for Gerald Arkel. She saw him continually, sometimes in the company of Hilda Marsh, often alone. Of this latter young lady, further opportunity seemed only to confirm her opinion. She was selfish, shallow, and altogether without heart. With the sharp swift instinct of a woman in her position, Hilda saw the real state of affairs, and despite all Miriam's endeavours to avoid the existence of any spirit of rivalry between them—such a position being to her undignified and wholly detestable—she found herself being more or less forced into it.
And the young man himself could not but see how things were. But he seemed in no way to object. On the contrary, although he did not lessen his attentions to Hilda, he continued to spend a considerable amount of time with Miriam, just—as he pleased to phrase it to himself—to "keep the pot boiling." Had she so wished it, Miss Marsh could probably have brought him to an open declaration at any moment. But she did not, and that for the very excellent and weighty reason, that it was not at all certain in her mind which of the two nephews Uncle Barton had determined upon making his heir. And so for the same reason when Major Dundas visited Lesser Thorpe, which indeed he did but rarely, he was kept thoroughly well in hand by this young lady, who had made up her mind to be the future mistress of that very desirable property. And, in truth, the gallant Major was rapidly succumbing to the charms of Miriam Crane, and his feelings were only fanned the more to vigour by the absence of any encouragement on her part. So the daily wheel revolved in sight of the whole parish, and not a little to its diversion. To Uncle Barton most of all its convolutions afforded the greatest satisfaction, not to say amusement, pending the time when it should come "full circle."
Such a position as that in which Gerald Arkel found himself was tenable neither with dignity nor with any degree of nobility. But then this young man was not endowed even in a minor degree with either of these estimable qualities. He was in truth the most material and nonchalant of mortals, rejoicing in the possession of a comely person, and an invariably imperturbable disposition—not infrequently miscalled "sunny" by many who knew him. He had the greatest aversion to work of any kind. In the enjoyment of a liberal income from his uncle, he gave himself over to a life wholly useless, purposeless, and by no means above reproach. Once a week on an average he ran down from town to the Manor House, and, usually at Barton's expressed desire, remained for two or three days, dividing his favours between Hilda and Miriam. So weak and invertebrate was his character, and so horribly pronounced his vanity, that in her heart Hilda owned to an active dislike of him, and she tolerated his attentions solely because ambition, coupled with a desire to free herself from her present poverty-stricken existence, were with her for the time being paramount feelings. On the other hand, Miriam, so far as this young man was concerned, appeared to have lost herself utterly. Noble woman as she was, with the highest aims ever dominating her life, she saw no bad in the man. He was, in her eyes, unfortunate, weak, misguided; and, by virtue of those very failings, seemed only the more to appeal to her strength. With her—how sure she felt of it!—he would rise to the highest things, and she longed unutterably for the right to guide his steps and turn them in the right direction. With such a woman as Hilda Marsh—the Squire was right—he was doomed. For that and for that reason only, she allowed herself gradually to be drawn into rivalry with this other woman. The end, to her thinking, justified the means, and the conviction grew upon her so, she became so absorbed in it, that she was heedless completely of any sense of degradation in her own eyes, which in other circumstances she would have been the first to feel, as well as of the fact that in the parish she had come to be looked upon as an impudent adventuress, aiming by fair means or by foul at the capture of Squire Barton's heir. Those were very bitter times for the friendless Miriam.
Since Gerald's whispered intimation that he knew her as a woman he had seen at the Frivolity Music Hall, there had been no reference to that matter between them. The day after the dinner-party he had left for town, and although he had met her almost immediately on his return a week later, the subject had been avoided by tacit and mutual consent. But Miriam knew that an explanation would have to come. Without it she would never feel sure of his respect, and that she felt she must have before all else. Her opportunity came some three weeks later, and the absolutely free and unfettered statement she made was only characteristic of her.
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On that warm August afternoon she had taken Dicky into the woods around the Manor House for one of his readings from Nature's book. There would be ample time, she knew, for indoor teaching, when the short days and long nights of winter came upon them. So for the present, despite his mother's grumbling that the boy was always idle, Miriam strove to keep him out of doors as much as possible that he might acquire that bodily health and vigour without which she could not hope for him to thrive mentally. Of this Barton approved most highly, and more than ever did he congratulate himself on the success of Miriam as a governess. Indeed it began to come upon him very strongly that she was altogether too good to be thrown away on a wastrel such as Gerald. But he would allow nothing to interfere with his design. He was obliged to confess to himself that Miriam impressed him more favourably than any other member of her sex with whom he had come in contact hitherto, and in truth, had things been otherwise than they were, it is quite possible that he would have come to offer his shrivelled body and not particularly spotless soul for her acceptance. The piece of glass picked up on Waterloo Bridge that night had proved to be a diamond of first water, too late though it was to set it in his crown.
On the dry grass under a pine-tree, where the ground was strewn with needles and cones, sat Miriam, whilst Dicky scampered and frolicked about, climbed the trees, and behaved generally after the manner of his kind. This day the boy seemed full of vitality and the very joy of life. The strong sun drew out the resinous odour of the pines, and the whole wood was filled with their spicy fragrance. Through the green branches Miriam caught sight of the blue sky overhead, and watched the strong shafts of the sun-god smite into the twilight heart of the woods. She sat with a book on her lap, drinking in the pure air and revelling in the gambols of the sunlight through the trees, though ever with a watchful eye upon Dicky as he played.
"This is a fairy wood, Miss Crane; and I am the knight who seeks a lovely princess enchanted by a magician. She has gone to sleep for a hundred years, so you must shut your eyes, please."
Miriam laughed too.
"Now I am fighting my way through the wood. Whist, Whist! oh how strong the branches are; but here is the palace. I walk upstairs and find the room where the beautiful princess is sleeping on her purple bed. I kiss her, and——"
"She wakes!" cried Miriam, catching the boy in her arms, and repaying the kiss with a dozen. "Oh, Dicky, how I wish I could sleep for a hundred years!"
"I don't," replied the boy seriously. "You would not be with me then."
"But think of the long holiday you would have, dear."
"I don't want any holiday without you. There would be no jolly games like we have now. Come on, Miss Crane. I'm going to be Samson now, and slay the Philistines; I——"
"All right, Dick, my boy, here's one of them; come on!"
It was Gerald Arkel who spoke, and the instant he did so, Miriam noticed that his voice was quite unlike himself. There was always upon him that look of hereditary delicacy, but now there were dark circles under his eyes, and he wore a haggard and weary expression which unmistakably betokened sleepless nights. When he saw who it was, Dicky threw himself into his arms with a shout.
"Oh, I'm so glad it's you, Cousin Gerald; come on, we can play at horses now."
"No, no, Dicky, I can't. I'm not on for games this morning. You go on being Samson and find some more Philistines to slaughter. How are you, Miss Crane?"
"Oh, I'm very well, thank you. And you, Mr. Arkel, you're not looking quite yourself; are you ill?"
He flung himself on the grass beside her, and picked up a fir-cone which he began to pull to pieces.
"I feel nearly dead," he said irritably; "I suppose I must expect to. I was playing pretty well through the night, and worse luck, dropped a good deal too. I never can get on without my sleep, and lately my nerves have been playing Old Harry with me!"
"Then why in the name of goodness do you go on like this—you are ruining your health."
"Oh, a fellow must live, and enjoy himself somehow!"
"And do you call playing cards into the small hours and shattering your nerves—not to speak of losing your money—enjoyment? I really am surprised, Mr. Arkel, that a man like you, especially when you know your constitution won't stand much, should behave so foolishly. It isn't as if you hadn't sufficient means——"
Gerald shook his head.
"Sufficient means?—that's just it. I know nothing about my means. For the present, yes, my uncle allows me—well, I suppose really you would call it a sufficiency. But in the future? I am all in the dark. He may make me his heir—on the other hand he may not. You know how eccentric he is. He may leave me without a penny. He's quite capable of it. That's really why I gamble, so that I can put by something and be independent of his whims."
"You should be independent of anyone's whims, certainly. But hardly by gambling. In any case, you must know it is a fool's game waiting for dead men's shoes, Mr. Arkel. Why don't you work and make your own fortune—you have a great deal in your favour?"
"Oh, come now," interrupted Gerald, "that's pretty rough on me. I've never been brought up to work. 'Pon my soul, I shouldn't know how to go about it. Besides, why should I, when there's no absolute need?"
"For one very good reason if for no other. You must not be offended with what I'm going to say—but you're one of those men who are not fitted to be their own master. Whilst you are idle you are bound to get into mischief. Work—right-down hard work would be the salvation of you."
"Well, upon my word—I suppose you would have me grub away in some beastly office all day!"
"Well, better an honest grub than a—yes, I'll say it—than a dishonest butterfly. You know quite well what I mean."
He flushed, sat up, and faced her.
"Miss Crane, I thought you liked me!"
It was Miriam's turn to flush now, and it was a very crimson face that looked at him.
"I do like you, Mr. Arkel," she said, "otherwise I should not be speaking to you like this. I want to be able to think well of you."
"You don't think well of me then?"
"No, I do not. I don't see how you can expect me to. How can I think well of a man who is content to occupy a position such as yours? You accept money from—indeed you are content to be wholly dependent upon a man whom you know you dislike, and you tolerate his whims simply that you may step into the shoes which you are waiting for him to vacate. You cannot hold that it is an honourable employment, Mr. Arkel."
Now Mr. Gerald was wholly unaccustomed to this order of treatment, more especially at the hands of a comely young lady. From them he had come from experience to expect treatment vastly more solicitous and sympathetic. And he was quite inclined to resent this change from the tactics upon which he had been reared, so to speak; more especially, seeing that his ill-luck and shattered nerves should of themselves have been sufficient to enlist the condolence of anyone—certainly of one who pretended to a liking for him as Miss Miriam Crane had just done. Such methods of exhibiting "liking" this spoiled child did not understand. And he did not quite know what to say, so he deemed it best to maintain for the moment a dignified silence. She might take what she liked from that. She saw his attitude, and felt hurt at it, but undaunted she went on.
"You will get plenty of people, I know, to flatter and to spoil you, Mr. Arkel, and I suppose you think me a very objectionable person for speaking to you like I am doing. But I have had a bitter, hard, and cruel life, and it is deep down from experience that I speak. If you knew—but there, all I can say is, that no matter how difficult it has been for me, I have always stuck to it, and tried to do my duty. You know I don't want to preach, I——"
"You have not always been teaching," hazarded Gerald, in the hope of changing the subject.
"No, you know I have not. Did you not tell me that you yourself had seen me at the 'Frivolity'?"
"Yes, I did. But mind you, I have not breathed a word of it to a soul. You were in the chorus, weren't you, in one of the
musical sketches?"
"I was," replied Miriam calmly. "But I felt obliged in my present position to deny it point-blank to Mrs. Darrow—not for my own sake altogether, but for the sake of others. Besides, although I know well the sort of capital Mrs. Darrow and her friends would make out of such an incident, I was doing nothing to be ashamed of. I was earning an honest living when I could do so by no other means, though it was only ten shillings a week."
"But however did you manage to get yourself into such straits, may I ask, Miss Crane?"
"I will tell you. My father was a captain in the merchant marine. He was lost at sea, leaving my mother and me penniless. I thought that as I had received a good education, if I came to London I should be able to find employment as a governess. But I found it quite impossible, as I had no one to speak for me. Little by little my funds dwindled away, until in sheer desperation I applied at the music-halls for work of any description. My voice helped me there, and I managed to get this engagement at the 'Frivolity.' But I was not there long, for shortly after that I met an old friend, a school teacher, through whom I obtained an introduction to an agency in Kensington, and so came to be engaged by Mr. Barton for Dicky. But what I have come through and what I have suffered—well, it is because I have so suffered that I speak to you as I do, because somehow such acute trouble seems to impel one to warn—anyone they are interested in."
"You have been very plucky, Miss Crane."
"Because I have put honour first, Mr. Arkel; one cannot be plucky without it. In the very depths of despair I have always clung to that, and though as I say, I have suffered, yes, even to starvation, thank God there is nothing to which I can look back with shame. I concealed from Mrs. Darrow what I did because I know the kind of woman she is, and because I knew that I was justified in doing so for the sake of others—for the sake of this dear little fellow here who needs me, and whose little life it is my thought to care for and to guide. Do you think if it were otherwise I could stay beside him, Mr. Arkel? Still, even now, if you think it right, you can tell Mrs. Darrow everything—or I will."
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