MR. BARTON'S VISITOR.
As a rule Mrs. Darrow was not very hospitable--unless there was
something to be gained from the exercise of such hospitality. She
revelled in the afternoon tea, because it cost little--a few spoonfuls
of "Lipton" and some slices of thin bread and butter--and afforded ample
opportunity for that small talk, which was the essence of her life,
since it enabled her to keep _au fait_ with her neighbours'
delinquencies. She had been known to go so far as a hot luncheon for
certain high and mighty people whom it suited her book to conciliate;
but never by any chance had she been known to give a dinner. Now--for
some weighty reason, known only to herself--she had actually requested
no less than five people to rally round her in the stuffy little
dining-room of Pine Cottage--Major Dundas, Mr. Arkel, and Uncle Barton,
to pair with Miriam, Hilda, and herself. When Mr. Barton was informed of
this festivity, he not only point-blank refused to go himself, but he
positively forbade his nephews, who were staying at the Manor House, to
represent him.
"So you can have a hen-party, Julia," he croaked, "and abuse better
people than yourself."
Mrs. Darrow sought refuge in her handkerchief, and shed a few careful
tears--I say careful, because she was made up for the day, an operation
which entailed the labour of an hour or more.
"Oh, Uncle Barton," she sobbed, "why won't you come?"
"Now why, I should like to know, are you so thunderingly generous all of
a sudden. There must be something very much amiss, surely, or going to
be!"
The widow raised her eyes to the blue sky--this conversation took place
in the open air--to call Heaven to witness how she was misjudged.
"As if I was a miser," she complained, "instead of one whose whole
thought is for my fellow creatures."
"At other people's expense--quite so," said Barton. He really was a
disagreeable old creature. "Come, Julia, tell me the truth. Why are you
giving this dinner?"
"I'm afraid Miss Crane is dull, and I thought it would liven her up a
little."
"Oh, that's it, is it?" said Barton, not believing her in the least.
"Then you and she and Miss Marsh had better come to dinner at the Manor
House. There is nothing for Miss Crane or anyone else to enjoy in being
poisoned by your cook."
Mrs. Darrow calculated that she could gain her end--whatever it
was--just as well at Uncle Barton's expense as at her own. But although
she accepted with avidity, she wept still as a tribute to her dignity.
"Of course, if you insist upon it, I will come," she said; "but my poor
little dinner would have been quite a treat for you all. I intended to
assist cook."
"Did you? worse and worse! Well, will you come to-morrow evening at
seven?"
Mrs. Darrow bowed her head.
"And I hope you won't mind giving me a cheque, Uncle Barton. Miss Crane
eats a great deal; she comes expensive."
Barton chuckled.
"What, at your Barmecidian banquets? I tell you what, Julia, my dear, if
you will tell me the truth to-morrow night I will give you something."
And he walked off.
As Mrs. Darrow knew, and as Uncle Barton knew she knew, it was
impossible for her to tell the truth without offending him. He guessed
that her purpose was spiteful, and one in some way connected with
Miriam; and he was right. The widow had discovered--as she
thought--something to Miriam's disadvantage, and wanted to explode her
bombshell in as public a manner as possible. Up to the present she had
told only Hilda about her discovery, and Hilda, being no less spiteful
against the unfortunate governess, was hoping to witness her
discomfiture before Major Dundas and Gerald. This being so, Mrs. Darrow
knew that if she told the truth Barton would refuse to pay for the
confession of so mean a purpose. Therefore she saw the promised cheque
eluding her, and calculating--in her own logical way--that up to the
present Miriam had cost her a possible ten pounds, allowed her feelings
full vent for the time being. She glared after Uncle Barton's retreating
figure; and would have shaken her fist at it had she not known from
previous experience that he had eyes at the back of his head.
"Horrid old man," she murmured. "I'll make you and your red-haired
creature pay for this!"
That evening and all the next day she was particularly sweet to Miriam;
so much so that Miss Crane, used to her by this time, began to think
there was something in the wind. She wondered if Mrs. Darrow could have
made any discovery likely to cause trouble, and recalled all her words
and actions for the past week. But she could think of nothing
injudicious that she had said or done. Nevertheless, she was on her
guard against Mrs. Darrow. She readily accepted the invitation to the
Manor House, because she wanted a private conversation with Mr. Barton.
Hilda also was informed that the little dinner would take place at the
Manor House, and was pleased by the change. She intended that a day
should come when the Manor should be hers by marriage, and in the
meantime she was in nowise averse to seeing as much as possible of her
future home. When she married Major Dundas, or Mr. Arkel--whichever of
them might inherit the Nabob's vineyard--she intended to make many and
great changes in the gloomy old mansion. Hilda's aerial castles
invariably took the architectural form of Lesser Thorpe Manor House.
The next evening after the primitive fashion of this Arcadia, the three
ladies, with lace scarves over their heads, and cloaks over their
evening dress, walked up the avenue and arrived at the great porch
precisely at seven. In the warm light of the July evening Miriam admired
the noble oaks, the trim gardens, the velvet swards; and most of all,
she admired the great house, with its windows aglow from the beams of
the setting sun. It was elevated on a rise, surrounded by stone
terraces, and stood out majestically against a background of pine-trees,
with its many gables, high roofs, and stacks of twisted chimneys. In the
Tudor style of architecture, built in Tudor days, mellowed by centuries,
and overgrown with ivy, it might well have been the palace of some
Sleeping Beauty buried in the midst of its sombre woods. The evening was
still and warm; there was no wind, and a quiet melancholy seemed to
brood over the great pile. It was a haven of rest to the weary, and
irresistibly attractive to Miriam, who had been buffetted so long on
stormy seas. Hilda caught her expression at that moment, and did not
fail to interpret it in her own fashion, looking an angel the while.
"You want to marry Gerald and have all this, do you?" she thought. "Well
then, you shall not, if I can help it. When he knows who you are, and
what you are, there won't be much chance for you, my lady!"
In the drawing-room Mr. Barton received his guests, and Miriam, in spite
of her self-control, could not help wincing. Since that
never-to-be-forgotten night on Waterloo Bridge, or rather at the Pitt
Hotel, she had not seen him in evening dress; and the sight of him now
recalled those past horrors with horrible distinctness. The shrivelled
little figure, the cruel clean-shaven face, the bald head and rat-like
eyes, made up an object of utter detestation to Miriam. With her
recovered health had come a resolve to throw off the mesmeric influence
he had exercised over her when she had been weak and starving. In some
degree she had succeeded, but although fear had gone, repulsion
remained, and Miriam regretted bitterly that she had been beguiled into
the clutches of this modern ogre. That night she resolved to seek her
freedom.
"Good evening, ladies," said the Squire in his grating voice. "You know
these two gentlemen, so there is no need for a formal introduction."
"I know Mr. Arkel," said Miriam composedly, since Barton's eyes were
upon her, "but not Major Dundas."
"John!" gushed Mrs. Darrow--"not know Cousin John? This is he, Miss
Crane, my cousin in the army. John, my dear friend, Miss Crane."
Barton lifted his brows on hearing this very warm allusion to Miriam;
but Major Dundas, not knowing Mrs. Darrow's little ways, accepted it in
good faith, and bowed gravely, being a man of but few words. He was tall
and stalwart, with a countenance which, though anything but handsome,
was wholly pleasant, and was so well groomed and generally smart and
trim in his appearance, that altogether he bore an air of supreme
distinction. With formal courtesy Miriam acknowledged his bow, but in
spite of herself she found her eyes wandering towards Gerald's bright
face and charming smile. He shook her by the hand, made some commonplace
remark, and almost immediately turned to speak with Hilda, whom he
greeted with unmistakable eagerness. It was easy to see in what
direction Mr. Gerald Arkel's affections lay for the time being. The
object of them looked this evening more than ever like a Dresden china
shepherdess, and sparkled all over her pretty face as Gerald came up to
her. Barton evidently did not approve of the state of things existing
between the two young people, for he frowned and bit his lip. On her
part Miriam felt an unaccountable pang at the way in which Gerald
ignored her for Hilda. Since meeting him she had thought more of his
gallant rescue of her, and more of his charming manner than was quite
good for her. Although she was as yet unaware of it even then Gerald was
gaining possession of her heart. She watched him furtively all the
evening, and could be seen to brighten up distinctly when he spoke to
her, a circumstance which seemed to cause the observant Squire the
greatest satisfaction.
"Come, come; dinner, dinner," said Barton, cutting short Mrs. Darrow's
small beer chronicles. "Julia, take my arm. Gerald, Miss Marsh is
waiting. Miss Crane, I am sure Major Dundas will be delighted."
"Charmed," murmured the Major with all gravity.
He could not but admire this tall and beautiful woman, and was
impressed, as Dicky had been, by the music of her voice. Miriam, in a
plain black silk dress, showing her beautiful neck and shoulders and her
shapely arms, looked as regal as a queen. Her red hair twisted in smooth
shining coils crowned her as with a diadem, and Hilda's girlish
prettiness paled before her graver splendour. As for Mrs. Darrow, art
had done its utmost, but it could not make her either fresh or young.
When she looked at Miriam she seemed to be conscious of this, and her
feelings may be left to the imagination, but she promised herself a full
revenge before the evening was over.
"Doesn't Miss Crane look charming to-night?" she whispered to her uncle.
"Charming," assented that genial gentleman. "Like Semiramis or
Cleopatra; and she doesn't owe anything to art either."
Mrs. Darrow grew red beneath her rouge.
"Oh, I dare say she has painted in her time!"
"What do you mean?" asked Barton sharply.
"Well, if you don't know, of course I don't," was Mrs. Darrow's
ambiguous reply; and as the occasion was unpropitious, Barton did not
press for an explanation. Still, he guessed that her remark had
something more behind it, and the look he gave her in consequence caused
Mrs. Darrow to devote herself exclusively to the soup for the next few
minutes. In that glance of disapproval she saw the final disappearance
of the cheque.
"I hope you like Thorpe, Miss Crane," said the Major in his ponderous
way.
"Very much indeed. I like the quiet and peace."
"Really! Have you then had so stormy a life?"
"Oh no," Miriam laughed, and her merriment extracted a glare from Mrs.
Darrow. "But I have lived a great deal in London, and the country is so
restful after the roar of the city. Of course you prefer town?"
"No indeed; I was cut out by nature I believe for a country squire. I'm
fond of soldiering of course," added the Major quickly, "but when I
retire it will be to a place like this. I am more of a country bumpkin
than my uncle. He's always running up to town."
"Is he?" murmured Miriam, thinking of Mrs. Perks and the hotel in Craven
Street. "Why is that?"
"Oh, I don't know; he hunts after books and that sort of thing. My uncle
is quite a student, you know."
Miriam did not think from what she knew of Mr. Barton that book hunting
took up a very considerable portion of his time when in London; but
evidently the simple Major believed the fiction in all good faith. But
his next remark startled her.
"His taste in books is so peculiar," resumed Dundas, "and rather morbid;
he collects all books dealing with crime."
Miss Crane paled, and hastily sipped her wine.
"With crime?"
"Yes, memoirs of Vidocq--Stories of Robbery and Murder, The Newgate
Chronicle, and Jonathan Wilde; his library is filled with gruesome
volumes of that kind. Did you ever hear of Selwyn the wit, the friend of
Horace Walpole, Miss Crane?"
"No," murmured Miriam, self-possessed but colourless to the lips.
"His great delight was to see men hanged. My uncle seems to have the
same queer taste. If public executions were in vogue I believe he would
attend every one."
"John," called out the Squire, "what are you saying to Miss Crane?
You're making her nervous, surely; she has lost all her colour."
"No, no," cried Miriam; "I am quite well."
"What a brute I am," said Dundas aloud; "but the fact is I was talking
of your penchant for crime."
"Oh yes," said Mrs. Darrow vivaciously; "it's really horrid of Uncle
Barton to be so fond of these things."
"Crime!" chuckled the Squire; "and what do you call crime? I'm a student
of human nature in the depths, if that's what you mean. I like to search
out the springs of action--to learn what moves man, the machine."
"In short, you are a realist, uncle," said Gerald.
"Oh, I don't know. I find the lower orders vastly more amusing than the
higher, if you call that realism. I like to explore the slums and the
thieves' kitchens, and talk to the detectives; and I like to hear of
crimes that are impenetrable." And here his eyes rested on Miriam. She
drank more wine.
"But I thought no crime was impenetrable nowadays," said Hilda.
"Indeed, my dear Miss Marsh, a great number are. Those crimes which are
reported in the newspapers, those murderers who are hanged, constitute
the minority. The clever crimes, the really interesting criminals, are
never discovered."
Mrs. Darrow here entered a protest. She would not sleep she said if
Uncle Barton thus rode his gruesome hobby, which was really a skeleton
horse, or something horrid. She did think such things should not be
spoken about in the presence of ladies; Miss Crane was quite pale with
horror, so she would leave the gentlemen to discuss their wine and crime
together, and carry the ladies off to the drawing-room--a determination
which she at once put into execution. When the door closed on them, Mr.
Barton became moody and silent. He left Gerald and Dundas to pass the
bottle and do the talking; and knowing his sombre humours they left him
to himself.
Shortly there entered a plethoric butler, purple of hue, as though all
the blood in him had turned to port wine. He bent over his master and
whispered.
"Eh? What do you say?" said Barton, rousing himself from a brown study.
"A gentleman to see you, sir!" whispered the man in a husky voice.
"Who is it?"
"The gentleman who was here before, sir."
"Confound you--how can I recognise anyone from that description? What's
his name?"
"I don't rightly know, sir. He told me to mention the name Jabez."
"Jabez!" Barton jumped up with the alacrity of a man half his age.
"Gerald! John! go into the drawing-room and entertain the ladies. I
shall be engaged for the next half-hour in the library." And he vanished
with the plethoric butler.
"Hullo! What's up with Uncle B.?" said Gerald.
Dundas shrugged his shoulders.
"One of his mysterious interviews, I suppose. He is a mystery in himself
is Uncle Barton."