MRS. DARROW'S BOMBSHELL.
For a moment Miriam stood aghast at the man's abandoned confession of
his feelings. How anyone could nurse such venom in his breast it was
beyond her to conceive.
"It is very terrible, this idea of yours, Mr. Barton," she said; "to me
very horrible! Do you mean to say that you would make the living suffer
for an imaginary wrong done you by the dead? for I cannot but think it
is imaginary."
Barton scowled, and gripped the arm of his chair.
"Miriam Crane," he said, "you don't know what you are talking about.
Gerald's mother--my sister--ruined my life--ruined it as utterly and
hopelessly as ever man's life was ruined. Thirty years ago I had the
chance of marrying the woman I loved, of settling down and becoming a
decent member of society, of having my wretched hereditary weaknesses
curbed by a gentle wife--in a word, the chance of happiness was mine,
and this fiend-woman, Flora, sister of my blood, put an end to it. For
that, I hated her while she lived. I hate her memory a thousand times
more now that she is dead. For me, her son represents her, and he must
bear the punishment she escaped."
"But how--why? I do not understand. You seek to punish him by marrying
him to me? I am surely not such a pariah as that?"
"Of course you do not understand--how should you? Later on perhaps you
will understand many things that seem unintelligible to you now."
"I shall never understand that the innocent should suffer for the
guilty."
"Oh, you know well that I pretend to be no saint. I tell you this son of
hers, to me, represents her. I was not able to take vengeance upon her
while she was alive--he must bear it now. Let that suffice--I need tell
you no more; you now know my motive."
Miriam was perplexed. She looked searchingly at Barton. Was he mad? She
thought he must surely be. She did not like the light in his eye.
"But," she said, "even so, I cannot see how his marriage with me is to
act as the punishment you would have it. I cannot marry him against his
will, even if I would; and if it were his wish to marry me, I--I--I
think he would be happy."
"Exactly so; exactly so. His future lies in your hands. You can avert
his punishment--that is to say he can avert it through you. Listen to
me. You may love Gerald Arkel, but you do not know him. He is the
weakest, blindest, most easily led of men. It is through his weakness
that I intend he shall suffer. It shall be my strength--unless he be
wise in time and grasp the chance fate offers him. I intend he shall be
my heir. I need not name the sum he will inherit; but it will not be
small. And it shall be his damnation, his ruin. By means of it he will
sink to the depths of infamy--of degradation, to perdition utterly. So
shall he expiate the bitter wrong that has ruined my life--so shall he
suffer for the sin of his cursed mother. Still I am not merciless. He
has two women now from whom to choose. If he choose the right one, well
and good. Such an influence as yours over him is the only thing that can
save him, for you are a good woman. That is why I brought you here. But
if he choose the other--the brainless, shallow minx with whom he thinks
he is in love, then will his downfall be more rapid a hundred times. Now
you know his chance and yours."
"But--but." Miriam was more and more bewildered. "But why choose me--you
know nothing about me really, and what you do know is not on the face of
it very reputable. How can you be sure that I am what you seem to think
me?"
"I am sure of it. I knew it the first moment I saw your face; but still,
I did not trust to that. I made inquiries; nothing was overlooked. I was
very careful--you forget I had ample time and opportunity whilst you
were recovering your health at the hotel."
Miriam turned pale.
"But how could you do that? I told you nothing of myself. You had
nothing to go upon."
"I had sufficient for my purpose. I had Jabez, you told me about him. I
learned what you had been to him--how in the midst of all corruption you
had kept yourself pure, how your strength of purpose and never-flinching
spirit had been exercised for him, how you had encouraged him and helped
him and stuck to him through all tribulation, even to starvation--for
you were starving on that night, Miriam. All this I learned, and more,
and so I determined that you were the woman who should stand for the
salvation of this man, and I brought you here that you might marry him
if you would, and save him from himself. You see, I am not altogether so
bad as you think me."
"Indeed, I don't know what to say, Mr. Barton. It is all so very strange
to me. Surely it would be better to leave your money where it would do
good, not evil--to Major Dundas, for instance."
"As a matter of fact, the money is at this moment left to Major Dundas;
but I intend to alter my will in Gerald's favour. At first I thought to
punish him by leaving him nothing. But I soon found out my mistake. As a
poor man, obliged to work for his living, Gerald Arkel would stand a
fair chance of happiness. As a rich one and his own master, he stands
none. And so I have determined to offer him at one and the same time his
ruin and his salvation. Now do you begin to understand?"
Still Miriam knew not what to say. The whole scheme was to her so
fantastic and so abominable, and at the same time so extraordinary, that
its genesis seemed hardly human. It was impossible to believe the man
was sane. She decided she could have nothing to do with it.
"I am afraid," she said coldly, "that so far as I am concerned your
scheme is quite impossible. Indeed, I can understand your wishing to
salve your conscience in the face of so abominable a design as you
contemplate for the ruin of this young man's life; and God knows I would
willingly save him if I could. But much as I am interested in him, much
as I--I feel, that is I think--oh, I don't know what to say," she broke
off in despair. "I must return to Jabez, Mr. Barton. Let me pass out of
this life of yours. I will go out of it--I refuse to do your dirty
work!"
"And so you call it dirty work to save a human soul?"
"I must go back to Jabez, I say."
"That is to poverty, to disgrace, and--to crime!"
"To poverty, yes. But not to crime, no, nor to disgrace. I will leave
to-morrow, Mr. Barton."
"You shall not."
"I must--I will. I do not fear you now. No, I defy you!"
"Take care, young lady; you had better not defy me."
"And why not?" She winced, though she spoke haughtily enough.
With a sudden pounce the man seized her wrist and bent so close to her
that his lips almost touched her ear. So low, too, did he speak, that
she could with difficulty hear what he said. But enough she heard to
make her colour come and go; and when he had finished, the beads of
perspiration stood out upon her forehead.
"Who told you?" she gasped. "Who told you?"
"The man who left me just now. He tells me all I wish to know."
"What is his name?"
"He has no name--for you. Call him 'The Shadow,' if you will. It will
serve as well as any other name. Now, do you go or stay?"
She leaned against the writing-table, breathing heavily. For more than a
minute she stood thus, battling with herself. Then slowly she turned and
looked at him.
"I will stay," she said. Then she fell helplessly into a chair and
sobbed bitterly.
Barton looked at her with a sneer. He went to the side-board for a
decanter and a glass. As in a dream she was conscious of his holding
wine to her lips, and as in a dream she drank it, and heard him speak to
her.
"Remember," he said, "on your implicit obedience depends the future.
Thwart me, and----"
"Hush, hush!" she cried, looking round in fear lest already someone
should have overheard. "I will do all I can."
"Very good. Now, if you feel better, we will return to the
drawing-room."
At the door she laid her hand upon his shoulder.
"One moment, Mr. Barton; you will keep this man--this shadow, as you
call him--from doing harm?"
"I will. He is as much my slave as you are."
And Miriam, although she shuddered, did not dare to contradict him. She
was indeed his slave. His whispered communication had given her no
choice. Again, from that moment, poor Miriam had taken up her burden.
For long after that, the impression left by this extraordinary interview
was deep upon her. Circumstances altogether beyond her control compelled
her to obey Barton; but she could by no means understand him. He puzzled
her completely. She could not reconcile the man's wish to ruin Gerald
with his apparently co-existent desire to give him a chance of escape
from the trap prepared for him. It was so utterly inconsistent to her
mind. She could only surmise that the man had a conscience, and that in
this way he strove to quieten it. The desire for vicarious punishment
which seemed to have taken possession of him was, to her thinking, as
childish as it was reprehensible. She could not reconcile it with either
a normal sense of morality or with sanity.
It was no doubt a species of mania. Besides, in many other ways Barton's
actions were such as to cast the gravest doubts as to his mental state.
His behaviour became more and more perplexing, and his actions almost
invariably baseless and inconsequent. And it was not until long after,
when the skeins of the various lives with which her own had become
entangled, began to unravel themselves, that she understood what was now
perfectly inexplicable to her. Then, knowing what she knew, she was no
longer surprised.
"Wherever have you been, Miss Crane?" demanded Mrs. Darrow with some
asperity, as she and the Squire entered.
"Oh, she has been talking to me on a little matter of business,"
interrupted Barton before Miriam could reply. "It's all right, Julia,
there is nothing for you to disturb yourself about."
"Oh, really, I don't mind in the least," said Mrs. Darrow, seeing she
had made a _faux pas_; "but now that Miss Crane has returned to us,
perhaps she will be so good as to sing something?"
Miriam's first impulse was to decline, for her interview with Barton had
shaken her nerve a good deal. But she saw the sinister look of curiosity
on Mrs. Darrow's face, and she determined she would give that lady no
further ground for suspicion.
"I will sing with pleasure," she said, moving towards the piano. "But I
am afraid I have brought no music."
"Oh, I saw to that," said Mrs. Darrow producing a roll. "I was quite
sure Uncle Barton would like to hear your voice, so I brought a few of
your songs for you."
"A few of my songs?" repeated Miriam; "and where, pray, did you get
them?"
"Oh, it was Dicky who found them, in your room, dear. The child brought
them down to show me a picture on the title page of one of them which
seemed to have attracted him."
"Indeed! Perhaps you will give me the music?"
Mrs. Darrow rose to fetch the parcel. Then she proceeded to open it and
read out the titles of the songs. On Hilda's face there was the blandest
of smiles, masking, if the truth had but been known, the keenest of
interest. She knew that Mrs. Darrow's bombshell was now about to
explode. To her, as to the wily widow, this was _the_ incident of the
evening--in fact, the whole _raison d'etre_ of it.
"I hear your voice is a contralto, Miss Crane," said the Major, admiring
the contour of her head. "I am so glad; it's my favourite voice."
"Really, Major?" observed Hilda. "I should have thought you would like
something more lively--to me a contralto, no matter how beautiful, is
always rather doleful."
"There I can't agree with you," put in Gerald. "To my thinking the
contralto is always full of pathos--it is the voice which goes straight
to the heart."
"Now, you too surprise me, Mr. Arkel," replied Hilda, smiling ever so
amiably. "I did not think you were so susceptible in the--what is it the
doctors call it--the cardiac region?"
"I think you, of all people, should know me better than that," murmured
Gerald, bending towards her.
"Nonsense; I admit no such superiority. But hush, let us hear what it is
Miss Crane is going to sing to us!"
Ever suspicious at any kindness however trifling on the part of Julia,
the Squire had moved up close to the piano, and was keeping a pretty
close watch upon her. But Mrs. Darrow was all unconscious of his
scrutiny, being too deeply absorbed in the effective lodgment of her
bombshell to pay much attention to anything else.
"'The Sands of Dee,' 'The Clang of the Wooden Shoon,' 'Down the Long
Avenue,'" rattled off Mrs. Darrow. Then, with the prettiest air of
surprise, "Oh, and here is a comic song!"
"I think you must be mistaken," said Miriam coldly. "I do not sing comic
songs."
"Now, now, Miss Crane, you know you are hiding your light under a
bushel," cried Mrs. Darrow with horribly artificial mirth. "What's more,
I expect you sing them delightfully. Come now, confess."
Miriam seated there at the piano might in truth have been carved out of
marble, so cold and so perfectly calm was she.
"I am sorry to disappoint you, but I don't sing any songs of that kind
at all."
"Oh, but really!" Mrs. Darrow was smoothing out the folio of music; "you
can't say that, in the face of this. Surely this must be yours--'It's a
Funny Little Way I've Got!' M. Crane, Frivolity Music Hall!" She handed
the sheet over to Miriam.
Barton bit his lip, and began to see at last what she was after. Mrs.
Darrow proceeded.
"Really, Miss Crane, I don't think I deserved to be so deceived at your
hands. You might at least have told me that you were a singer at that
class of--entertainment."
There was a dead silence. Barton looked daggers, and was in truth
somewhat fearful that more of Miriam's past life than he liked was on
the verge of discovery. Major Dundas raised his eyebrows, and Gerald, to
conceal his surprise, hastily turned away. With a faint smile Miriam
took the music, and looked coldly at Mrs. Darrow.
"I never sang a song in public in my life," she said, "and most
certainly I have nothing to do with the Frivolity Music Hall."
"But the name is yours, and, I think, the handwriting too. How do you
explain that?"
"The handwriting, as you say, is mine. But the name is not. If you must
know, the song belonged to my brother, Michael Crane. He was very fond
of the Frivolity Music Hall. He heard the song there, and bought it to
sing himself. He was quite absurd in his liking for that class of thing,
and really sang songs of the kind remarkably well--so much so that I
often used to say he would end by becoming a music-hall singer. I
happened to write his name upon this song, and I added 'The Frivolity
Music Hall' simply by way of a joke. I little thought when I did so that
it would be the means of placing me in my present position. I can only
say that it is one I don't appreciate in the least."
Thus did Mrs. Darrow's bombshell burst with but little real result--so
little that the lady could but with difficulty conceal her
disappointment. She was ready to discredit Miriam's explanation
altogether, but Barton, delighted at her discomfiture, put an end to
that.
"I knew Michael Crane very well myself," he said. "Indeed, I have often
heard him sing his comic songs, though I cannot say I have heard this
particular one. So I think you owe Miss Crane a very deep apology,
Julia, for the most unpleasant way you chose of putting things."
Miriam gave the Squire a glance full of gratitude.
"Oh, not at all," she said. "It was a very natural mistake to make--I
mean about the name. As for the other thing, that hardly matters, does
it?--after all, whatever I have done in the past can concern no one but
myself. Now that it is settled that I am still a respectable member of
society, if you really wish to hear me, I will sing." And without taking
any notice of the effect of her words, Miriam turned to the key-board
and commenced the prelude of the song she had chosen.
As her noble voice rolled through the room, Hilda and Mrs. Darrow
exchanged glances of extreme significance. Their little plot had failed.
They had been ignominiously beaten, and they knew it. Mrs. Darrow
rapidly surveyed the position in her own mind, and decided to make the
best of a very bad job. So when Miriam had finished her song she
approached her.
"I am afraid I was very wrong, Miss Crane," she tittered. "But you must
admit it was a wholly excusable mistake."
"I have already said so, Mrs. Darrow," replied Miriam coldly, "very
excusable. Please think no more about it."
But when the party broke up, Gerald managed to get close to Miriam, and
to whisper something in her ear.
"I knew your face was familiar to me," he said. "It was at the
'Frivolity' I saw you. But fear nothing from me. I will keep your
secret!"