IN THE WOODS.
Having thus ignominiously failed in her attempt to bring about Miriam's
downfall, Mrs. Darrow judged it wise, for the time being at least, to
desist from further attempts in the same direction--in fact, she left
her governess severely alone. She realised that her abortive experiment
had resulted not only in failure of her object, but that it had utterly
destroyed her chance of obtaining from Uncle Barton that little cheque
which was looming up so distinctly and pleasantly on her mental horizon
when she conceived her little plan for the undoing of Miriam Crane. And,
worse still, she realised that Uncle Barton now knew the reason for her
proposed hospitality. Nor was he long in taxing her with it, and
administering in a series of expressive periods verbal chastisement as
severe as any Mrs. Darrow had had to swallow from him for long past.
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.
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."
Gerald protested hotly.
"I am not quite the black crow you paint me, Miss Crane. I most heartily
approve of the course you took. It would have done nothing but harm all
round if you had taken any other. No one shall ever hear a word of it
from me. Whatever I am, I'm not the man to think lightly of a woman
because she has had to come through the rough and tumble of life a bit.
You have had a hard fight for it, but you have won, and although you
have told me pretty plainly that you think precious little of me and my
present mode of life, my opinion of you is--if you care to have it--that
you are a very fine and noble woman, and worth a hundred Julias any day
of the week."
This was sweet music to Miriam's ears. He believed in her withal. She
was, in his mind, on an equality with the best--on an equality with
Hilda, fenced off as she had been by the protective pale of home
influence from the harsh and bitter realities of the world. How good it
was to know that! It had cut her to the quick to think that perhaps she
stood in his mind on a lower plane. But thus reassured from his own
lips, she felt she could bear anything--almost to lose him.
"Indeed, indeed, I care to have it, Mr. Arkel," she said. "It is not
because I urge you to take up your own fight in life that I value your
good opinion the less. I know you are capable of good things, and I want
to see you achieve them. You do not start handicapped as I did; you have
not the sins of others to hamper you----" she stopped, for with the
words came the thought of Barton and his diabolic scheme. "You have but
one enemy worth the counting."
"And who is that?"
"Yourself. You are weak, and your love of pleasure dwarfs all else with
you. At least you can strive to put a check on your desires--to indulge
yourself less. Then gradually the rest will come; if you will only try.
Will you?"
There was a whole world of meaning in her tone; and the expression upon
her face was very beautiful. His eye met hers, and he took her hand.
"I will try, Miss Crane," he said. "No one has ever spoken to me before
as you have done. I know that what you say is true. You are a brave
woman, and as good and kind as you are brave. I will try and deserve the
interest you take in me."
"And you will succeed," said Miriam. "All I would ask of you is to be
worthy of yourself."