SHORTY.
In every community or family there is generally one person who is strong
enough to play the part of the cuckoo in the nest. The relative with a
temper, who always gets his or her way--the bully of the tribe--the
despot of the nation--these types are well-known if not appreciated.
They dominate all those with whom they come in contact; they storm down
opposition, and rule by sheer force of terror. Mrs. Darrow had the
instinct and will to be one of this sort, but neither was her brain of
sufficient capacity, nor her will sufficiently dogged to permit her
attaining to such eminence. But the parish had its despot, and that in
the person of Mrs. Parsley, the vicar's wife. She was a domestic
Elizabeth crossed with Zantippe, and her sway was absolute.
Mr. Parsley--the Reverend Augustine--was a tall, imposing-looking man,
who should surely have been a bishop if looks went to the making of one.
He was learned in a dry-as-dust sort of way, and was at present engaged
in writing a book on the Hebrew syntax, though of what use this would be
to the world when it was finished--if it ever did reach the finite
stage--no one knew, himself least of all. However, as Mrs. Parsley said,
his labours served to keep him out of mischief, and therefore she
encouraged him in his digging for Jewish roots.
For forty years had the Rev. Augustine been vicar of Lesser Thorpe, so
by right of possession his wife had a title to her social throne. In
contrast to her imposing husband, she was a dry chip of a woman, tall
and marvellously lean, with a clacking tongue, a wonderful comprehensive
vocabulary, and a thoracic resonance almost as deep as the vicar's. To
hear the two of them discoursing was to listen to the bell of St. Paul's
discoursing with Big Ben. As a rule, on such occasions, Mr. Parsley's
part was closely analagous to that of confidant to a stage heroine,
which is as much as to say he threw out remarks, provocative of
arguments, recollections, scoldings, and scandal. Mrs. Parsley was a
notable gossip, and had the history of the parish for the last forty
years at the tip of her tongue. Her memory was renowned, her tongue was
dreaded, and all, not excepting Mr. Barton, bowed to her sway.
Not for some considerable time after she had become a member of Mrs.
Darrow's household did Miriam meet this formidable lady, for, taking
into her head that she was threatened with pulmonary disease, Mrs.
Parsley had insisted on starting for Davos Platz at a moment's notice,
and on remaining there until she felt quite sure the dreaded visitor had
given up all claim to her very imposing person.
For a wonder she left the Rev. Augustine behind, and he enjoyed his
holiday prodigiously wrestling with the letter "Jod," while his
curates--he had two of them, the meekest of their kind--attended to the
church services and to the other spiritual requirements of his parish.
When shortly before Christmas Mrs. Parsley returned, she immediately
called at Pine Cottage to see the new governess of whom she had already
heard the most conflicting accounts. Then a most wonderful thing
happened--she took a fancy to Miriam.
More than this, Mrs. Parsley told Miriam so, and forthwith enrolled her
under the aegis of her own tongue, so that all gossip suddenly ceased,
and Miriam was as much praised as formerly she had been blamed. For Mrs.
Parsley approved of the way in which Dicky's education was being
conducted, and congratulated Mrs. Darrow on having one sensible woman
under her roof.
"The first time there has been any sense there to my knowledge," she
sniffed, to which expression of opinion the widow did not dare to object
lest worse should befall her. She had too many weak spots in her armour
to allow of her defying Mrs. Parsley.
One consequence of all this was that Miriam visited the Vicarage
frequently, and became as great a favourite of the Rev. Augustine's as
she was of his wife's. He told her in his characteristic dreamy way that
in Hebrew Miriam meant "the strong one," and that it was eminently
suited to her, since she was strong of body, brain, and will. And Dicky
sometimes went with Miriam, and played in Mr. Parsley's study, where he
found many things grateful to his imaginative faculties. For the vicar
was something of an antiquarian, and had a store of ancient coins, still
more ancient images, and wonderful reproductions of Assyrian and
Babylonian sculptures, all of which the child delighted in. It was
always a happiness for Dicky to visit that wonder-room.
A week before Christmas the weather turned cold and raw. There had been
a slight fall of snow, and, owing to the absence of sunshine, much of it
still lay on the ground. A bitter wind swept inland from the sea, and
whistled through the bare branches of the trees, so that the woods
around reverberated like harp-strings. Night was drawing in, but in the
Vicarage parlour all was snug and cosy. The vicar himself was buried in
his books in his study. So Mrs. Parsley and her visitor had the
drawing-room to themselves, and were drinking their tea before a bright
and cheerful fire. As she listened to that never-failing verbal flow,
Miriam threw in a word occasionally because she knew it was expected of
her, and in order to show her appreciation of the words of wisdom
showered upon her with such reckless prodigality. The conversation--or,
to be more correct, the homily--turned upon the personality of Mr.
Barton.
"He is a bad man," said Mrs. Parsley, shaking her head at the fire, "a
free-thinker, and a walker in darkness. But we must not be too hard on
him--indeed who could be hard upon a lunatic?"
"Do you really call Mr. Barton insane?" asked Miriam.
"Why not? I don't think he has ever been sane since he had brain fever!"
"I never knew that he had had brain fever."
"Yes, indeed--some thirty years ago--it was all about some woman, or
rather women, I believe. I wonder you haven't heard about it."
Miriam judged it best to assume entire ignorance of Mr. Barton's past.
"Do tell me all about it, Mrs. Parsley," she entreated.
"Well, it's not a very complimentary story to our sex, my dear. But,
there, I never did think much of women. Who could," she exclaimed, with
sudden gusto, "when there are such fools as Mrs. Darrow and minxes like
Hilda Marsh to be found in every parish? I'd give them both the
ducking-stool if I could. Hilda--there's a smiling cat for you, and as
deceitful as--as a weasel. She never helps her wretched mother, but
thinks of nothing but dressing herself up in fripperies that are never
paid for. She thinks to secure that idiot of a Gerald Arkel by her
mincing. But she shan't. I'll put a stop to that. We've got more than
enough with the two of them, without letting them marry and produce more
fools."
"But about Mr. Barton?" asked Miriam, bringing the good lady back to the
subject in hand. "I am very curious to hear this story of his."
"I can soon tell it to you. Barton was a younger son--a gay,
light-hearted young fellow, not unlike Gerald Arkel, but of course with
ten times the brains. He was engaged to marry a pretty, and, strange to
say, sensible girl, who would no doubt have made him an excellent wife.
But one of his sisters--Arkel's mother--took it upon her to interfere
(so like them!), with the result that the girl married somebody else.
Well, Barton, who was always a nervous, highly strung sort of creature,
went off his head altogether, and was seriously bad for years. While he
lived his elder brother looked after him, but unfortunately the brother
died, and Barton came in for the property. He then had to go his own
way, and a pretty mess he made of it."
"But what reason had his sister for interfering--surely it was very
wrong?"
Mrs. Parsley rubbed her nose, as she was wont to do when puzzled.
"Of course it was wrong, my dear; but I never did get at the exact
truth. There was a great deal of talk about it at the time--some said
one thing some another. Barton and Mrs. Arkel--she was Flora Barton
then--held their tongues you may be sure. But I had my own opinion, and
I still have it," concluded Mrs. Parsley, frowning at the fire.
"And what is it?" said Miriam. "But perhaps I should not ask."
"Oh yes, you may, my dear. You are very discreet I know. I don't mind
telling you. Well, Flora was very much in love with a man named Farren,
a penniless scamp though of good family. She ended by eloping with him,
and Barton (our friend) followed her and brought her back. The man went
off to India--was bribed to go! _He's_ never been right in his head
since either, I believe. Flora never forgave her brother, and out of
revenge she made up some disgraceful story about him, and went straight
with it to the girl with whom he was in love, a Miss Cotton, who,
without giving him the benefit of the doubt, sent back his ring, and of
course broke off the engagement. He tried to see her, but her mother,
who was also prejudiced by Flora's story, took her away at once, and
eventually the girl married some other man. The thing so preyed upon
Barton's mind, that he got brain fever, as I told you, and Flora
married--was forced, I think, to marry--Arkel. She had one son, and
died. But Barton never forgave her. And," added Mrs. Parsley, with great
emphasis, "that is the part I never could make out!"
"What do you mean?" asked Miriam, much interested.
"Why, when Arkel's father died, Barton took his nephew and had him
educated, and, in fact, has allowed him an income ever since. From all
accounts he intends to make him his heir. Now," said Mrs. Parsley,
looking directly at Miriam, "why, I ask, should a vindictive creature
like that be so kind to the son of the sister whom he detested?"
Miriam could have answered that question very quickly; but she felt she
had no right to betray the Squire's confidence; she therefore contented
herself with asking Mrs. Parsley in what particular way she considered
Barton "queer."
"Oh, my dear!" and the good lady lifted up her hands, "have you seen the
books in his library? Of all criminal literature!--I'd burn the whole
lot if I could. The man has a perfect mania for reading about murders
and robberies, and all that sort of thing. He goes up to London, and
associates with the blackest criminals, haunts the slums; in fact, takes
a fiendish delight in contemplating the worst side of human nature. A
curate of ours, who went to work in the East End, saw him one day in the
company of a Chinaman--fancy, a Chinaman! From that you may judge the
sort of company he keeps in London. He's not only queer, in my opinion,
but mad--right down mad!"
But all this did not let in much new light on the vagaries of the
gentleman in question so far as Miriam could see. If he haunted the
slums, as Mrs. Parsley said, she could easily understand how he came to
be on Waterloo Bridge at midnight. What she could not explain, save by
the theory of lunacy, was this criminal craze and love of associating
with the lowest of human kind. And although she discussed this point
thoroughly with Mrs. Parsley, that lady could supply no reason save the
aforesaid one of "queerness," than which she did not think a stronger
was necessary. So for the time being the subject dropped, and Mrs.
Parsley, having finished her tea, and enjoyed it, was minded to "put on
her things" preparatory to an evening jaunt.
"I will walk home a bit of the way with you, my dear," she said
graciously. "I have to see old Pegwin, who is passing away rapidly. I
must arrange with him about his funeral."
With this cheerful object Mrs. Parsley left the Vicarage with Miriam.
There was a drizzling rain and a high wind, and walking was anything but
pleasant. On the outskirts of the village--the church and Vicarage stood
some way beyond it--Mrs. Parsley left Miriam to make the rest of her way
home alone, and started down a side lane for the Pegwin cottage--so
called--although it was little better than a pig-stye. As she battled
against the wind, the lean figure of a ragged boy suddenly started out
of the hedge, and ran past her in the direction Miriam had taken.
Mrs. Parsley, who knew every face in the village, saw that the boy was a
stranger, and filled with curiosity immediately gave chase. In a very
few moments she had the urchin by the scruff of the neck.
The boy wriggled and twisted, and kicked Mrs. Parsley's shins, but that
indomitable lady held on, and whacked vigorously with her umbrella.
"You monkey," she raged, "who are you, and what are you doing here?"
He was a stunted, pale-faced brat, with a particularly repulsive
countenance, rendered none the more inviting by his screwing it up with
a leer.
"'Ere you, lemme alone, will yer?" he yelped, still wriggling. "I ain't
a-doin' nothin' to yer, blarst yer!"
"Don't you swear at me, boy, or I'll have you locked up. Where do you
come from?"
"Where d' yer think I come from--Paris? 'Tain't no bisness of yourn,
any'ow."
"What are you doing here?"
"Shan't tell yer; wot's more, lady, I'll knife yer if yer don't lemme
go; s'elp me, I will!" and the boy kicked again.
Mrs. Parsley shook him.
"You horrible little creature! how dare you speak like that to me? We
want no vagrants here, so if you don't take yourself off out of this
village I'll have you put in jail, do you understand?"
"Oh, my eye, 'ere's a bloomin' shaime," wailed the boy. "I ain't a-doin'
no 'arm, mum. Father's 'ere, too, and I'm only a-goin' arter 'im. 'E's
got a carawan 'e 'as, an' 'e's perfect rispect'bl'. Le' go o' me, will
yer? I don't want t' 'urt yer!"
Mrs. Parsley was about to question him further, when, with a sudden
wriggle, he escaped from her clutches, leaving the collar of his coat in
her hand. Without even a look behind, he dodged up the lane, emitting
sounds which Mrs. Parsley could only take to be derisive, and
disappeared in the waning twilight. She would have followed, but as
Pegwin demanded her attention, she was reluctantly obliged to forego the
chase. In the meantime, like a hound on a scent, the boy had darted off
in the direction Miriam had taken, and, having caught up with her, spoke
to her.
"'Ere," he said hoarsely, "I want to speak to yer!"
"Shorty!" she exclaimed.
She recognised the creature at once. It was Shorty, the pilot-fish of
the Jabez shark!