MIRIAM KEEPS AN APPOINTMENT.
Of all things in this most inexplicable world, one of the most
inexplicable is why some people, deserving of real happiness, should be
predestined by circumstances to a misery they cannot avert. They may be
honest, kindly, intelligent, industrious, praiseworthy in many respects,
deserving in all; but some malignant fate misguides them, and drags
them, as with invisible chains, to that abyss which is the scoundrel's
natural goal. Every step they take is in the wrong direction, on the
downward path; every act they do, however deliberate, leads only to
trouble. With the ingenuity of a fox pursued they may twist and turn and
double, only to end in running directly into the foreseen trap. How Fate
must laugh at their futile efforts to avoid the inevitable, and sneer at
their attempts to fend off a danger which is destined to overwhelm them.
Kick against the pricks they may for a longer or a shorter period,
according to their capacity for stubborn resistance; but in the end,
worn out, terrified, despairing, they must perforce submit their bodies
to the relentless whips of the gods. Why this should be so, why these
innocents should suffer a fate than which no malefactor can suffer
worse, is unilluminable by the light of either science or religion.
Poor Miriam was a prominent example of such relentless and predestined
misfortune. Born with a noble nature and a kindly heart, gifted with
beauty and with talent, she had been dragged down to the depths by some
power she could not defy. When Barton had come to her aid she had
thought that the tide of fortune had turned at last in her favour, and
would drift her into a haven of peace. Such she had trusted to find in
this quiet country village; but even here it seemed she was to be
pursued and crushed by the same ubiquitous fate. Mrs. Darrow, on no
reasonable grounds, hated her; Gerald, the one man whose love she now
craved, withheld that love from her; Barton had her in his toils; Jabez
was coming out of the darkness to haunt and trouble her; and on every
side she was surrounded with difficulties. Since Mrs. Darrow had given
her notice, she had almost in despair resolved to take what money was
due to her and disappear--to break off with the past, and try once again
to begin her life afresh and unhampered by the sins of others. But a
very brief reflection showed her that she could not even do this. She
was too keenly conscious of her duty to shirk her responsibilities--to
do that would be with her only to carry remorse in addition to her other
burdens. So she resolved to abide where she was, and face the worst. But
her spirit was broken, and her power of resistance to evil fortune
well-nigh gone.
Mrs. Darrow still held to her intention of dismissing her governess; but
at the same time she had no fancy that Uncle Barton should know anything
about it for the present. That would inevitably mean direct conflict in
which she was sure to be worsted. It would be well, she thought, to put
things to Miss Crane from that point of view.
"There is no need because we are going to part that we should do so in
anger, Miss Crane," she said frigidly. "For my part I am quite willing
that things should be just as they were until you go. Nor is it
necessary really that Mr. Barton knows anything about it--it would only
upset him, and lead to unpleasantness all round. Indeed, it might even
hasten your departure, so I don't think if I were you----"
"I understand perfectly, Mrs. Darrow," interrupted Miriam. "I will say
nothing to Mr. Barton for the present. I am quite willing to go."
"You must understand, Miss Crane," pursued the widow, egotistic and
tactless as ever, "that I must be mistress in my own house. I approve of
you in many ways, and I admit that you have fulfilled your duties with
discretion. At the same time I confess I do not like the mystery with
which you choose to surround yourself."
"There is no mystery about me, Mrs. Darrow. Mr. Barton made such
inquiries as he thought necessary, I presume, before he engaged me."
"Then what satisfies Mr. Barton does not satisfy me. I find it
impossible to reconcile your very mysterious behaviour with an absence
of mystery in your life. You lock your bedroom door, and write letters
to mysterious people of whom I know nothing, and you are intimate--far
too intimate--with Mr. Barton himself, for that matter. I speak only for
your good."
"If, as you suggest, we are to remain friendly until I go, I think you
had better not speak at all," replied Miriam coldly.
"Miss Crane, this insolence----"
"Had better come to an end--so I think. You will observe, Mrs. Darrow,
that hitherto I have treated you with scrupulous politeness, and I
demand the same in return. Whether I go or stay is a matter of complete
indifference to me, but I decline absolutely to put up with impertinence
from you. Any further interference with my private affairs, and I
complain to Mr. Barton--either that, or you behave properly to me, and I
remain till the end of the month, as you wish. I don't think that leaves
much room for misunderstanding, Mrs. Darrow. At least, there is no need
to continue this very undignified wrangling."
And Miriam, with her head in the air, walked out of the room.
"Miss Crane, come back!--I insist--I command!" screeched Mrs. Darrow,
like an angry parrot.
But Miriam paid no heed, and the worsted one was constrained to take
refuge in tears.
"To be treated so in my own house!" she wept, "and by one of the lower
orders, too! Bad woman--and red-haired minx that she is!"
But all Mrs. Darrow's expletives could not alter the situation. If she
turned Miriam out of the house, as she would have dearly loved to do,
there would be trouble with her uncle; and if, on the other hand, she
kept her for the month, she would have to treat her civilly, since Miss
Crane did not--as she put it--know her place; the word "place" being
construed by Mrs. Darrow to mean a capacity for swallowing meekly as
much of her bullying and bad temper as she might choose to indulge in.
And as for this Miriam showed no kind of aptitude, she perforce had to
make up her mind to the inevitable. So she went to bed, and dosed
herself with a wondrous mixture of the combined "bromides," and brooded
over her wrongs. She was a spiteful and malicious woman, with an element
of hysteria thrown in, and she would freely have given a year of her
life to do Miriam an injury. For the next few days she kept a cat-like
watch on her. Possessed of a trifle more brain power she might have been
dangerous. But, as it was, she inclined more to that peculiar class of
cantankerous and neurotic female for whom the ducking-stool was surely
designed.
Meanwhile, Miriam anxiously awaited a reply from Jabez. Two days before
Christmas she received it. A dirty envelope, containing an even more
dirty half-sheet of paper, was thrust into her hand by Mrs. Darrow
herself, who, noting the particularly soiled appearance of it,
immediately became suspicious. On the paper was scribbled a curt
announcement from the writer that he would be at Lesser Thorpe on
Christmas Eve at ten o'clock. Miriam was to meet him in the churchyard
at that time, or, as he put it, "it'll be worse for you and me!"
There was no help for it, the appointment must be kept, though how she
was to manage to get out at such an hour she did not know. When the
night came, it was fine and frosty, although snow had been falling
heavily during the day. She decided to put a bold face on it, and about
nine o'clock presented herself to Mrs. Darrow in her hat and cloak.
"With your permission," she said briefly, "I am just going to run over
and see Mrs. Parsley."
"Why on earth should you want to see Mrs. Parsley at this hour?"
"Well, the truth is, I have received a very important letter from
London, and I want to consult her."
She felt half inclined to refuse, but remembering that Mrs. Parsley was
a close friend of Miriam's, and had, moreover, anything but a soft
tongue, she thought better of it, and consented. But she firmly believed
her governess had some very different object for her errand, and
determined to follow her.
"You can go," she said rudely, resuming her book.
"Thank you," replied Miriam, too grateful at receiving permission to be
punctilious about the tone in which it was given. Then she went out.
As soon as the gate clashed after her, Mrs. Darrow put on her cloak, and
followed swiftly.
The sky was clear of clouds, and though there was no moon, the frosty
twinkle of the stars threw a steely light on the mask of snow covering
the earth. Through the cold luminosity of this white world Miriam glided
like a shadow, and after her stole Mrs. Darrow. There was no wind, no
sound of any human voice. They two might have been the only denizens of
that frozen landscape.
Resolved to give some colourable pretext in accordance with the excuse
she had made, Miriam went straight from Pine Cottage to the Vicarage, at
which Mrs. Darrow was not a little disconcerted, not to say incensed.
She asked herself whether after all the girl might not have spoken the
truth.
"But I'll wait and see you home, my young lady," she decided. "It is not
Mrs. Parsley alone you are after at this hour, I'll be bound."
For a long time she waited, and waiting nursed her wrath. Several of the
villagers passed along the road, more or less merry in honour of the
festive season. But Mrs. Darrow was well hidden in the shadow, and they
did not see her. When ten clanged from the square tower of the church,
she was getting very tired of it, and had almost made up her mind to go
home. She was nearly frozen, and there seemed to be no chance of
catching Miriam in any mischief. But fate was kinder to her than she
deserved, for hardly had the last boom of the hour died in the frosty
air, when Miriam suddenly emerged from the Vicarage gate, and crossed
the white road into the churchyard.
"Ah!" murmured Mrs. Darrow, with a thrill of pleasure, "so you are up to
something after all, my lady!"
She hugged herself with malicious glee that she had at length got Miriam
under her thumb, and darting across the road, followed stealthily in her
wake. On the white surface of the snow she saw the girl's black figure
turn the corner of the church. If discovered, she could always say that
she had been alarmed by Miriam's long absence, and had come to look for
her. But Mrs. Darrow had no intention of being discovered. There was too
much at stake for that.
Keeping well in the shadow of the church walls, the widow stumbled over
the tombstones ankle deep in the snow, turned the corner, and crept
along the chancel wall under the great rose-window. Then the murmur of
two voices struck on her ear, and she slipped behind a buttress where
she could both see and hear. The friendly snow muffled her tread, and
the deep shadows lent their aid in concealing her, and Mrs. Darrow found
herself in an excellent position for the work she had in hand. Now at
last she felt that Miriam was delivered up to her, and she rejoiced
accordingly.
There, but a few yards away, stood two figures. The one was Miriam, the
other that of a tall man, whose features Mrs. Darrow could not discern.
But she gathered that he was ragged and unkempt, and, from the way he
kept looking over his shoulder, evidently apprehensive. Miriam had her
hand on his arm, and was speaking hurriedly and low, but in that
rarified atmosphere Mrs. Darrow had no difficulty in following every
word.
"Oh, Jabez, why _did_ you come here--it is _so_ dangerous."
"No more dangerous than it is in London," growled the man. "Besides, no
one bothers about me now."
"You are mistaken--Mr. Barton does for one."
"Barton!--what, the chap who took you up? What does he know of me?"
"Everything."
"You told him then!"
"No. But that night, weak and ill as I was, somehow he seemed to exert a
power over me which I couldn't resist, and I told him your real name but
nothing more, Jabez; I swear, nothing more!"
"You fool--what more need you tell him. That was quite enough to put him
on my track anyway."
"God forgive me, yes!" wept Miriam, wringing her hands. "I know--he
employed some man to find out all about you. Oh, Jabez, that is why it
is so mad for you to be here, for I fear he knows the truth!"
"Who was the man?"
"I don't know his name. Barton calls him 'The Shadow'--he is a tall,
dark, lean man, with a deep voice."
Jabez started.
"I've seen him. I know--he comes to Mother Mandarin's, but I have never
spoken to him. The old hag knows his name right enough, but she keeps it
mighty dark. So he has been hunting me down, has he?"
"Yes, yes--but he is friendly to you, Jabez. It was he who told me to
advise you against coming here. That was why I wrote to you."
The man stamped impatiently.
"Now look here, Miriam, if that Barton of yours crosses my path, I'll
slip a knife into him straight, so I tell you!"
"Jabez, don't--don't say it. Keep away, and I'm sure he won't harm you."
"Then why does he set this man on my track?"
"Only to gain power over me. He knows how afraid I am, lest--lest
anything should happen to you, but I would do anything or suffer
anything rather than you should come to harm. And so, knowing what he
knows, he is able to force me to obey him. And, besides that, Jabez, I
have an enemy in the person of this Mrs. Darrow, whose little boy I am
teaching. She has dismissed me, and, if by any chance, she came to know
my past, and my connection with you--well, I am afraid to say what might
happen. You see how foolish you have been to come here!"
"So you are dismissed! Well, I'm sorry for that. I thought you were well
provided for. I can't help you. But I won't bother you. I'm going off to
America, to make a fresh start--that's really why I came down here. I
want some money, Miriam."
"I can only give you twenty pounds," said the girl, feeling in her
pocket "Here it is in gold. I knew you would want some."
"Lord, is that all?"
"Yes, Jabez. It is every pound that I have--it is the remains of the
cheque Mr. Barton gave me to buy my outfit when I came here."
"Well, I'll take it, but it's little enough," he grumbled, slipping the
purse into his pocket "I suppose I'll get to America somehow."
"Oh, dear, do take care of yourself--perhaps I shall never see you
again. I feel so terribly alone, Jabez, and when you are gone----"
She burst into tears almost uncontrollable.
"Come, keep up your pecker, old girl--you'll be all right. Why don't you
fix it up with the old man?"
"Ugh!"
Miriam's ejaculation expressed the greatest loathing.
"Jabez! I would as soon marry a snake! You don't know what he is."
"Yes I do--a meddlesome old devil, who goes poking his nose into other
people's affairs----"
"Hush," cried Miriam, grasping his arm, "someone is coming."
"They can't hurt----"
But he got no further, for the sound of footsteps crunching the snow
came rapidly nearer.
"Good-bye, Miriam," he whispered. "You've been a brick to me. Take care
of yourself," and hastily kissing her, he made for the low wall of the
churchyard, scaled it, and disappeared into the pine woods beyond.
Miriam looked after him until he was lost in the darkness, then hastily
made her way home.