"Julia, you shouldn't say that. Miss Crane is, I consider, a most charming young lady."
"Red hair – I'm glad you think that charming, John!"
"Are you speaking of Miss Crane?" said Gerald, rising from his seat by Hilda. "She's a plucky woman that – did you hear how she saved Dicky's life?"
"Dicky told me what happened," replied Mrs. Darrow sharply. "I rather think it was you, Gerald, who saved both her and my darling child."
"Oh, nonsense – I came in at the tag end," and Gerald related the whole adventure, glorifying Miriam's bravery in a manner which made Hilda long to box his ears. But the only outward and visible indication of these turbulent sensations within her breast was as usual the sweetest of sweet smiles.
Mrs. Darrow, having nothing to lose, was less careful.
"Bravery! – fudge!" she said politely. "I believe the whole thing was acting."
"I don't agree with you," said Gerald drily. "The bull certainly was acting, though hardly in the sense you mean."
"Then if it wasn't, she certainly isn't fit to be entrusted with Dicky's life. If I had lost my boy! – just think of it! I should have died. He is my life, my sole comfort on this earth – the image of my darling departed," &c., &c. —
To all of which both Gerald and the Major, acting upon that wisdom born of experience, agreed, though, needless to say, they retained their own opinions of the young lady under discussion.
In the meantime, Miss Crane, not ill-pleased to be out of the society of her enemies, paced meditatively on the terrace. The night was warm, cloudless, and silent – save for the wild singing of the nightingales in the woods. The gush of melody so piercingly sorrowful threw Miriam into a melancholy mood. In truth she had much to mourn for – much to regret, and the future was so full of doubt, its path so crowded with pitfalls and snares, that she could foresee nothing to cheer her there. Walking up and down, a black solitary figure in the white light of the moon, she was in herself the true embodiment of her sad and lonely life. From her earliest childhood she had known sorrow, and, on her of late had fallen too, the shadow of disgrace, yet she was as pure as the unsullied moonlight. For this beautiful, sad woman was a bearer in more than an ordinary degree of other people's burdens. She had many foes, but no friend – unless Barton could be called one – and he, as she knew only too well had befriended her only to use her as a tool. From her present environment there seemed to be no escape, unless she faced her benefactor boldly, and refused to obey turn. But for more reasons than one, she was unwilling to take the extreme course.
Her walk to the end of the terrace brought her abreast of the lighted windows of the library. Just as she was near them – about ten minutes after she had left the drawing-room – one of them opened. She shrank back in the shadow, and saw Barton step forth with a tall lean man, the very man she had seen on the previous day. The pair talked in low whispers for a moment or so – then the man fluttered down the terrace steps like a huge bat, and disappeared in the shade of the trees overhanging the avenue. Barton looked after him, and shook his fist, an action at which Miriam wondered in so hard and seemingly impervious a man. His back was towards her, and not wishing to be found eavesdropping – although truly she had heard no word – she stepped out again into the moonlight.
At the sound of her light tread Barton spun round like a beast at bay; but when he saw who it was he smiled and saluted her. He was too sure of his power over her to fear anything she might have overheard. But Miriam had heard nothing, and said as much in reply to his sharp question.
"I was just taking a walk in the cool air," she explained. "The others are enjoying themselves very well without me. I am only the governess, you know – and a great thing in a governess is to know when her room is preferable to her company, isn't it?"
"Oh, I know; but I wonder what they would say if they knew something else. A governess! Oh, Lord!"
And Barton chuckled as he looked at the beautiful woman whose face was so pale in the moonlight.
Perfectly calm, since she felt able now to resist Barton's mesmeric power, Miriam stepped into the library.
"Come in here, Mr. Barton," said she imperiously, "I must speak to you."
Somewhat surprised at her tone, Barton followed her, and, having made fast the window, looked at her in the yellow lamplight.
Miriam, with her hands loosely clasped on her black dress, looked, in her turn, without flinching, at this man who considered himself her master. His eyes – wicked as they were – fell before that clear resolute gaze.
"Well, what is it?" he asked roughly, and threw himself into a chair.
Still standing, Miriam replied to this question quietly and with curtness.
"I wish to go away."
"Indeed! You wish to go away – why?"
"Because I am not happy here, and I am doing no good."
"Indeed, I think you are doing a great deal of good," replied Barton, with a gentleness far from common with him. "You are making a man of Dicky. You have rescued him from the influence of his foolish mother. Come, Miriam, let us sit down and talk this over."
"I am fond of Dicky," said Miriam, taking a seat; "he is a good child and very lovable. If it were only Dicky I should not mind. But his mother is jealous of me. She hates me; so does that Marsh girl. They would do me an injury if they could. Besides," added she, looking very earnestly at Barton, "I do not quite understand you – why did you rescue me in London, and bring me down here?"
Barton rose, and began to pace to and fro. He prefaced his speech with his customary chuckle.
"Oh, it was no philanthropy, believe me," he said. "If you had been a plain woman, you might have gone your way. I told you that before. As it was, I saw that you were not – in fact, not only were you a beautiful woman, which was necessary to my plans, but you were a good one into the bargain. I knew that, notwithstanding your somewhat equivocal position when we met on Waterloo Bridge. So I brought you here. You know why."
"I know what you said – that you wished me to marry some one in whom you were interested, and the other day you pointed out Mr. Arkel as the gentleman. But why do you wish me to marry him?"
"I'll tell you that later. But, say, have I not been good to you – bad man as you think me to be?"
"In a manner you have, but I cannot disguise from myself that what you have done has been to your own ends. You have given me money for myself and Jabez, and you have obtained me this situation – "
"You forget – there is something else. Did I not promise you two hundred pounds if you succeeded in marrying Gerald, and taking him away from that shallow hussy?"
"Yes, and I accepted your offer, so that Jabez might go to America, and there start afresh – it was for his sake I did it."
"He is not worthy of it, believe me."
Miriam made a gesture of despair.
"Perhaps not; but knowing what you do you cannot wonder at my anxiety to help him all I can – yes, even if to do it, I have to marry at your bidding."
"But Gerald is a handsome fellow, Miriam. I can't see what you have to complain of!"
"This," she replied passionately, "that my feelings threaten to upset your scheme – that is what I complain of. If this marriage were one of cold calculation, if I had but to play my rôle of adventuress, and marry your nephew, perhaps I could do it, and perhaps from a sense of duty I could make him a better wife than Miss Marsh is likely to do. But I – " She paused, and dropped her voice to a lower tone. "But I already have a – a very sincere regard for Mr. Arkel."
"All the better; it will be so much the easier for you to carry out your part of the bargain."
"No," Miriam rose grandly. "As an instrument for the sake of Jabez, I was willing to be used,