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 ægis 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!

CHAPTER IX.

THE SHADOW

The sudden apparition of Shorty at once dismayed and disheartened Miriam. It seemed as if she were never to shake off the past – never to be allowed entirely to emerge from out the mire into which she had sunk through no fault of her own. If Mrs. Darrow were to see her in confidential discourse with this Arab of the gutter, Heaven only knew what would be the result. With apprehension she glanced swiftly up and down the road. But no one was in sight. Then quietly she glided to the lee-side of a cottage, where she was sheltered both from sight and from the wind. Shorty followed her with rat-like activity, and snuggled in his rags against her skirts. The night was closing in around them, and she shuddered and shrank back from the contact of this obscene creature who had crawled out of the darkness, as it were, across her path. The urchin gazed at her admiringly.

"My eye, y'are a stunner, y'are," he croaked, hugging himself; "wot 'ud old Mother Mandarin say t' ye now?"

"Hush!" Miriam glanced round again. "Nonsense, Shorty; someone might hear! What do you want – money?"

"I cud do with a bit. Travellin' fust clarse fro' London costs a 'eap; an' m' close ain't wot they shuld be fur wisitin'."

With a hasty gesture Miriam drew away her skirts, and producing two half-crowns handed them to the boy.

"This will get you food," she said hurriedly. "I can't give you any more. I am little better off than you are."

Shorty clinked the coins together, and whistled shrilly – much to Miriam's dismay. But the wind was so loud that the sound was drowned in the sweeping of the blast.

"How did you find me out?" she asked.

"Jabez knew. Y' sent him twenty quid fro' Craven Street, didn't y'?"

"Yes, but I didn't tell him where I was going."

Shorty hugged himself again and uttered a dignified screech.

"I foun' yer out, I did. Jabez 'e sent me t' the 'otel as y' guv the name on the letter y' sent the quid with, an' I went there, an' sawr the ole cove as Jabez tried to scrag."

"But how did you find out? Did Mr. – did he tell you?"

"Ho yes! 'e tole me, leastways 'e tole Mother Mandarin, an' she tole me, an' I tole Jabez; an' 'e sez, 'you jes' go down,' 'e sez, 'an' say to Miriam as I wants to 'ave a word with 'er, I does,' an' I sez, 'right y'are,' an' I pass off down 'ere, I does, and sleep in barns an' 'aystacks, an' dodges the bloomin' peelers. An' I gits 'ere to-day, an' I sees you a talkin' to that skinny laidy; an' wot does she do but ketches me a clout on the 'ead an' arsks questions; but she didn't fin' out nothink fro' me, no, blarst 'er! – not a bloomin' word, an' I clears out arter you, an' 'ere I am;" and Shorty, having exhausted his stock of breath for the time being, executed a shuffle by way of keeping himself warm.

The cold would have killed a delicately nurtured child, but Shorty, like the man in the Greek story, was "all face," and the cold affected his hardened carcase but little. He shuffled and slapped his hands, and leered at Miriam until her very soul was sick within her. What had she done to be thus visited by this horrible reminder of the past?

"Did Mr. – did the old gentleman tell Mother Mandarin I was with him?"

"Ho yes, 'e tole 'er. Mother Mandarin's fly, she is, an' there ain't much she wants to know as she don't git t' know."

Miriam started, and, seizing the boy by the arm, looked at him searchingly.

"Does the old gentleman – ?" but Shorty interrupted her with a grin.

"Yes, that's it. Ho, 'e's a bad 'un, 'e is. As wicked a ole cuss as ever wos. 'Satan,' Mother Mandarin calls 'im, an' Satan 'e is."

"Does he often go to Mother Mandarin?"

"'E goes there a lot, 'e does. But look 'ere," continued Shorty crossly, "I can't staiy torkin' 'ere all night, I'm orf to git grub. 'Twas Jabez sent me 'ere, it wos."

"What does Jabez want?" Miriam had a premonition of ill.

"T' see y' an' 'ave a jaw, didn't I te' y' so?"

"I can't see him. I daren't leave here, Shorty."

"There ain't no ned. Jabez is a-comin' 'ere."

"Shorty!" Miriam seized hold of the boy again, and looked at him. He glanced at her and wriggled free with a yelp.

"Don't look at me like that; I ain't done nothink."

"He can't come here," said Miriam hurriedly. "Tell him he must not – he dare not. If he leaves London, he is lost!"

"I don't know; I don't know a bloomin' thing about it," said Shorty sullenly. "All I knows is as 'e said 'e wos a-comin' 'ere next week. Goin' to keep 'is 'oliday in the country. An' I don't want no more lip, Miriam, d' y' 'ear? If you'd let Jabez scrag that ole Satan, 'twould 'ave been best for 'im Jabez sez ye're t' meet 'im outside the church 'ere next Friday."

"What! has he been here before then – that is, since I came here?"

"I don't know. That's all 'e sez, an' all I knows. I'm orf for grub I tell yer."

"Shorty!" Miriam detained the boy. "I have always been kind to you."

"Ho yes – you're a good 'un as ever wos."

"Then don't speak of me to anyone about here. Don't say you've seen me; mind, Shorty, not a word."

"I'm fly." Shorty spun a coin like some horrible imp of darkness.

Miriam leaned against the wall of the cottage. It was with the utmost difficulty that she could keep up – she felt giddy and faint. Though on all sides she was environed with perils, it would never do to give way now. She would have to meet Jabez, yes, and fight him – otherwise he would betray her, and she would sink back again into the horrible life which she hoped she had left for ever. It was with a heavy heart and tread that she regained the road, and began to make her way home.

She walked along, a lonely figure on the lonely road – for the evening was so cold that the labourers and their wives were not inclined to loiter out of doors. More than once she had half a mind to turn back to the Vicarage, and tell the whole truth to Mrs. Parsley. She seemed kindly disposed to her – indeed fond of her; perhaps she would help her. But then, again, Mrs. Parsley was at best a hard woman, reared upon relentless dogma of the Old Testament. It was quite possible she might spurn her when she came to hear her story. Miriam had never confessed the whole truth, not even to Mr. Barton, although, in her early weak moments she had said enough to enable him to trace the rest through the strange creature he had called the Shadow. And though Barton knew all, he still remained her friend. But after what she had learned from Shorty concerning Mother Mandarin's connection with the Squire, she felt she could no longer trust him. It might be best to risk confiding in Mrs. Parsley, who was above suspicion, and possessed of much social power. She could not make up her mind. What was best? What was right? She paused, hesitated, and looked up for guidance to the windy sky. The stars were there, and the moon, across whose face the flying clouds were driving in the sweeping east wind; but there was no guidance, no hint of what course she should take. Thrown back on herself, Miriam wavered and was lost. She walked on and on and on; but she did not go back to Mrs. Parsley. Alas! had she but turned back on that fatal night how different would her future have been! She had come to the cross-roads, although she knew it not; and she had taken the wrong one. Henceforth her path was difficult, tortuous, and weary.

As, battling with her conflicting thoughts, Miriam pressed on to Pine Cottage in the face of the wind – which seemed as if it would drive her back to the Vicarage and Mrs. Parsley – a shadow, as it seemed, emerged from out the other shadows and came towards her. Then she saw that it was human – a tall, gaunt figure, clothed in black. Instantly and instinctively she knew this was the strange person whom Barton called the Shadow. Her nerves were so shaken by her late interview, that at this unexpected encounter she could not withhold a sharp cry.

"Who are you, and what do you want with me?" she panted.

Then for the first time she heard his voice, deep, sad, and thrilling – a voice that once had been beautiful, but had been robbed of half its beauty.

"Who I am does not matter," he said slowly. "What I want you shall know."

"Tell me," said Miriam, recovering from her first alarm.

"Know then that I overheard you and that lad. But you need not fear. Your secret lies safe in my keeping. I know you, and I know of you."

"Was it you who found out all about Jabez?"

"It was I, and it is of Jabez I would speak with you. He comes here soon to see you."

"So Shorty says."

"Then warn him while there is yet time that he does not come, for there is danger."

"From whom?" asked Miriam with a white face.

"From him who lives in yonder Manor – he threatens to arrest Jabez."

Miriam drew closer to him, and laid her hand upon his arm. It was in a frightened whisper she spoke.

"For what – for that?"

"Yes, indeed; for that. He knows all, and will surely use his knowledge."

"He dare not do that," and Miriam twisted her hands together as if in pain. "He will not – not while I obey him."

"Put not your hope in such false reasoning, child. He is a man relentless and of devilish persistency."

"But why should he seek to harm Jabez?"

"I know not. He gives no reason. But he threatens. Be warned, and if you would save your Jabez, act while there is time. Farewell."

"No, no; tell me who you are, and what you know of Mr. Barton."

"What do I know of Barton?" The man laughed fiercely. There was that in his laugh which caused Miriam to shiver. "What do I know of him? – more, child, than I dare reveal – more than, for my own sake, I dare to tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because he holds me in the hollow of his hand. I am a nameless man, and must ever be his slave. In warning you this night even I have run great risk. But I would save any soul from such a fate as mine."

"Oh!" Miriam shrank back. "Are you like Jabez?"

The nameless man looked at her through the darkness, and it seemed to Miriam as though his eyes were luminous. Peering into his face she saw stamped upon it a look of abject misery; the look of a soul damned past redemption – past all hope. For a moment they looked at one another, then the man stole quietly away – melted, as it were, into the surrounding blackness. Miriam made no attempt to stay him. She read in his eyes the look that she had read in Jabez', and knew what he was, and why he obeyed Barton. For quite a moment after he had left her she stood still, clutching at her heart as though there lurked a cruel pain. Then with a sigh she turned homeward – to the only home she knew.

Before she had taken many steps the rain began to fall in torrents, and in a few minutes the High Street of Lesser Thorpe was flooded with water. A furious wind, wailing and angry, drove the slanting spears of rain against her form, and she splashed ankle-deep through the water, so quickly had the flood risen. But Miriam did not care. There was that in her heart which made her callous to her surroundings – impervious utterly to any physical inconvenience. When she arrived at Pine Cottage, Mrs. Darrow, having heard the gate clash, herself came to the door. She was aghast at the change in her governess.

"Good Heavens, Miss Crane, what is the matter?"

"Nothing," replied Miriam tartly. "What should be the matter? I have just come from the Vicarage, and have been caught in the storm – that's all."

But Mrs. Darrow did not think that was "all." She was convinced something serious was the matter. But as all her inquiries, direct or indirect, proved fruitless, she was forced to return to the drawing-room with her curiosity only the more keen because unsatisfied. Miriam ran up to her room, and locking the door, sat down to write a letter. It was a letter of but one page, but it contained the substance of the Shadow's advice to Jabez that he should remain in London. She directed it to him, care of Mother Mandarin, 20, Sago Lane, Lambeth; and having stamped and sealed it, was about to take it to the post. With her hand upon the key of the door she paused. Then she sat down and thought.

It came upon her overwhelmingly that no longer could she bear her burden alone. She felt she must confide in somebody – must have the sympathy of some friendly soul. Again her thoughts turned to Mrs. Parsley. She was inclined to go and tell her everything as she had been before. Together Barton and this nameless spy were working for the end of Jabez. She felt convinced of it. Anything to save him from that – and indeed she herself must suffer with him. His downfall was hers too, and then – Yes, she would go.

She unlocked the door, and with the letter under her cloak ran downstairs. In the hall she was confronted by Mrs. Darrow. There was an angry glitter in the widow's eye.

"Where are you going, Miss Crane?"

"To post a letter."

"Cannot the servant post it?"

"No," replied Miriam curtly, and left the house.

Mrs. Darrow peered after her.

"She goes out in this fearful rain to post a letter – herself