CHAPTER XVIII.

THE REWARD OF MIRIAM.

Mrs. Perks received her quondam lodger with much show of heartiness.

During those few weeks' stay at the Pitt Hotel, while she had been

recruiting her shattered health prior to taking up the engagement at

Lesser Thorpe, Miriam had endeared herself to the little woman. And Mrs.

Perks, although snappish, distrustful, and burdened by the many cares

and hardened by the experience of sordid London life, was,

nevertheless--as she said herself--not slow to recognise a good woman

when she saw one, and she had long since admitted Miriam in her own mind

to that category. She had regretted Miss Crane's departure sincerely,

and now welcomed her even more so.

"You shall 'ave your own bed and sitting-room," she said, drawing her

shawl tightly round her spare form, "and that for as long as you likes.

Don't offer me money, or I shall refuse it with scorn; so don't offer

it, I begs."

"But I can't live on you for nothing, Mrs. Perks."

"If it's pride which sticks in your throat," said the landlady rubbing

her nose, "there is the 'ouse accounts which I can't do nowise, not

'aving an intelligent 'ead for figures. Do them for me, Miss Cranes, and

you'll be paying me 'andsome."

"I'll do the accounts with pleasure," replied Miriam, thankful for the

opportunity of thus paying her way; "and if you accept payment for my

board and lodging like that, I shall be only too pleased."

So the bargain was struck, and Miriam undertook to balance the finances

of the Pitt Hotel, which, to speak truly, were in a sad muddle. Mrs.

Perks was a good landlady, an excellent housekeeper, but when it came to

figures, Mrs. Perks was not in the first flight. The hotel, though by no

means a high class one, paid well enough. Those who patronised it were

of the shabby-genteel order. Would-be authors, frowsy foreigners, shabby

ne'er-do-weels, came here for bed and board; and Mrs. Perks, as hard as

a diamond if not so brilliant, screwed money out of them somehow. But

the fact that they generally came again argued that even pertinacious

and dogged as she was, Mrs. Perks had something on the other side which

more than counterbalanced her capabilities in this direction. There were

those who could speak very feelingly of the natural kindness within Mrs.

Perks, and of her invariable readiness to hold out a helping hand to the

unfortunate. A hard woman, a sordid woman, yet a true woman withal, and

therefore capable of a great tenderness. There were many worse people

than Mrs. Perks.

As the days went by and Miriam grew in favour, the landlady contracted

the habit of taking tea with her in the bed-sitting room which was her

abode for the time. And on these occasions, softened by the tea and

mellowed by the toast, the old lady was wont to wax confidential, and

talk a great deal about the late Mr. Barton. But what had been the true

state of affairs between them Miriam never learned. Mrs. Perks was quite

able, and evidently intended, to keep that to herself. For the rest she

spoke both good and ill of the Squire, though on the whole she seemed in

nowise to grieve that he was no more.

"Ah, Miss Cranes," she sighed on one of these occasions, "he was a bad

'un, was Mr. Barton; in fact, I don't think I ever knowed a wuss. Yet he

'ad 'is good points too. You couldn't call 'im 'oly and you couldn't

call 'im wicious; he was betwixt and between like--a Moses and a

Judas--and where he's gone to is more than I can tell."

"I suppose you know all about his life in London?"

"I do and I don't, Miss Cranes. He 'elps me to take this 'otel, and I

paid off the money 'e advanced, so 'im and me was quits. But although I

was 'ouse-keeper at the Manor House some time, and 'e put me 'ere in the

way of earnin' my own livin', it wasn't a good 'eart as made 'im do

it--oh dear no, not at all. He wanted a home 'ere where 'e could go and

come without bein' talked about."

"Why, where did he use to go?"

"Ah!"--Mrs. Perks sniffed significantly--"where didn't he go? Slums was

pleasures to 'im and criminals delights. Lor', Miss Cranes, if you only

knowed the awful people as called 'ere to see Mr. Bartons, your blood

would freeze in your veins!"

"Did you ever happen to notice a tall dark man, wearing a black cloak?"

"Wot, with a white face and a scar on it? Ah, that I did. What 'is name

was, I didn't rightly know. The Shadder Mr. Barton called 'im, and

shadder 'e was in his comin's and goin's, an' no mistake. 'E was a bad

'un, that Shadder, and I believe 'e did all Mr. Barton's wicked work for

'im. I never looked in the noospapers, Miss Cranes, but I expected to

see a 'orrid murder by the Shadder and Mr. Bartons, but some'ow they

managed to keep clear of the gallers."

"It was extraordinary his connection with that man," assented Miriam. "I

can't think what he kept him for--there's no doubt he employed him

regularly."

Mrs. Perks tossed her head, rose and tightened her shawl again.

"Oh, I don't know. I never saw anything wrong except that Mr. Bartons

came 'ome at all hours, and let all kinds of 'orrid creatures call on

'im; but I'm sure there was some devilment goin' on. Not that I ought to

be surprised," cackled Mrs. Perks, "for the Bartons family was all of

'em mad as March 'ares."

"Mad?"

"Yes, Miss Cranes. His father drank 'orrid, and he was fond of low

company for some wickedness I couldn't rightly make out. Mrs. Arkel, his

sister, 'ad the temper of a demon, and Mrs. Darrow, his niece, 'as the

same, as no doubts you know well. As for young Mr. Arkel, 'e's on 'is

way to die of strong drink."

Miriam felt a thrill.

"You don't mean to say that Mr. Arkel drinks to excess?"

"I should jus' say 'e do. 'E comes 'ere at times and is drunk for days!

Can't 'elp it, 'e sez--I'd 'elp 'im if I'd my way. There was another of

'em in an asylum; she was always stealin', couldn't 'elp it, it seemed

no'ow. As for the morals of 'em, I blushes to think of the way they used

to carry on. It's a blessin', I'm sure, that some of 'em's committed

suicide."

"Major Dundas seems to be perfectly normal in every way."

"Oh, 'e's the proud and 'aughty sort, 'e is. I never 'eard anything

worse than that about 'im. But 'e'll break out some day, Miss Cranes,

never you fear. What's born in the Barton bones'll come out in the

Barton flesh, mark my words if it don't."

Apparently Major Dundas was the only member of the house of Barton for

whom Mrs. Perks had even comparative approval. And Miriam had little

doubt but that she was correct in her judgment, if not in her

prognostications. At least she had had a lengthy experience of the

family. An hereditary weakness had undoubtedly exhibited itself in

various manners, none of which was either trivial or attractive. Theft,

or to give it the more scientific name, kleptomania, uncontrollable

rage, alcoholism, and--in the Squire--distinct and avowed homicidal

mania, which characteristics left little ground for doubt as to there

being decided mental aberration in the Barton family. But of the last,

and more serious failing on the part of the late Squire, Mrs. Perks

seemed to be wholly in ignorance. To her he was an eccentric, and a

dilettante in crime--a seeker after the lower strata of humanity, but

nothing more.

As soon as she arrived in town Miriam had at once proceeded to

investigate the fact of Jabez' being in England. Her first visit was to

the hovel of Mother Mandarin, for there she knew he was wont to take

refuge when in London. But to her surprise Mother Mandarin knew nothing

of his present whereabouts. She had not seen him indeed since he had

left for Lesser Thorpe. Shorty, too, although he looked knowingly at her

and seemed once or twice on the point of being confidential, denied all

knowledge of him. For Jabez' own sake she inserted a cypher

advertisement in several of the daily papers, warning him of the great

danger he was running by remaining in England. But he made no sign of

any kind, and Miriam gave up in despair.

She heard from Inspector Prince that in spite of the thorough search of

all outgoing steamers for America, both at Southampton and at Liverpool,

no trace had been found of the man she had described. And from the mere

fact of the inspector writing to her thus ex-officio, she gathered--and

rightly--that she had not failed so far as he was concerned. So she was

forced to rest content with the knowledge that for the present, at

least, Jabez, wherever he was, was safe.

Then one morning Gerald Arkel made his appearance at the Pitt Hotel. He

was very much changed. His former expression of light-hearted gaiety had

given way to one of dejection, even sullenness. His dress, usually so

irreproachable, was conspicuous now by his untidy carelessness; and the

springy gait, which had always been so characteristic of him, was gone.

It was almost as if the breath of old age had passed over him, and in

the passing had roughed the outlines of his youth.

"My! you do look bad, Mr. Arkel!" was Mrs. Perks' greeting. "Wot 'ave

you been doin'?"

"Mourning for my uncle," retorted Gerald with a discordant laugh.

"Having lost my benefactor, Mrs. Perks, you can't expect me to be very

sprightly, eh? Is Miss Crane in?"

"Yes, sir, she is--you'll find 'er first door on the right there. I

wonder what 'e wants with 'er," she mumbled, as Gerald made his way

along the passage. "No good, I'll be bound. You've been drinkin' 'ard,

young man, and wot's more, you'll come to no 'appy end, unless I'm much

mistaken."

A knock at the door of the room in which Miriam was occupied at her

morning's work caused her to bid her visitor to enter. She did not raise

her eyes from her work. She was accustomed to be thus disturbed for some

trivial matter or other in the morning. For half a minute Gerald stood

there looking at her. How beautiful and composed her expression was! He

faltered out her name. She paled at the sound of his voice, and rose

slowly to her feet, repeating his name in a tone hardly less faltering.

In silence their eyes met.

"You are surprised to see me?" said Gerald, throwing his hat on a chair

and sitting down. "I got your address from Dundas. I thought you would

not mind if I came and saw you."

A more serious expression came over her face as she looked at him.

"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Arkel," she said; "but you look to me

terribly ill. Is anything the matter? I am afraid----" She hesitated.

"That I've been making a fool of myself?" he finished bitterly. "Well,

you're right as usual--I have. And what's more, I'm afraid I shall go on

making a fool of myself until I can find someone to give me a helping

hand."

"But is not Hilda----?"

"Hilda!" His face crimsoned, and he bit his lip. "Hilda has given me up.

That's all over now!"

"Given you up?" She did not know whether she felt glad or sorry.

"Yes; given me up. When through the theft of that will I lost

everything, she flatly declined to marry me. Her father forbade her to.

I saw him--I saw her--and the whole thing was too much for me. I had a

kind of fit, I believe."

"Poor Mr. Arkel!"

"Still Mr. Arkel?--you used to take an interest in me. You used to be my

friend."

"That I am still; but surely Major Dundas is your friend. Surely

he----?"

"Oh yes; in a cold-blooded sort of way," replied Gerald listlessly. "He

has helped me. He gave me three hundred pounds, and said he would try

and get me something to do. Considering that he has all that I should

have had, that is not a great deal."

"It is very good, I think," replied Miriam. "And what do you think of

doing?"

"Blessed if I know." He spoke fretfully and with discontent. "The thing

is, what am I fit for?"

"What are you fit for?--what any man worthy of the name is fit

for--work--hard work. Do you remember how I always told you it would be

your salvation. Well, now it has come--no longer is it a matter of

choice with you, but one of necessity. Will you be angry with me if I

say that I am glad it is all over between Hilda Marsh and you? She was

not the woman for you. She was not fit to be any poor man's wife. You

have everything before you now. In robbing you of what you had come to

think of as your inheritance, Providence befriended you--not the

opposite. Your uncle's money would have been your ruin, Gerald." His

face brightened at the sound of his name on her lips. "Yes, you know it

would. You know how weak you are, how you love pleasure,

self-indulgence--how already you have indulged your love of it far too

much. Oh, do try now, I beg of you. Let me help you if I can. I will do

anything if it will help to put you on your feet again. Who is there you

can go and see? Tell me you will try."

She had risen from her seat and was standing by his side. He looked so

dull, so heavy-eyed, so despairing.

"Gerald, this chance is thrown right in your way. Don't neglect it."

"You put new life in me, Miriam--and indeed I have tried. I have vowed

that I would overcome my weakness. And when I am with you I feel as if I

really could. But somehow, when I am alone, the feeling goes, and I

can't go on. You know I am not religious, but I tell you I have prayed

for help to do what you would have me do. But it hasn't come to me. Life

is too much for me alone. If I had you to help me----"

"I will help you!"

"Oh, Miriam, if only you would--if I could think that I should have you

by me, that you would not leave me, I believe I could succeed, Miriam."

He looked at her, and took her hand and grasped it hard. "I know I am a

wreck compared to what I was, that I am weak, and poor, and helpless.

You know how I am handicapped. But I feel that with you--if you would

take me--life would all be different. I could work for you. With you I

should feel safe, without you I am doomed. Will you take pity on

me?--will you marry me, Miriam?"

She looked at him and smiled so sadly.

"I will help you, Gerald. I will stay beside you--always. Your life

shall be my life--but not because I pity you, Gerald--because I love

you!"

PART II.

CHAPTER I.

5A, ROSARY MANSIONS.

The neighbourhood of West Kensington is nothing if not genteel. It is,

moreover, by no means a costly area, and is thus in every way calculated

to recommend itself to those about to marry on an income somewhat

sharply defined. And the income of Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Arkel was

somewhat sharply defined. They accordingly looked around West

Kensington, and succeeded in finding, on the fifth floor of a palatial

red-brick erection, a flat to suit their requirements at the very

moderate rental of fifty pounds a year. This they took on a three years'

agreement, and proceeded to embellish with a sufficiency of furniture

and upholstery, which if not valuable, was in eminently good taste. But

their good fortune did not stop here--it extended even to the securing

of a "cook-general," a model of her kind, who not only spared the china

to an extent almost uncanny, but did not object to "do" the dining-room,

and asked for no more than three nights out a week. Thus blessed, and

with a gross income of three hundred pounds per annum, Mr. and Mrs.

Arkel commenced their married life for all the world as content as if

their address had been Grosvenor Square.

For two years Fortune had continued to smile on them in an unobtrusive

yet perfectly satisfactory manner, and they were now celebrating the

second anniversary of their wedding-day by witnessing the performance of

a certain masterpiece of farcical comedy from the centre of the

dress-circle of the Avenue Theatre. To those who may think such an

extravagance unjustifiable in the circumstances, let it be said at once

that the tickets had not been paid for, but were a present from the

hands of the author of the piece himself, who was for the time being

finding a Klondyke in the, to him, wholly inexplicable mania of the

London public for the child of his brain. For the rest the evening's

expenditure was strictly limited to a sixpenny bill of the play, and two

second-class return tickets by the Metropolitan Railway.

The play over, Mr. and Mrs. Arkel returned home to a cold supper, at

peace with themselves and all the world. With the temperature at

something under forty they considered themselves justified in lighting

the fire. But this was easier said than done, for the West Kensington

chimneys, excellent as they may seem to the naked eye, are at times

disconcerting in their refractoriness, and on this especial evening this

especial chimney chose to be unusually so. At last, by the aid of his

morning paper--carefully brought home in the pocket of his

tail-coat--and a rather alarming expenditure of faggots, Gerald

contrived to induce something approaching a cheerful blaze. That done,

he got into the arm-chair, and prepared to enjoy his final pipe.

The excursion to the theatre had been so "out of the usual," so wholly

commemorative in character, that it was natural that, after expression

of appreciation or otherwise of their friend's production, they should

fall into a gentle retrospect.

"It was a lucky day, Miriam, old girl, when I dropped in on you at the

Pitt Hotel," said Gerald. "If you hadn't consented then to become my

domestic angel, I suppose I should have been dead by this time, or in a

lunatic asylum, or worse!"

"Gerald, don't. I won't have you talk like that. You have worked hard,

and I am proud of you. Lots of men have done for less without half your

weaknesses."

"Well, there's no denying it is jolly rough on any man to have to give

up a life like mine, and go and grub in a beastly office."

"I say you have done more than well, dear. But don't call the office

'beastly,' Gerald. They have done everything to show their appreciation

of you. Remember, you started with three pounds a week, and they are now

giving you six. I often think it was very good of the Major to get you

so good a start."

"I owe nothing to the Major," returned Gerald hotly. "What he did, he

did as a salve to his own conscience, that was all. It's no use, Miriam,

I can't forget that it was through him I lost everything--not that I

regret the exchange so far as Hilda is concerned. You are worth a

hundred of her any day. You know, dear, I don't regret that. Still, I

can't help feeling sore when I think that Dundas got everything and I

nothing. I can see now that Hilda was no loss. She showed her hand

pretty plainly. I believe she'd have married Beelzebub himself for

money. Anyhow, directly she knew I was out of it, she made very short

work of me."

"But, dear, you told me yourself that her father made her give you up!"

"I don't fancy she required so much 'making.' But don't let's talk about

her now. Do you know, Miriam, I used to think Dundas was rather sweet on

you."

Miriam shook her head and laughed.

"Nonsense, dear. He liked to talk to me, nothing more. Besides, if he

had been ever so in love with me, I wouldn't have married him. I'm

afraid I had too soft a spot for someone else!"

The young man chuckled inwardly at this allusion to her preference for

himself. He was as vain as ever. But to Miriam's mind there came back

the recollection of a certain day at the Pitt Hotel--it was strange how

indissolubly connected was that hotel with the greater issues of her

life--when Major Dundas had come to her and asked her to be his wife,

only to be told that she was already engaged to his cousin. She

recalled, too, his great generosity--so ill-appreciated, she was forced

to confess, by the recipient of it--in straightway using every endeavour

to procure for his more successful rival a berth in a shipping-office

where he had some influence. He had even gone so far as to offer her an

income, which of course she had refused. And he had promised always to

be her friend. After that she had seen him no more. He had drifted back

to Lesser Thorpe, there to do his work as lord of the manor, and twelve

months later had capitulated to Hilda. She could see it all in her

mind's eye--the good-natured, simple, easy-going soldier, and the

pretty, covetous, artful girl, backed by her poverty-stricken, designing

parents, and, as a result, Miss Hilda Marsh the lady of the manor of

Lesser Thorpe.

All this passed rapidly through her mind now as she sat gazing into the

fire. Her two years of married life had not engendered in her any

admiration for her husband's character. She was obliged to confess that

it was not to be admired. By dint of much exertion of her superior moral

force over him she had so far succeeded as to keep in check his innate

tendencies to lapse. She had kept him to his work, and it was only fair

to him to say he had worked. He had even proved to have more capacity

than she had ever credited him with. Strong as her feeling was for him,

there had been times when she had come very near being ashamed of it.

She could not account for it. She only knew that it existed--had existed

from the moment when they first had met. It was a thing almost apart

from her life, and yet wholly of it. There were times when she tried to

persuade herself that it was pity she had felt for him--that pity which

is so akin to love. But in her heart of hearts she knew better--she knew

that it was rather that fierce passion which no woman can control; which

exists of itself and for itself, and is outside and utterly unaffected

by any admiration or lack of it, and which comes but once in the

lifetime of any man or woman. This was the feeling inspired in her by

Gerald Arkel, and she had not been proof against it. It had whirled her

off her feet, and she was now irrevocably committed to it. She had

married a child--a weak, vain, selfish, pleasure-loving child, with

instincts tending all towards destruction. The tinkle of a glass aroused

her from her reverie. She looked up at him.

"Gerald dear, don't take any more whiskey; you have had two glasses

already."

"Luck in odd numbers," he replied gaily, "we don't celebrate our

anniversary more than once a year. Just one more, Miriam, and then to

bed."

She looked at him in reproof.

"It's the thin end of the wedge, Gerald--you know your weakness!"

He turned on her angrily.

"I ought to; you're always telling me of it."

"Gerald, that is unjust. You know I speak only for your good."

"People invariably do when they have anything disagreeable to say. Hang

it, Miriam, you might leave me alone for once in a way. I am awfully

sick of your everlasting preaching. Goodness knows I've given up quite

enough for you as it is. I never get the taste of a glass of wine; a

drop of whiskey at night's my only comfort."

"A comfort which means ruin to you, Gerald--you know it."

"Jove! how like a woman that is--always ready to picture the worst of

horrors. Why, I'd like you to see some fellows! What they drink in a

night would keep me going a twelvemonth."

"Gerald, how can you speak so foolishly when you know how it is with

you! Didn't you beg of me----"

"Oh, damn it, do leave me alone. Preach, preach, preach, from morning

till night. After all you're not such a purified saint as all that

yourself. You forget you sang in the chorus at a music-hall once!"

"I did, and you knew it, and why I had to do it, before you married me."

"Perhaps I did; but there are some things you took precious good care I

should not know--Jabez, for instance! Who is he?"

She did not flinch, although she was hurt to the quick. She looked into

the fire, with her head resting on her hand.

"Jabez is a man with whom you can have nothing to do. He passed out of

my life two years ago. I have never seen him since."

"He was evidently very much in it once. Oh, Julia told me all about your

little goings on--how you met him on the quiet, and gave him money, and

worse even than that!"

"Gerald, what do you mean?"

"Why, what I say. According to Mrs. Darrow, you primed this chap to

steal Uncle Barton's will."

"And you believe that?"

"I--I don't know. I can't say. At all events he threatened to kill my

uncle, and the old man _was_ killed the very next night!"

"He was not killed by Jabez."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I am sure of it. Jabez had no reason to harm Mr. Barton. As to

the will, I will only ask you--to put it on the lowest possible

grounds--what had I to gain by its disappearance?"

"This, that you wanted to see me done out of the money. You know how you

were always preaching to me on that subject, and urging me not to take

it, saying that it would be my ruin, and I don't know what else!"

"And so it would have been. You know well that if you had inherited that

money you would have been in your grave by now."

"Now look here, Miriam, I've had about enough of this. I'll drink what I

jolly well please. Here goes." He poured out nearly half a tumbler of

whiskey, and drank it down. "Now then, what have you to say?"

"Nothing, Gerald--for the present--further than I think you had better

go to bed."

"Oh, that's just like you--after you have riled a chap. 'Pon my soul,

Miriam, you're the most exasperating woman I know. You're always ready

to go for me; you take precious good care, though, not to tell me much

about yourself."

"You know everything about me, Gerald."

"No, I don't. That Jabez business is precious queer. Who is he?--what is

he to you I should like to know?"

"Jabez is not unlike yourself--a weakling and an ingrate. I tried to

save him from himself, as I have tried to save you."

"Oh, you seem to be a pretty old hand at experimenting with men. I don't

believe you're any better than you ought to be!"

The drink had mounted to his brain now, and he was quite beside himself.

As Miriam left the room, she saw him pour out another half-tumbler of

spirit.

"I shall sleep in the small bedroom to-night," she said. "You will

probably sleep on the floor."

It was not the first time she had occupied that little room. Indeed, the

number of occasions upon which she had been forced to do so, had been

increasing all too frequently of late. She had made a huge mistake--she

recognised it now. With such a man as this there could be no sense of

security, hence no real happiness, though the sun of prosperity shone

ever so brightly. With the pitying love of an angel she had put out her

strong arm to pluck him from destruction. And for a time she had

succeeded. But now he was eluding her grasp. The instinct within him was

too strong for her to combat. His employer would soon come to complain

of him. And then the end would soon be. Already he complained of her.

Her very virtues were fast becoming faults in his eyes. But even now it

was not of herself she thought, though her intellect was being starved,

and her soul was sick with the sorrow of despair. No longer could she

feel any hope for the future--for his future. Worn out and utterly

dejected, she threw herself on the bed in the bare little room, and

cried herself to sleep.

Next morning Gerald rose late, and, it seemed, repentant. In truth, he

rose from the floor which had been his bed that night. He took a cold

bath, and so braced up his shattered nerves a trifle. She received him

with a smile, and made no reference to what had been. He apologised, and

she forgave him, and there the thing ended--for the time. She alone knew

how her heart ached. It was Sunday. He went to church, and rebuked her

because she said she felt unable to accompany him. From the window she

watched him, smartly dressed and for all the world the most punctilious

of men. His tendencies were strongly ritualistic. He would probably

confess his sins and take holy vows about the future. But the future

would be no better than the past for all that.

With the assistance of the "cook-general" she made the beds, and dusted

the rooms, and laid the table. Then she took a book and sat down in the

drawing-room to read. But her thoughts would not follow her page. They

drifted back to Jabez. Where was he now she wondered? What had become of

him? It was two whole years since she had seen him.

There was a ring at the bell, and the "cook-general" entered with a card

held between a floury thumb and a buttery forefinger.

Miriam looked at the card.

"Mr. Maxwell." She did not know the name. She wondered who it could be.

Probably some friend of Gerald's.

"Show Mr. Maxwell in, Jane."

A tall man in a frock-coat, with a flower in his button-hole, and the

most shiny of silk hats in his hand, stood in the door. She stepped

forward to meet him, and recoiled, pale to the lips.

"Jabez!" she gasped. "You here!"

CHAPTER II.

JABEZ REDIVIVUS.

It was Jabez. The prodigal had returned, though by no means in the rags

of his Biblical prototype. Rather was he like the rich man in the

parable--clothed in purple and fine linen. In modern parlance there was

about him the look of a man with a balance at his bank. A vastly

different person from the scarecrow who had met Miriam under the wall of

Lesser Thorpe church.

"Jabez," she repeated--her voice was hoarse and low--"what are you doing

here?"

"Not much yet; thought I just drop in and look you up, dear," replied

the man, tossing his hat and gloves on to the sofa and making himself

comfortable. "You don't seem overjoyed to see me though."

"No, I am not. Can you expect me to be? I thought you had passed out of

my life for ever. How did you find me out here?"

"Shorty! There you have it. I looked in at the old shop where Mother M.

still hangs out, and sure enough there the rascal was."

"And how did Shorty know?"

"Ah, that's more than I can tell you. You'd better ask him if you're

curious on the point. For some reason of his own--and you may bet your

bottom dollar it's a good one--he seems to have been keeping his wicked

eye on you and your husband ever since you joined forces. It was Shorty

told me you were married." He looked round the little room with a sneer

which well became his Mephistophelian countenance. "But I say, Miriam, I

should have thought you might have done a bit better than this! West

Kensington, and cheap at that, isn't it?"

"I must ask you if you have anything of importance to say, Jabez, to say

it and go. My husband will be home directly. He must not find you here."

"And why not, pray? You can introduce me as your old friend, Harry

Maxwell--that's my name now. Thank the Lord Jabez is dead and buried for

ever."

"You think so?" said Miriam, with a searching look and dropping her

voice. "I should not advise you to be too sure about that. There is

always the possibility of his being dug up, and then all the fine

clothes in the world won't disguise him."

The man drew his hand across his throat with a significant expression.

"Not much fear of that," he replied, "especially with this beard. I

flatter myself it's rather a neat growth." He stroked his chin

complacently.

She pointed to his high bald forehead, on which was scarred a purple

cicatrice--evidently the result of some terrible blow.

"That alone is always enough to betray you," she said in a whisper.

"Jabez, it was sheer madness for you to return to this country. Remember

Mother Mandarin knows everything."

"Oh, the old girl's right enough. I always take jolly good care to keep

her in good tune. Besides, if it comes to that, I know enough about her

to make it pretty hot for her. But you don't ask me what I've been

doing, Miriam--I should have thought you'd have taken a bit of interest

in a chap, especially when he's done as well as I have. The Cape's

treated me pretty well all round, and I've come home with a tidy sum, I

can tell you."

"Honestly, Jabez?"

"Rather--led a dog's life though to get it. I went shares in a claim

with a pal. We struck gold, and struck it pretty rich, in no time--in

fact, my luck changed as soon as ever I turned my back on this old

country. I left my pal out there to look after our little patch; he's a

good sort, and I shall be off out again to join him in a couple of

months. Perhaps it is a bit risky my knocking about in a free and easy

way like this; but to tell you the truth, Miriam, I got such a twist on

me for the old place, that I had to pack up my traps and come just for a

mouch round. I'm not really afraid. That old affair of mine is pretty

stale now--shouldn't wonder even if they'd forgotten all about it by

this time."

"_That_ business--perhaps, Jabez, though I don't think so. But they are

after you for another now!"

The man stopped twisting his red moustache, and stared at her in genuine

consternation.

"What do you mean? What other? There's no other that I know of! 'Pon my

soul, Miriam, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mr. Barton was strangled in his house at Lesser Thorpe the night after

I met you by the church and gave you twenty pounds!"

"Yes; I heard that. It was in the papers a few days after. But what has

that to do with me?"

"Can't you guess?" cried Miriam vehemently. "They suspect you of the

murder!"

He jumped from the sofa, and looked round wildly.

"Is--is my--do they know my name?" he asked harshly.

"No; that is, they know your first name, not your other. They think it's

'Tracey'--Jabez Tracey. I told them so."

"Go on; what description have they?"

"Small and dark, in fact in every respect the opposite of what you are.

About to leave, I said, for New York, _via_ Liverpool. Oh, Jabez, you

don't know how hard it was to do it, but I did it to screen you--to keep

you safe!"

"How on earth did you get at them?--how did they come to suspect me?"

"We were followed, and our conversation overheard that night in the

churchyard. I knew it was dangerous, Jabez, I told you so. Mrs. Darrow

hated me. It was she who did it. She listened to everything hidden away

somewhere. She taxed me to my face with being implicated in the murder

of Mr. Barton and the theft of his will. So I thought it best to go

straight to Inspector Prince at Southampton, and put the whole thing

before him. I told him how I had met you, and even what you had

said--that you would kill Mr. Barton if he interfered with you. I knew

_she_ would make capital out of that. But I made it quite clear to him

that you had had no provocation from Mr. Barton, and of course from the

description I gave of you I knew they were not very likely to find you."

"You don't believe I killed him, Miriam?"

"No, dear, I never did. But that woman heard you say you would."

"Yes; if he had interfered with me I believe I would, but he didn't. I

never thought any more about him till I saw the account of the affair in

the papers."

"You did go back to London, then?"

"Yes; you got the letter I wrote you from the Docks?"

"I did; but a day or two afterwards I saw you on the platform at

Southampton Station. Don't deny it, Jabez; I know it was you!"

"Why should I deny it? As a matter of fact, I missed the boat I intended

working my way out in. She swung out on the early morning tide, after

they had told me she wouldn't be leaving till the evening. So I got back

to Southampton as sharp as I could, and booked a steerage berth on one

of the Union boats. But about the murder of that old man, Miriam, I

swear to you I know absolutely nothing."

"I believe you, Jabez. Nevertheless, in the face of the evidence, and

your--your past history, it might go badly with you for all that if they

were to catch you. Oh dear, I am perfectly terrified when I think of it!

Good Heavens, what's that? I'm so nervous I can hardly contain myself

this morning." They could hear the front door open and someone enter the

hall.

"Quick, it's Gerald, I expect--my husband. What is it you call

yourself?--Harry Maxwell? Very well, remember we are old friends."

He nodded, and took a seat with his back to the window. The door opened

to admit not Gerald Arkel but Major Dundas. Smart and well-groomed as

ever, he came forward and shook Miriam by the hand.

"My wife and I are up in town for a few days with Dicky," he said, "so I

just dropped in to ask you when she might bring the boy round, Mrs.

Arkel; he is so anxious to see you again."

"Dear little fellow--I shall love to see him. But let me introduce Mr.

Maxwell--my friend, Major Dundas."

The two men turned towards each other. As their eyes met Jabez winced,

and a puzzled expression came across the Major's face.

"Surely," he said, "I can't help thinking we have met before, Mr.

Maxwell, I seem to know your face, I----"

"If so, you have the advantage of me, sir; I cannot say yours is

familiar to me. It's quite possible, though, we may have come across

each other at the Cape."

"I was never at the Cape," replied Major Dundas bluntly.

"Then I fear our acquaintance must date from to-day, Major, for I've

been out there for about fifteen years, and have only just got back. I'm

sorry." Then he turned towards Miriam. "Good-bye, Mrs. Arkel," he said,

"I'm afraid I must be going now. I have to lunch with some people a

little way out, and I have not much more than time to get there. I'll

wish you good-day, Major Dundas."

"I must let you out, Mr. Maxwell; my maid-of-all-work is hardly

presentable, I----"

"Oh, please don't trouble----"

In the passage she whispered hurriedly in his ear,

"Do you know him?"

"No, not to my knowledge--seems to know me though!"

"Where can I find you if necessary?"

"Mother Mandarin's."

"Still at that loathsome place? Do go to a decent hotel!"

"I am at one, thank you; but Mother M.'s will be sufficient address for

you. I shan't come here again. Good-bye."

In the drawing-room the Major, looking out of the window and twisting

his moustache, was indulging in a brown study.

"I've met that man before, or I'm a Dutchman," he mumbled. "'Tisn't a

face I should be likely to forget--that red hair and moustache, and

those shifty, ferrety eyes; and that scar on the forehead too--that

fixes it. Where the deuce was it? Strange I can't place the man for the

moment."

His soliloquy was interrupted by the return of Miriam. He did not think

it necessary to make any mention to her of what was in his mind. She

took her seat beside him and settled down for a chat. It was the first

time he had been to see her since her marriage. But he felt in nowise

embarrassed, and the pleasure he had always taken in her society came

back strongly upon him. It had not taken him many months of married life

to discover that _he_ had drawn blank in the matrimonial lottery. And he

wondered whether she had been more fortunate. He rather fancied not. He

was well aware that he had been caught on the rebound by Mistress

Hilda--in fact, that he had let himself go, caring but little with what

result. As lord of the manor it was in every way more convenient that he

should be married, and although he was by no manner of means a selfish

man, his own convenience counted for a good deal with the Major. He had

always been accustomed to take life easily. The Manor House and

everything with it had come to him most unexpectedly, and more or less

it had forced him into matrimony. Since he could not have the wife of

his choice, the next best thing he thought was to be the man of his

wife's choice. And there was no denying that Hilda was an attractive and

in many respects an engaging little lady. So it came to pass.

But with her--Miriam--it had been different. She had married Gerald in

preference to himself. To her lot had fallen that which every woman

craves--the ability to marry the man of her choice. Yet surely those

were lines of care and trouble upon her beautiful face! She did not look

happy.

"Now I really think I ought to scold you, Major," she said, "for having

kept yourself away so long. Do you know this is the first time you have

called upon us since--since we came here? However, now you are here you

will stop to luncheon. Gerald will be in directly. He will be so glad to

see you and have a chat."

"I don't know so much about that, Mrs. Arkel. You must not misunderstand

what I am going to say, but in a manner I took some responsibility in

introducing Gerald to his firm. It was not, therefore, very pleasant for

me to hear complaints of him when I called there the other day. I had

intended dropping in to see you alone one day during the week, but

something turned up to prevent me. You know, this sort of thing won't

do. Can't you put it to him pretty strongly? You are the only person I

know who ever had any influence with him; and they gave me to understand

pretty clearly that if it went on Mr. Gerald would have to go."

"My dear Major, I have tried; if you only knew how I have tried. But he

is getting beyond me altogether again. I can do nothing with him

lately."

"Is he really drinking hard?"

"What he takes would, as he says himself, be nothing to some men. But

the least drop makes him like a lunatic. You know what an excitable

brain he has."

"I know; I know. I am more than sorry for you, for if you cannot hold

him, no one can. What a big mistake it all is. If only----" He checked

himself and looked at her, and saw the tears were in her eyes. That was

too much for him. "At all events, you know whatever happens I will never

see you in any trouble. We are always friends. More than that we might

have been if you had----"

She stopped him. "My husband and I are one, and must stand or fall

together, Major. I took his life on my shoulders of my own free will.

You are more than good; but----" she broke off, and withdrew her hand

which he had taken in his. "But come, tell me about Dicky. How is he?--a

tremendous boy, I hope. When will you bring him?"

"_I_ shall not bring him at all," replied the Major a trifle

resentfully. "Hilda hopes to come with him if it is quite convenient to

you to-morrow afternoon."

"Hilda!--well, I shall be delighted to see her, of course. I didn't

think for one moment she would care to come----" She stopped suddenly,

for the Major had risen abruptly to his feet. "Good gracious, Major,

whatever is the matter?"

"I beg your pardon," he said, looking a trifle abashed, "but the fact

is--I--I have just remembered where I saw that man. My mind has been

running upon him ever since he left the room."

"Man?--what man?"

"Your friend Mr. Maxwell--that is, I hope he is not your friend, Mrs.

Arkel, because I feel it is my duty to tell you he is a thorough-paced

scoundrel!"

"Major--why, what do you know of him?"

"This, for one thing--he deserted from my regiment six years ago. It

will be my duty now to have the scamp arrested."

"No; no--don't do that. I beg of you--I implore you; don't do that!"

"Why, Mrs. Arkel, who--what is this man to you?"

She shook her head, and buried her face in her hands.

"I must tell you; yes, I must tell you," she moaned. "Don't have him

arrested, Major, for he is my brother--my unhappy brother!"

CHAPTER III.

MRS. PARSLEY'S PROTEGE.

It was with unfeigned amazement that Major Dundas heard Miriam's

revelation. He recalled now the man's military career, and he marvelled

at her relationship with him only the more as he did so. She would have

confided in him further he knew, but at that moment her husband's key

grated in the lock, and it was all the distraught woman could do to

compose herself.

"Not a word about him to Gerald," she whispered hurriedly. "I can trust

you--he knows nothing. I will tell you everything later on." How much

later on it was to be Miriam little thought then.

For two years she had enjoyed comparative immunity from

trouble--trouble, that is of the kind with which she had for so long

been beset. But, heralded by this reappearance of Jabez, there was to

come upon her a long list of disasters, following so close one upon the

other, that in comparison Jabez and his misdeeds dwindled into

insignificance.

"Hullo, Dundas; is it you in the flesh?" said Gerald, shaking the Major

by the hand. "How are you?--all right, I hope. And your wife?" Before

the Major could answer he had seen Miriam's face in the light. "Why,

hullo, old girl, what's up? you've been crying!"

The Major felt a trifle embarrassed, and Miriam flushed as her husband

glanced suspiciously from one to the other of them.

"Yes, Gerald, I have been crying about poor little Dicky. Major Dundas

seems to fear he will go into a decline. I was so fond of the dear

little child. I can't bear to think of his being ill."

"'Gad, you take it to heart a good deal more than his mother does, I'll

bet. What's wrong with him, Major?"

"Oh, the child's constitutionally weak. I'm going to take him to Briggs

to-morrow--got the greatest faith in Briggs. If he can't put him right

none of 'em can. After he's seen him, I'll bring the boy along--in fact,

I dropped in to ask your wife if she would be at home. The little chap's

dying to see her again."

Advisedly the Major made no mention of Hilda's coming. He knew that if

he did so, the office would most certainly not see Gerald all day. And

from what he had heard, there had been quite enough of that kind of

thing with Mr. Gerald already.

At luncheon they fell to talking of Lesser Thorpe and its shining

lights.

"And how is Julia--amiable as ever?" asked Arkel.

"Yes, if anything, rather more so," replied Dundas smiling. "She has, of

course, been horribly badly treated according to her own account. It's

an extraordinary thing how Julia always _is_ badly treated, and more

extraordinary how she not only manages to survive, but actually fattens

on it!"

"Jove! I wish I had one half as good a time," grumbled Gerald. "She gets

her three hundred a year without doing a hand's turn for it. I've got to

slave like a nigger for mine."

"'A judgment on you' says Julia, 'for all your wickedness.'"

"Wickedness?--well, upon my soul, I like that. She's evidently lost none

of her feline and back-biting propensities. I wish everyone had done as

little in the way of wickedness, as she calls it, as I have--what do you

say, Miriam?"

"Well, Gerald; I agree it is not quite the word I should use to describe

your shortcomings. Wickedness implies deliberation. No, I don't think

your worst enemy could call you deliberately wicked."

"Enemy? I haven't got any, my dear--your husband is the most popular of

men."

Miriam made no reply.

"Tell me, Major," she said, "how is Mrs. Parsley? I haven't heard from

her for ages. She and I used to be such good friends--she was always

kind to me."

"Another old cat," interpolated Gerald.

"Oh, she's much the same," replied the Major; "meddlesome and

well-meaning and good-hearted as ever. She's always most happy, you

know, when she's got some philanthropic scheme in hand. Her last fad is

really funny. She's got hold of a young street Arab, and has taken him

in tow. Her idea is, I believe, to educate him and then send him amuck

amongst his fellow-Arabs, in the hope that he may exude the Gospel--sort

of spreading by contagion idea, you know."

"Lord, that's just like her. Where did she get hold of the urchin?"

"Well, they say she found him begging in the village. Little devil ought

to be in a reformatory. I gave him some weeding to do round my place to

oblige her, of course, but I couldn't stand the sight of him--preferred

the weeds, so I sent him off. But he seems to have got round the old

lady properly; and what's more, he's pocketing a good deal of her money,

unless I'm very much mistaken. Oh, he's a sharp young beggar!"

"But you don't mean to say she trusts him with money?" asked Miriam. It

was not like Mrs. Parsley, as she remembered her, to do that.

"Oh, I suppose the whole affair's a mere trifle. I only mentioned it to

show how wrong-headed she is. This sort of indiscriminate charity does

such a lot of harm."

"She's as obstinate as a mule," put in Gerald. He hated the vicar's

wife, she having snubbed him somewhat severely on one or two occasions.

Indeed, it was only to the fact of her having married Gerald that Miriam

could put down Mrs. Parsley's neglect of her since she had been in

London.

"And what is this precious brat's name?" he asked.

Dundas looked puzzled.

"Upon my word, I don't believe he had a proper name in the first

instance. Anyway, if he had, the vicar suppressed it. You know how

cracked he is on Hebrew symbolism. Well, I suppose he saw a good chance

here of indulging in it, so what do you think he christened the chap?

Gideon Anab! Upon my soul he did! Gideon Anab! for a gutter whelp like

that!"

"Construe, Major."

"Well, I believe it means 'one who breaks asunder'--so the old man says.

I told him to look out for himself, or the chap might try and live up to

it. No, by the way, that's the meaning of 'Gideon' only. Anab means

thick, round. Well, he is thick and round now--thanks to plenty to eat

and nothing to do. Of course the whole thing is perfectly crazy."

Miriam was becoming very nervous. An idea had flashed across her mind

which she could in no way get rid of.

"But surely, Major," she said, "the boy had some sort of name when Mrs.

Parsley came across him?"

"Yes, I believe he had. Shorty or Snorty, or something like that.

However, that's nowhere now. Gideon Anab he is, and Gideon Anab I

suppose he will----My dear Mrs. Arkel, are you ill?"

Miriam, her worst suspicions confirmed, had turned deathly pale. It

_was_ Shorty then--Shorty at Lesser Thorpe--with Mrs. Parsley. Fate was

indeed relentless. He was an iniquitous young scoundrel she knew, and

cunning beyond words. And he knew the whole of that black page of her

life in London. She wondered had he betrayed her to Mrs. Parsley.

Perhaps that was the reason she had not come to see her. She pulled

herself together, and put as brave a face on it as she could.

"It is nothing, Major, thank you. The room is a little close, I think. I

have been feeling out of sorts all the morning. I think, if you don't

mind, I'll go and lie down for a bit."

Gerald glanced sharply at her, and then at Dundas. Like most weak

natures he was an easy prey to suspicion. It came strongly upon him now.

His wife was much agitated--there was no doubt about that. But the Major

seemed perfectly calm and self-possessed. He rose and opened the door

for Miriam, and expressed his wish that she would soon be better. Then

he returned to the table.

Gerald had it in his mind to remark upon the strangeness of his wife's

behaviour. He felt convinced that the Major had something to do with it.

And he would not have hesitated to tell him so but for the very weighty

reason that he had every intention of getting a cheque out of him before

he returned to the country.

"Is your wife with you in town?" he asked.

"Yes, she is with me," replied the Major finitely.

"Are you in rooms?"

"We are at the Soudan Hotel in Guelph Street."

"Ah, it's well to be you. You couldn't do much better than the Soudan. I

know it--one of the best tables in town. What the deuce did Providence

give me a palate for without the means to satisfy it?"

"Gerald, you've no business to talk like that--it's paltry, not to say

the worst of bad form."

"Oh, it's all very well for you from your eminence of five thousand a

year; but I tell you what it is, John, I was treated beastly badly by

the old man. He always gave me to understand I was to be his heir."

"Well; and he acted up to his promise. It was not his fault that his

will was stolen. In that will he did make you his heir."

"If you believe that, you ought to allow me anyhow a thousand a year."

"I don't agree that I ought to allow you anything, strictly speaking.

But I certainly would do so if you were a different sort of man.

Unfortunately you are not; and to allow you an independent income would

simply be to encourage you to drink, and degrade yourself and your

unhappy wife."

"It would be nothing of the kind. I won't allow you to speak to me like

that, John--even to salve your own conscience. And let me tell you

straight, if the day ever comes when that will turns up, I'll have my

rights--every penny of them. So you know."

"In such circumstances I would not attempt to deprive you of them. You

would be dead within the year--or locked up. Look here, Gerald, you know

I'm not a man to mince my words. When you married Miriam Crane, you

married a woman in a thousand. What have you been to her? Have you made

her a decent husband? For a time, I grant, you kept pretty straight, and

did your work well, but now you are drifting back to your old tricks as

fast as you jolly well can. Only the other day, when I was in the city

and dropped in to see Crichton at the office, he was complaining to me

about you----"

"It's like his damned impudence," retorted Gerald at white heat. "For

two pins I'd chuck him and his beastly office, and clear out."

"And live on your wits, I suppose, or on your wife. You're quite capable

of it."

Things were not going to Gerald's liking at all. The cheque he had

promised himself was vanishing rapidly. So he made no retort to the

Major's last remark, and submitted with the best grace he could muster,

to the lecture that warrior did not hesitate to administer to him. Then,

having promised and vowed everything that was demanded of him in the

future, he made so bold as to ask for a trifle of fifty pounds, and was

straightway refused.

The Major had been subject to discipline all his life, and was not one

to relax it, more especially in the case of such a man as his cousin.

"Spare the rod and spoil the child" was a precept upon which he had

always laid the greatest stress. Gerald had been spared--and spoiled.

From the bottom of his heart he pitied Miriam. "How awfully things have

gone askew," he said to himself, as he spun east in a quick-going

hansom. What would he not give to be in that young rascal's shoes--yes,

even without the Manor House and its five thousand a year.

By the time he reached the Soudan Hotel he was getting horribly

sentimental. But he looked with confidence to his wife to dispel all

weakness of that sort. Where Hilda was, he knew, sentiment could not be.

He dismissed his cab, and inquired if his wife was at home. He was

somewhat surprised to hear that she was not. He presumed she must have

gone to pay a call. But the porter informed him that a boy was waiting

to see him--a boy, who it appeared, had called already once or twice

during the week when he had been out. He had not the least idea who it

could be, the _genus puer_ being one in nowise affected by the Major.

However, he would seem to be a youth of no little pertinacity, so he

gave orders for him to be shown in.

A few moments later the lad appeared--a short, squat, leering creature,

somewhere in his teens, and clothed in a tweed suit of aggressively

severe design. There was upon his face an expression of extreme

sanctimony, which was horribly repellent to the Major. He recognised him

at once as Gideon Anab, alias Shorty.

"Well, what is it?" he asked sharply. "What can I do for you, lad?"

"I ain't arter you're doin' nuffin' fur me, sir; but I ken do a 'eap fur

you!"

"What the deuce do you mean, you----?"

Shorty glanced at the door to make sure that it was fast closed. Then he

shifted nervously from one leg to the other, and finally his facial

muscles began to describe what he evidently intended for a smile. It was

a very weird achievement, and for the moment quite disturbed the Major.

"Well, I ken put yer on a lay as you'll be glad to get a 'old of, Mister

Major!"

"Go on, explain yourself--out with it, or I'll out with you; quick! if

you've anything to say."

"Guess I 'ave, if I'm treated proper. P'r'aps yer don't know as I was

down at that there village when the old 'un was scragged that time?

Well, I wos, guvnor, and wot's more, I wus round 'bout the 'ouse on that

night, 'cos it wos Chris'mus time, and I wos bloomin' 'ungry, and yer

see there's of'en times some pickin's to be 'ad about big 'ouses at them

times----"

"Go on, go on!" urged the Major, getting excited. "You know who did it?"

"No I don't, guvnor; but I know who cobbed that there will!"

The Major sat back in his chair. This was not what he had expected. In a

flash he saw his position.

"Who was it?" he demanded harshly of the boy.

"No yer don't, sir, yer not goin' to git it that way. It's worth summat,

my little bit o' noos!"

"You young devil you! here take this." He took from his pocket a

five-pound note and held it out The boy clutched at it eagerly. Then he

leaned forward and whispered hoarsely in the Major's ear a name, the

mention of which secured for him as thorough a shaking as he had ever

experienced in his eventful life.

"You young liar!" cried the enraged soldier; "say that again, and I'll

break every bone in your wretched body!"

"S'elp me, it's true, guvnor," gasped Shorty when he could get his

breath, "I seed 'er grab it!"

CHAPTER IV.

DICKY'S DISCOVERY.

The name whispered by the unhappy Shorty into the Major's ear was that

of Mrs. Dacre Darrow--or, to use his peculiar phonetic variation of

it--"Mrs. Darrer." As has been related its effect upon the Major was

immediate, and fraught with, to Shorty, very tangible consequences. The

sound of his cousin's name in the boy's mouth had upset his equanimity

altogether for the moment. But the expenditure of his indignation

physically, upon that very ample frame, soon brought the Major into a

calmer state of mind, and resulted eventually in recourse to less

forcible methods on his part. He came to the conclusion that for a time

at least verbal tactics might prove of vastly more advantage to himself.

So he released the boy, and submitted him instead to the fire of

cross-examination. And from the look of relief on Shorty's face, he was

quick to appreciate the change.

Not for one moment did the Major believe there was any truth in the

accusation brought against his cousin. He had no high opinion of her, to

be sure, but he felt quite certain that she would never stoop to an act

of this kind. Besides, even granting that her sense of moral rectitude

were sufficiently flexible to allow of such a lapse on her part, he

failed to see what motive she could have had. She must be aware that

even to suppress the existence of this will would be to put herself

within reach of the law.

But Shorty held firmly to his story of that night. Seeing a light in the

library he had gone on to the terrace, and the blind being up, he had

been able to see into the room without himself being seen.

"And you say Mr. Barton was alive then?" queried the Major.

"Oh, the ole cove wer' alive right enough then--I seed 'im go out o' the

room an' leave a long paper--that wer' the will--on the table."

"And how, pray, do you come to know a will when you see one?"

"I didn't know wot it was then, but a'rterwards Mrs. Parsley, she told

me as 'ow a will 'ad been nabbed, an' it didn't take me long to twig as

'ow it must ha' been that paper wot I saw Mrs. Darrer bone. She slipped

into the room jest as the ole cove 'ad gone out--then 'er eye catches

the paper on the table, an' she gives a kind o' jump, an' begins

a-readin' of it. An' lorksy, didn't she look mad when she'd read a bit!

Then she slips it somewhere in the stern of 'er, an' clears out. I

thought then as 'ow it were about time I cleared out too, so I hooked it

down the steps, and back through the medder that way."

"What time was this?"

"Oh, arter supper--leastways I s'pose it wer' supper. I'd seen yer all

eatin' an' drinkin' 'bout 'alf a hour before, an' it dudn't make me feel

no better, I kin tell yer!"

Dundas reflected. It was just possible the boy was speaking truth. He

remembered how Barton had shut himself up in the library while he and

the other men had had their smoke in the dining-room. It was quite

possible that Julia should have dropped into the room just as he had

described. But what could there be in the will to cause her to purloin

it?--a revocation of the clause relating to her income? Surely not. He

continued to question Shorty.

"Did the old gentleman enter the room again after that?"

"Well, as I tell yer, I cleared out, sir. I never thought no more about

it till I 'eard as 'ow a will had been prigged, and as 'ow you 'ad got

the tin wot t'other cove ought to 'ave 'ad. Then o' course I seed 'ow it

was, so I thought I'd just come 'ere an'----"

"Do a little blackmailing, eh?"

"No, sir, only I thought as 'ow 'twould be worth a tip to 'ave yer mind

made easy like. 'Tain't much of a tip though as yer've parted

with--strikes me I'd do better to go now to t'other cove, an' see what

'e's got to say!"

"Look here, you young blackguard, not another penny do you get from me,

do you understand? And I'll take very good care that Mrs. Parsley knows

the sort of scamp you are. Now clear out of this!" thundered the Major,

bringing down his cane on the table, "or I'll give you as sweet a hiding

as you ever had in your life."

At this Gideon Anab made a hasty exit. He had no fancy for any further

chastisement at the hands of the irate Major. After all a fiver with a

whole skin was better than nothing with a damaged one, and he had a very

shrewd idea that that was how it would be with him if he remained. So he

left the Major to reflect on his position.

It was not a pleasant one which ever way he looked at it. On the one

hand he was liable at any moment to lose everything by the production of

the lost will; on the other he was placed in the position of compounding

a felony, or at least of retaining and enjoying what he knew was not his

to enjoy. If he took what he held to be the only right course open to

him the result would be very far reaching. For himself he did not care

so much, although he was in nowise insensible to the difference between

some five hundred--which was the amount of his private means--and five

thousand a year. But he really did not like to think what the effect

would be upon Hilda, when that young lady was called upon to give up all

that she had schemed for--he knew well by this time that she had schemed

for it. And upon Miriam too this reversal of fortune would fall hardly,

since it would mean the speedy and inevitable degradation of her

husband. As he turned all this over in his mind, he was sorely tempted

for her sake and for his wife's to leave things as they were.

There was just one loop-hole of escape!--that Mrs. Darrow might have

destroyed the will. In that case no possible good was to be achieved by

exposing her. He would let her see that he knew her for what she was.

But a scandal was a thing he had a loathing of, and would never be the

one to bring about. Of course all this was based upon the hypothesis

that Shorty had told the truth. There was always the possibility that he

had not.

Hilda arrived home for dinner in the best of tempers. Her visit had been

to her thoroughly successful, since not only had she been the best

looking and best dressed woman in the room, but had been told so, which

was infinitely more important. Her husband told her of the arrangement

he had made for her to take Dicky to Rosary Mansions the following

afternoon. She was pleased to express herself delighted. It, too, was

likely to be a highly successful visit from her point of view. She, the

mistress of Thorpe Manor, conferring her presence upon Dicky's quondam

governess now married to the man whom she had jilted, and resident in

one of the meaner tenements of West Kensington, was a picture in which

she could see herself quite plainly. Still she was prepared to be

cordial.

When Miriam came to welcome her she was surprised at the warmth of her

manner. Dicky of course was embraced and made much of.

"And how is the doctor, Hilda, and your mother?" asked Miriam.

"Oh, they are pretty well, thank you--they are better off now, of

course, and the children are at school. But the house is much the same,

dirty as ever. Sometimes when I drive round to see them, I wonder how I

ever managed to support existence in that poky place. I hate small

rooms, don't you?"

Miriam did not reply.

"And Mrs. Darrow--how is she?" was all she said.

"Oh, I believe much the same. I don't see much of her, you know. In

fact, I was obliged to give her clearly to understand that I was

mistress in my own house. As a result she has no great love for me, you

may imagine. However, she keeps out of the way, and that's the great

thing."

"I wonder she entrusted Dicky to you!"

"Oh, she knew Dicky would be all right; besides, the arrangement was

that my husband was to bring him up to see Dr. Briggs. She didn't know

anything about my coming. I expect when she hears he's been with me,

there'll be a nice old row. However, I don't care. Nothing can make me

dislike the woman more than I do. I think she's the most detestable----"

"Hush, Hilda, the boy will hear you! Run along, Dicky, and have a prowl

round the house."

"But this is a flat, Miss Crane, isn't it, not a house?" said Dicky

dubiously.

"Well then, the flat, dear, since you are so particular."

He looked terribly fragile Miriam thought. And the flush on his cheek

and the bright light in his eyes indicated only too surely the road upon

which he was travelling.

"May I go into all the rooms, Miss Crane?--even into the kitchen?"

"Yes, dear, anywhere you like--we have no blue-beard's chamber here."

"I suppose you are very happy," continued Miriam, taking in the various

details of Hilda's splendour.

"Yes, I suppose so. As happy as I can hope to be. He gives me everything

I want. But I wish he would leave the Army altogether. For most of this

year we have been living in a horrible little garrison town, and the

society there consisted solely of the wives and relations of the other

officers. They were all so jealous of me that it really was quite

unpleasant."

"I suppose you would rather live at Lesser Thorpe altogether?"

"No, I hate Lesser Thorpe. I want to live in London, and go abroad, with

now and then a week or two in Scotland."

"In fact, you like a regular society life."

"Well, I suppose you would call it that, yes; at least, I say, when one

has the means let one live, not vegetate in some little hole and corner

place. Of course John doesn't mind. One place is as good as another to

him. I never saw such an extraordinary man; he never seems dull. He'll

tramp for miles over the country--dirty, muddy, ploughed fields--and

come back as hungry as a hunter, and say how much he has enjoyed

himself. I can't stand that dead alive sort of existence. I must have my

shops, and I love the theatre, and the ballad concerts, and the heaps of

jolly things one can do in London. Don't you?"

"Well, you see," said Miriam, "I haven't quite so much time on my hands

as you have. For instance, we cannot afford more than one servant, and

that means that there is a good deal for me to do at home, if the house

is to be kept as I like it--that reminds me, I must just go and see

about tea, if you'll excuse me a few minutes."

Hilda made no attempt to conceal what she felt.

"Really. I think I should kick at that if I were you; it must be awful

to have only one servant--in London of all places! Why don't you make

your husband do without something? He'd appreciate you all the more."

"I don't think he could appreciate me more--he is everything that is

good to me. One must cut one's coat according to one's cloth, you know,

and--well, we prefer to do with one servant. Will you just see where

Dicky is while I go into the kitchen?"

As she left the room Hilda went in search of Master Dicky, and found him

stretched out on the floor of the bedroom. He was very busily occupied

with a heap of treasures he had found in an old ivory work-box which

Miriam had managed to keep possession of in spite of her many

vicissitudes. It was true it had for a few months reposed on the shelf

of a pawnbroker in the Strand, to whom she had confided it during that

terrible time just before she met with Barton. But it had been the first

thing she had redeemed. It was a very old piece of Indian work,

wondrously carved, and had always been a favourite of Dicky's at Pine

Cottage. The boy welcomed it now as an old playfellow.

"Dicky, whatever are you doing?" exclaimed Hilda, when she saw him.

"You'll catch it from Miriam, upsetting her things like that!"

"No, I won't," replied the boy calmly. "She always let me play with

this; there's such a funny little place in the lid she used to show me,

I can't find it now--ah, here it is, I've got it."

Hilda bent over him curiously. His little fingers had touched a spring,

which, when pressed, caused the lining of the lid--a plain sheet of

ivory--to fall inwards. As it opened an oblong sheet of bluish paper,

folded--a typical legal document--fell out.

"Now, Dicky, see what you've been doing; you've----"

She stopped short, for she had read the writing on the paper: "The Will

of George Barton. Dated December the 20th, 189-."

CHAPTER V.

JUST IN TIME.

At the sight of those words even Hilda's self-possession forsook her for

the moment The will of George Barton, dated December, here, in Miriam's

keeping! There was only one conclusion to be arrived at from that. She

had stolen it--that she might secure Gerald. As the thought flashed

through her mind a great bitterness--a greater hatred for her rival came

over Hilda. Dicky, absorbed as he was, saw that something was wrong. His

keen little eyes had not failed to read the fateful heading. The word

"will" was by no means without meaning for him. How often his mother had

spoken of Uncle Barton's will! He had heard her not once, but a score of

times. Child as he was, he knew quite well what had happened to deprive

Gerald of his inheritance.

Hilda glanced hurriedly, stealthily, through the contents of the deed.

"I devise all my real and personal estate to my nephew, Gerald Arkel,

absolutely"--those were the words her eye now caught, and they were more

than enough. And she was the wife of John Dundas! Why had Fate played

her such a sorry trick?--she who had given up so much--had schemed so

zealously for the possession of this affluence. It had been her goal

through life. She had sacrificed everything to it, only to have it

snatched from her now that she had tasted the sweet of it. It was too

cruel. What should she do?

Dicky looked up, all innocent inquiry. That look brought her to herself

again. At any cost the truth must be kept from him. She smiled and put

her hand upon his shoulder.

"Dicky dear," she said in a whisper, "do you know what this is?"

"It's a will, Hilda, isn't it? Mother was always talking about Uncle

Barton's will. Is this the one?"

"Yes, dear, this is the one. It's been lost for ever so long, and now

that you have found it your dear Miriam will be _so_ rich."

"Oh, how jolly!--I am so pleased, aren't you, Hilda?"

"Yes, dear; and I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll prepare _such_ a

surprise for Miriam."

"Oh yes; how, Hilda, how shall we do it?" The little fellow's eyes

positively danced with delight.

"Well, first I must talk to Major Dundas about it, because of course he

will have to give the money to Miriam's husband. Now, Dicky, whatever

you do you must not say a word about it. It must be a _great_ secret.

You must promise me that first of all. Very well----"

"But, Hilda, I wonder why Miriam didn't know it was in her box?"

For a moment the woman was at a loss. Then she answered.

"Well, that we don't know, Dicky. Perhaps she hid it there herself and

forgot all about it, or perhaps Gerald put it there. That doesn't

matter--we've found it, that's the great thing, and it will be such a

surprise for both of them."

"Oh yes, Hilda. I won't say a word about it, I promise."

"That's a good boy. Now put away the work-box quickly, just as you found

it, and don't tell Miriam even that you were playing with it." She

kissed him, and slipped the deed into her dress. Dicky put back the

trinkets and replaced the box.

She felt she could rely on the boy's not betraying her, and she

congratulated herself on the success of her plan. She could hear Miriam

in the drawing-room now. Hurriedly she picked up a copy of the _Strand_

Magazine which Dicky had been looking at and gave it to him.

"We must go to tea, Dicky. Come along, bring your book with you."

At that moment Miriam called.

"That boy's simply crazy about pictures," said Hilda, as she entered the

room. "I can't get him away from them." She looked at Dicky hard. He

seemed to understand--it was to him all part of a glorious surprise for

Miriam. And the element of secrecy appealed to him irresistibly.

"What's he got--the _Strand_ Magazine?" said Miriam, catching sight of

the well-known cover. "Oh, that's Gerald's--he's never happy without his

_Strand_."

"It is an awfully jolly magazine, Miss Crane--I wish mother would get

it."

"Ah, here is Gerald," exclaimed Hilda, as at that moment he entered the

room. "Speak of angels and you hear their wings."

"That's dangerously suggestive of another phrase more often applied in

the same circumstances--and rather more apt in this case too, I fancy!"

With heightened colour he came forward and took her outstretched hand.

He was quite unable to conceal his emotion at this unexpected meeting.

"I didn't hear you come in, Gerald," said his wife in surprise.

At the sound of her voice some of his self-possession returned to him.

"No, I stole a march on you--unawares--got awfully sick of the office,

so I chucked it for to-day."

Miriam looked at him uneasily. This sort of thing was continually

happening. She was thankful at least he was himself in other ways.

"Well, Mrs. Dundas, I must certainly congratulate you--I don't know when

I've seen you look so well."

"Why don't you call her Hilda?" put in the convivial Dicky. "I hate Mrs.

Dundas."

"Do you? Well, you see, there are certain difficulties in the way,

Dicky. In the first place we are all very much 'grown-up' now; indeed, I

don't know that strictly speaking we oughtn't to call you 'Mr. Darrow.'

Besides, if I were to call Mrs. Dundas by her Christian name, she might

reprimand me severely."

"What nonsense you talk, Gerald," put in that young lady; "there, you

see, I take the wind out of your sails at once--I am sure Mrs. Arkel

doesn't mind. Do you?" she turned to Miriam with the sweetest of smiles.

"I--indeed no. Surely you are old enough friends for that. Well, we're

relations too, now, in a sort of way, aren't we, Hilda?"

"I suppose we are--cousins by marriage."

"I'm a cousin by marriage too," announced Dicky; with his mouth full of

cake; "we're all cousins."

"In that case, Dicky, let me give you cousinly advice--not to speak with

your mouth full!"

"No, Miss Crane--I won't."

"Hullo, young man," cried Gerald; "and who's Miss Crane I'd like to

know?"

"This is, of course--your Mrs. Arkel, but _my_ Miss Crane. She ought to

have waited till I was grown up, and I'd have married her," said Dicky

with all the solemnity in the world.

"You precocious young rascal," laughed Arkel, ruffling the boy's hair.

"Are you staying for any time in town, Hilda?"

"No, only for a few days. But, Gerald, this is an unexpected pleasure to

see _you_. I thought you had joined the noble army of toilers in the

city, and weren't visible except by night?"

"Nor am I, as a rule. Needs must you know when a certain gentleman's on

the box. But, as I was telling my wife, to-day I felt I couldn't stand

the place, so I toddled home. It's a case of reward for a lapse from

virtue for once in a way."

"Well, hard work's good for you, I've no doubt. At all events, you had

plenty of play once," said Hilda, putting on her gloves and rising to

go.

"Yes, this is the swing of the pendulum, I suppose. But, by Jove, if

ever it swings back again, I'll take jolly good care it sticks there

until I shuffle off, anyhow."

And Miriam sighed, knowing only too well how true that was.

"Well, come along, Dicky, we must be off; the Major'll be waiting, and

he hates that. I've managed a good many things with the Major, but I've

never managed to imbue him with a sense of patience."

The boy rose rather reluctantly. He would so much rather have stayed

with Miriam. He had not had her to himself at all. Gerald put on his hat

and coat.

"You must let me come some of the way with you," he said.

"Oh, no, Gerald, you mustn't leave Miriam--I'm sure she----"

"Oh, please don't think about me. It's so dull for Gerald. I'm only too

glad for him to enjoy himself when he can."

There was a rather embarrassing silence for a few minutes. Then Hilda

imprinted upon Miriam's cheek the kiss of Judas, and they left.

"Jove, she's about right," said Arkel, when they were out of earshot. "I

should think it is dull. I never realised before, Hilda, how much London

was the rich man's paradise and the poor man's Sheol."

"Oh, come, Gerald, it's not so bad as all that, surely. You're out of

sorts to-day."

He did not reply, but hailed a four-wheeler that was passing.

"Oh, Gerald, why did you do that? I do dislike these dirty growlers,"

she said.

"You won't get a decent hansom in this God-forsaken part of the world.

Better take this now."

"Very well, I suppose we must."

"And may I sit beside the driver?" said Dicky. "I should like to

awfully."

"Oh, I don't know, dear. I am afraid of your catching cold."

"No fear of that," replied Gerald. "It's quite warm, and he's well

wrapped up. Jump in, Hilda."

He helped her in, and confided Dicky to the care of the cabby. The boy's

proposition suited him in every way. Indeed, it had been an essential

part of his plan. As for Hilda, she had a very shrewd idea of what she

might expect. It is only fair to her to say that she hesitated--but the

eloquent appeal from those blue eyes of Gerald's had been too much for

her. She was surprised at herself now, for her heart was beating as she

had never known it beat before.

"I wish you could get a hansom," she said; "we shall be hours getting

home in this."

"And would that be so very terrible?" he asked. "It would not have been

once, Hilda."

"Oh, Gerald, don't talk about that. You know that is all over and done

with now."

"It is _not_ over, Hilda--it never has been over, we need never have

parted but for you. For these two years I have been longing for a chance

of seeing you alone. I have got it now, and I'm not going to lose it."

"What is it you want? You forget Miriam----"

"Oh, hang Miriam! I wish I could forget her. But she's not the sort of

person one can forget, worse luck. Hilda, it was cruel of you to drive

me to her----"

"Cruel of _me_? _I_ drove you to Miriam? Really, Gerald, if that's the

kind of thing you're going to say, I am sorry I allowed you to come at

all. You know perfectly well things were not in my hands. I had to do as

I was told. And you--well, you and Miriam were always what you call

'good friends.'"

"You managed to console yourself pretty quickly any way."

"Not so quickly as you, I believe," retorted Hilda.

"I console myself? A pretty sort of consolation mine has been! You at

least have the satisfaction of having plenty of money. If it were only

the other way round, I tell you, Hilda, I wouldn't hesitate for one

moment; I'd clear out with you to-morrow."

"Indeed, that's taking me a little bit for granted, isn't it? You don't

seem to count the cost--to me! Remember, the unfortunate woman always

pays in these cases, as indeed she does in most others, as far as I can

see. No, Gerald, you've got to stick to your bargain and I to mine. I

was always fond of you, you know. But Fate evidently didn't intend us

for one another."

"If only I thought you really cared for me still--Hilda, tell me you do;

say you do care for me now as you used to do."

"Gerald, I forbid you to behave like this. Are you crazy? What do you

expect this sort of thing to lead to?--ruin, absolute ruin, in every way

for me--yes, and for you too for that matter."

"I don't care--I care for nothing but you. I will have you, I----"

He was blind with passion now, and she saw it. Without another word she

pushed his arm aside, and letting down the window, called upon the

driver to stop.

"Very well," he said, when he saw what she had done. "I have finished

with you from this moment. Remember, whatever happens is your doing."

"Will you help Dicky inside, please, and tell the driver to go on?"

Her intense placidity infuriated him only the more. He seized her wrist

roughly and twisted it, glaring at her. Then he banged the door and

strode away.

Without word or sound--though he had hurt her wrist badly--she jumped

out of the cab and got Dicky down from his perch. She bade the driver go

on to the hotel. Then she leaned back in her seat and smiled, well

pleased with herself. Placed as she was she couldn't have done better,

she thought. He was as much in love with her as ever, that was quite

certain. He would not be content to leave her like that. She had

thrilled at his savage clutch of her, painful though it was. It meant

that he was hers, body and soul. He would come at her bidding--he would

be her slave. But not now was he for her or she for him. There might

come a time, perhaps----

But that was another story. Now, she was face to face, she knew, with

the crucial point of her life. On her immediate action depended

everything. The will was in her possession to do with it what she would.

What should she do with it? Destroy it--destroy it--destroy it--the

words seemed to buzz continually in her brain.

She was so completely engrossed that she did not notice that they had

arrived at the hotel. The porter came to the door. Taking Dicky by the

hand, she went straight upstairs to their private sitting-room. Her

husband was there reading the paper. She was surprised to see him.

"Dear me," she said, "you here, John? I thought you surely would be at

the club. You don't mind if I leave the boy with you till Kimber can

take him? I have such a splitting headache that I must go straight and

lie down."

"Sorry, Hilda--leave him by all means." She certainly looked tired he

thought.

In her own room, having dismissed her maid, she threw herself on the

bed, and fell to thinking again. Five minutes after she rang the bell.

"Kimber," she said, as the maid appeared, "I am shivering--just put a

match to the fire. That will do, thank you; you needn't wait."

As the fire burned up she rose from the bed, and settled herself on the

rug by the hearth. Then she took the will from the pocket of her dress

and spread it out before her. She read it from beginning to end. And so

she learned how Miriam, if she had done this thing, had sacrificed

herself in the doing of it. Could _she_ have sacrificed herself like

that? No--emphatically no. Could Miriam? She was obliged to confess to

herself that she thought she could--and had. But the confession galled

her ever so, and she hated her the more for it. And then for a moment

she gave way to her hate.

"She shall not have it," she almost hissed; "nor shall she have _him_

much longer. Yes, I'll burn it I'll teach her not to try conclusions

with me!"

At that moment her meditations were interrupted. The door opened, and

her husband, pale and short of breath, literally burst into the room.

Their eyes met. Instinctively she knew that _he_ knew. Without a

moment's hesitation she threw the will into the fire. Catching her round

the waist he flung her quickly to one side and rescued it.

"Just in time," he panted; "only just in time!"

CHAPTER VI.

SOME MUTUAL COMPLIMENTS AND A CONFESSION.

In silence husband and wife stared at each other--she as furious with

anger at discovery as with the knowledge that therewith all chance of

her retaining wealth and position was at an end; he, astonished at the

utter want of scruple, at the horrid immorality in the nature of the

woman whom he had chosen to bear his name. It was as much as he could do

to contain himself. Every instinct within him revolted at the cowardly

criminality at which he had caught her red-handed. He wondered she had

not been afraid, if only of her own skin.

"Do you realise what I have saved you from?" he asked sternly; "that but

for the innocent betrayal of you by that little boy downstairs, you

would now be a common felon and answerable to the law--_you_, my wife,

the mistress of Thorpe Manor! Hilda, speak--for God's sake speak."

For some moments she did not answer. One feeling now had come uppermost

in her--the feeling of hate and loathing for Miriam, intensified by the

knowledge of her husband's admiration for her, while she, his wife,

stood debased utterly in his eyes. The whole fury of her puny vindictive

nature was striving to be let loose. At last she answered him.

"I have nothing to say," she said, "beyond this--that I am glad at last

you know your _friend_ for what she is--that even if your wife, as you

say, was in danger of jeopardising her liberty, the pure, beautiful,

saintly creature whom you so admire _has_ done so long ago, since she is

nothing but a common thief!"

"Hilda, how dare you! Upon my word, I begin to think you've lost your

senses."

"Indeed; you'll find that whatever I may have lost, I still have _them_.

You must allow me to repeat that your friend is a common thief, and

therefore a criminal. She stole this will."

"_She stole that will?_--why, woman, how can you say such a thing. Mrs.

Arkel is the soul of honour."

"I thought you'd be surprised. Evidently Dicky didn't tell you

everything. As it happens, I myself saw it abstracted by him quite

accidentally this afternoon from some false bottom, or rather, top, of

her work-box, which no doubt has proved eminently useful to her before

this, during her career."

"Hilda, for God's sake don't be so spiteful--if you have any decent

womanhood in you don't crush it. Miriam Arkel is no thief. You may have

found this will in her box, as you say. But she did not steal it. It was

taken from Barton's table on Christmas night by--by Julia Darrow!"

"Julia Darrow? Impossible! Who told you that tale?"

"The person who saw her take it."

"I don't believe it--what motive had she?--none; besides, if that is so,

how came it in the saintly Miriam's keeping--such _very secure_ keeping

too--at least she thought so."

The Major listened to her no longer. He became intent upon the contents

of the will, and motioned to his wife to sit down. She continued her

verbal fusillade none the less scathingly for lack of reply. At last she

seemed to be approaching finality.

"You may talk as you like," she said (perhaps because he was not talking

at all), "nothing will convince me that the woman is innocent. She stole

that will out of sheer spite at me--to prevent my marrying Gerald."

"Oh, indeed!" This had roused the Major. "Would not the fact of your

having elected to marry me have been a little inconvenient?"

"Not in the least--I should never have elected to marry you in those

circumstances."

"Oh!" He looked at her in amazement. He was learning about women at a

rate which threatened speedy disaster to his appreciation of them. He

began firmly to hope that his education might become a trifle less rapid

if less complete.

"You can look, and look, and look," she continued, "I don't care; you

may as well know the truth, though goodness knows you might have guessed

it long ago--I detest you!"

"Why--may I ask?"

"Why?--for lots of reasons. Chiefly I suppose because I love Gerald."

"Then in Heaven's name why didn't you marry him?"

"Because this wretched creature by her thievish trickery ruined him. I

couldn't marry a man who had not the means of keeping me, could I?"

"That depends--on the man, and on yourself. In any case you and Gerald

Arkel--you won't mind the frankness being mutual, will you?--no matter

how situated, would in my opinion have made an easy and expeditious

descent into--well, shall we say oblivion?--that is, of course, unless

you had chosen to achieve notoriety of a wholly undesirable order. You,

Gerald Arkel, and ample means!--nothing could have saved you. So

perhaps, even as it is, you are better off. What think you, Hilda?"

"I don't know what to think--I don't understand you. I don't understand

this universal outcry against Gerald, that simply because he is

possessed of a few pounds he must go to the dogs altogether."

"Then you evidently don't understand the young gentleman himself. No

self-respecting kennels would tolerate him, I assure you, for all the

relegating to them we humans might choose to indulge in. You probably

know nothing about dogs. They are plucky, honourable animals, with a

maximum of virtue and a minimum of vice; and they resent pretty hotly, I

can tell you, the arrival amongst themselves of a lot of our refuse. Now

the young man whom you have chosen to honour with your 'love' must

unfortunately be so described."

"It is cowardly of you to abuse him when he is not here to defend

himself."

"He would not attempt to defend himself to me. Now come, Hilda--you are

little more than a child after all. Let my attitude be parental, if you

won't have it marital. Believe me, if it had not been for that very

noble woman whom you have been slandering for the last quarter of an

hour, Gerald Arkel, as it is, would have already reached his disastrous

end."

"That's right; praise her--you have nothing but blame for me!--I believe

you're in love with the woman still."

"Do you? Well, I suppose it's logical you should, from your point of

view. Yet, if I were to admit it, I believe you'd have the audacity to

be angry--or pretend to be! We've started well, Hilda--that is, you

did--why not let us be wholly frank. You married me for my money and for

the position you would acquire as my wife. That you admit."

"Yes--I was forced to."

"Never mind the force--you admit the desire. Very well, I married you,

why? 'Pon my soul I couldn't tell you--that's the truth. Because I

wanted a wife, I imagine, or thought I did, in the new circumstances in

which I found myself. Grant then that our motives tie--they are equally

unworthy of each of us--I have been a good husband to you. Have you been

anything of a wife to me--I ask you, Hilda, from the day we married,

have you given me a thought?"

"I'm not good at sentiment--I don't understand it. I never did."

"I am well aware of that. I begin to think you understand nothing but

the promptings of your own badly drilled--excuse my swearing--your

damned badly drilled mind."

"I had rather you swore than sat there preaching at me. For goodness

sake say what you've got to say, and have done with it."

"As you will. Then I have this to say. You are my wife--that's a

deplorable, unalterable fact. You will respect my name by keeping your

own out of the mud; therefore in future you will be careful to refrain

from these little amateur felonies of yours, as well as from risking

prosecution for slander, which you certainly will do if you allow your

tongue free rein. For the rest, if you are sensible, you'll keep up

appearances before the world."

"It's difficult to keep up appearances when one is thrown into contact

with adventuresses of that woman's class. God knows where she came

from--the slums I believe. Ask Julia about her--ask her to tell you what

she told me."

"Surely you can tell me yourself, without my further imperilling Julia's

lot in the next world."

She stamped her foot with impatience. She had never known him quite in

this mood before. She wished he would get thoroughly angry, like he had

been when he came in.

"You will be shocked at the downfall of your immaculate angel. However,

if you want to know I will tell you. She was in the habit of making

assignations with some low man who came down from London and used to

meet her about Thorpe--once they were caught actually in the churchyard

late at night--some man named Jabez! What do you think of that?"

"Very natural under the circumstances!"

"Very----" She looked at him utterly perplexed. "Under what

circumstances?"

"Under the circumstances that he is her brother, and that she lived with

a cat."

"Her brother! Her br-o-th-er!--as much her brother as you are, or would

like to be! It's just like you to believe a tale like that."

"Not only do I believe it, but it is true. It is also true that Julia

stole this will. The creature Shorty--Mrs. Parsley's _protege_ that

is--was prowling about the house the night we were all dining

there--Christmas Eve, when the poor old man was killed--and swears he

saw her enter the library during Barton's absence for a moment. She

picked up the will, read it, and pocketed it."

"And how much, pray, did you pay this ruffian for this information?"

"That's my business. You may be quite sure it's worth double what I paid

for it."

"How then do you explain it's being in Mrs. Gerald Arkel's work-box?"

"Malice--pure malice on the part of that most malicious of women, Julia

Darrow."

"But she could know nothing of there being a false top to the work-box."

"She could know anything--everything. Ask Dicky, and he'll tell you that

he showed his mother how the thing worked."

"Well, I'm sick to death of the subject," she retorted impatiently. "The

question is, what do you intend to do with the will now you've got it?"

"Why, what do you think I'd do with it? There is only one thing that I

or anyone else with a spark of honour," he looked at her very

searchingly, "_could_ do with it--take it to Rosary Mansions this

evening, and lay it before both of them."

"John!--you are not serious? I implore you don't do that. Consider what

it means. Consider me. It is not fair to me. I was not meant to be a

poor man's wife."

"You are not fit to be any decent man's wife; but as you are, and I

can't descend to your moral level, you must rise to mine, that's all."

"If you do this you shall pay for it," she said. She was losing all

self-control and becoming perfectly reckless in the face of what

threatened her. "I am your wife now. I married you for this money--the

day you lose it, you lose me--understand."

He seized her arm somewhat roughly and looked at her hard.

"And you understand this, young woman, I will be a party to no crime at

your bidding. I will be no partner with you in iniquity. To restore this

money is the honest course, the only course, and the course that I shall

take without any delay. As for you, while you are my wife, poor or rich,

you will respect my name!"

"_While_ I am your wife--if you go on the way you are going I warn you

that will not be for long."

"What do you mean?"

"That you'll know quick enough once it's done. For the last time I ask

you to pause, consider, compromise!--I don't ask you to do anything

dishonourable, but make some arrangement, don't give up everything. By

your own showing it will ruin Gerald; think of him, think of her--of

Miriam. Think of the awful unhappiness it means for her. John! I will

try and be different to you if you will only wait."

"Stop it," he thundered, "she-devil that you are, consumed by your

disgusting lust for gold. Once for all I refuse to be coerced by you. Do

I not know right from wrong? This property is Gerald's, and whatever the

consequences, to him it goes."

"Very well; I have warned you. Now I know what to do."

She entered the dressing-room and banged the door behind her. For some

minutes he stood staring blankly at it. Then he quietly went downstairs.

He saw no more of her that night. She had her dinner sent up to her

room, and refused to see him. He dined, therefore, at the restaurant

instead of in their private room. In spite of his self-control he could

not eat. He realised full well what this loss meant, not so much to

himself--five hundred a year and his pay was all-sufficient for him--but

to Miriam, and to Gerald, yes, and to the paltry little woman who, after

all, was his wife. Yet the more he pondered over it, the more convinced

he became that there was but one course open to him. There need be no

scandal about Julia; that must be hushed up somehow; but Gerald must

have his own.

He lit a cigar at the table, and turned the thing over in his mind for

another quarter of an hour. Then he called a cab, and drove straight to

Rosary Mansions.

It was nearly ten o'clock when he arrived, yet strange to say Gerald was

at home--thanks to Hilda. But the Major of course did not know to what

he might attribute this return to the domestic hearth on the part of

Master Gerald, and gave him all credit for it. He was sorely grieved to

think that his news more than anything else, was calculated to bring

about a speedy return to the old order of things.

As for Miriam, she had been in nowise deceived by her husband's action.

She had made a pretty shrewd guess at the sort of thing that had passed

between him and his former lady-love. His expression had been quite

enough to show her he had been dismissed, and she valued his presence

accordingly.

The Major's ring roused them both. It was one of the "cook-general's"

three nights out--she having with great resignation remained in the

previous evening, "though it was Sunday and all"--so Gerald himself went

to the door.

"Hullo, Dundas, is it you?--why, what brings you out here at this

time?--nothing wrong I hope?"

"No; I've no doubt you'll think it's very _right_, so far as you're

concerned; but it's important, or I need hardly say I wouldn't be here.

The fact is, the will's found."

"The will! What--the--the last will?--and the money's mine?"

"Indisputably."

Miriam was on her feet in an instant. Every vestige of colour had left

her face. She looked at the Major and then at her husband, who,

half-laughing and half-weeping, was scarce able to articulate. He called

for air, and she ran to the window and opened it. Then he turned on

Dundas almost savagely.

"Where--where did you find this?"

"I did not find it--Dicky did."

"Where?"

"Here, in your flat." He looked at Miriam as he said it, knowing well

she could defend herself.

"Yes," she said, confronting her husband, "here in our flat. It was I

who took the will!"

CHAPTER VII.

MRS. DARROW SYMPATHISES.

"I said it, I said it--I always said it. How well I knew what that woman

was!"

A veritable _feu-de-joie_ this on the part of the triumphant Mrs.

Darrow, for needless to say "that woman" referred particularly in this

instance to Miriam, though as a rule with her the term was generic, to

be applied alike to anyone of the numerous and unfortunate females who

happened to be in her black books. And her triumph at this moment was

the more sweet in that her audience consisted of no less a person than

the husband of the delinquent herself.

There he sat, Gerald Arkel, no longer clothed in the humble sartorial

products of the Strand, such as in truth had befitted a young man whose

daily walk of life lay between Leadenhall Street and Water Lane; but in

riding-breeches and gaiters, both of cunning and of wondrous design, and

bearing on the face of them the unmistakable hall-mark of the West, for

which so much is paid (or is promised to be paid) by certain young

gentlemen of means ample or otherwise. From his "Quorn" scarf to his

Russia leather boots, Gerald was immaculate. He was lord of the manor

now, and monarch of all he surveyed--that is to say outside of Pine

Cottage where for the moment he was.

Three weeks had passed since that eventful night when Miriam had

confessed to having taken Barton's will--three weeks passed by her in

misery and alone, for on that night her husband had left her. In vain

had she pleaded the innocence of her act--in vain she had tried to show

him that what she had done, she had done for love of him, by sacrifice

of self, in charity, and not in depredation--a pure great act of love,

wholly for him, and counting not the cost to herself. Evil that good

might come if you will, but evil only so. But all explanation had been

futile; he had been deaf to all her pleading, and to her entreaty too.

And not that alone, but worse. Without the strong arm of John Dundas to

defend her, assuredly he would have struck her. For his puny brain could

picture only the material deprivations of the past two years, and the

thought of what his body had been denied roused all the brute in him. He

refused altogether to believe what she, amid her tears, tried so

earnestly to explain--his uncle's mad scheme of revenge. He had railed

at her, and stormed, had stamped his feet and sworn, and finally, having

exhausted his pitiable rage, had left the house with the coarsest insult

on his lips. Since then she had not seen him.

Upon John Dundas it had all come with overwhelming force. When the

confession fell from her lips he could hardly believe his ears. Was it

really she who stood there speaking, out of her own lips condemned--in

the words of his wife, a common thief? It could not be. He would have

staked his life that if ever honour breathed, it breathed in her. And as

he listened there that night to what she had to say his faith in her was

justified, nay, intensified a thousand-fold. More than ever--a thousand

times more--did she call for admiration in his eyes, for love, aye, and

for reverence. She had sacrificed all for her love--for the welfare of

the soul of him with whom some strange fate had ordained she should be

joined. Strange! more than strange, incomprehensible that such a man

should have touched the spring of love in such a woman! With her, love

signified self-sacrifice. For it, for him she loved, she must immolate

herself--for him, a worthless reprobate, whose only claim to leniency

was through pity; while _he_ who would have lived for her and her alone,

could only serve her now by leaving her.

It was all very terrible to the Major, and taxed sorely his

unpretentious little stock of philosophy. For he had a big heart and a

single mind, and his life had to be spent beside a woman who had

neither. He felt he had a right to growl at fate, and for the past three

weeks he had been taking full advantage of that right.

For himself he wished fervently that Miriam had chosen any manner of

self-immolation rather than this. He wished it had been as Shorty had

said, that Mrs. Darrow had been the guilty party. With her it would have

been sheer sinfulness inspired no doubt by cupidity equally as sheer.

But one black mark more or less was insignificant in the dim total of

Julia Darrow's score. As it was, Shorty must have been mistaken, or have

lied to him. Altogether this, the more practical part of the affair,

puzzled the Major greatly. In nowise could he make the boy's story

coincide with Miriam's. She had related straightforwardly and simply how

it had all come about. She had gone in search of Dicky, and had found

him lying insensible on the floor--insensible she concluded from shock

at seeing Mr. Barton dead, for she had realised in an instant that the

old man had been murdered. In the desk beside him lay the will. At once

she had recognised it, and with it her chance of saving Gerald. She had

not stopped to think. Her instinct had impelled her. At all costs, to

him, to her, to any one, she must save him. The whole thing had been a

matter of two minutes--the result was one spreading alas, not merely

over two years, but over a lifetime. He was obliged to confess that

strictly speaking she had been, or, as he preferred to put it, her

judgment had been wrong--very wrong.

True to his word, he had lost no time in placing Gerald formally in

possession of the Manor House, and Miriam of her income under the will.

Then he had betaken himself and his wife back to Brampton where his

regiment was stationed, and tried to throw himself with renewed energy

into his profession.

On his part Gerald's first visit had been to the tailor's, with the

wondrous result already described. His presence now at the abode of Mrs.

Darrow was due solely to that lady's very considerable proficiency in

the arts of flattery, and to the young man's even more considerable

susceptibility to them. For, as we know, he was supposed to hold no love

for Mrs. Darrow. But she had seen her chance and had taken it.

Immediately on hearing the momentous news, she had hurried back from

Bournemouth, where she was staying, and had succeeded in being the

first, not only to congratulate the new lord of the manor on his

succession to his own, but to condole with him over his maltreatment in

the past. And this had gone straight home with that young gentleman,

who, truth to tell, was beginning to feel the need of a little moral

support so far as his action in having left his wife was concerned. So

seeing that from Mrs. Darrow he would be sure to get it, he had accepted

with avidity her invitation to partake of tea at Pine Cottage. There he

poured out to her his weak story while she poured out for him tea even

weaker, with the result that both were comforted for the time, he being

content to put up with the tea in return for the quieting of his already

uneasy conscience.

"Well, if you had taken my advice, you would never have married the

creature," she said, handing him his third cup. "You'll never be far out

if you trust to me. I saw what she was the moment Uncle Barton brought

her here."

"Then why did you take her as governess to Dicky?"

"What could I do?" Here Julia's handkerchief went to her eyes. "You know

I was absolutely dependent on Uncle Barton; but you don't know how

brutally he treated me. But for my spirit I should have died. He

threatened to deprive me of every penny if I didn't keep her. I

protested and protested, but it was no use."

"Yes, yes, I can quite imagine all you had to go through," said Gerald,

getting restive. He had no fancy for a scene.

The widow resenting thus being cut short became more than ever spiteful.

"Perhaps you can imagine, too, the pretty little meetings that used to

take place down here between your wife and her lover!"

"Lover!--what lover?"

"A man rejoicing in the very unromantic name of Jabez!--the name's as

ugly as himself."

"Jabez?--why, he was her brother. Hilda told me so."

"I gave Hilda credit for more sense--and who told her, pray?"

"Her husband. He had it from Miriam herself. Funny part of it is she

never told me."

"Bah--lies, lies--all lies. The woman's a thorough bad lot, Gerald, and

you did the wisest day's work you ever did when you left her. The man

was her lover I tell you--a part of her former slum life. Don't you tell

_me_. Left her? I should think you did leave her!"

"Well, then, Julia, let's be content with that. You've thoroughly upheld

my action--very thoroughly I must say, which is of course quite right."

"Oh, you men, what fools you are! At all events I did give _you_ credit

for _some_ taste--"

"Yes, I'm generally considered a man of taste. Hitherto I've not had

much money to indulge it; but that's not my fault."

"Carroty hair and freckles, and a figure bobbing out where it should go

in, and sinking into a great hole where it should bob out, and feet!

Well----"

"Oh, come, that'll do, Julia--that'll do. I ought to be well posted in

my wife's points by this time. I've left her I tell you for good and

all, and she's got her own income, and----"

"Got--her--own--income! What in the name of common-sense do you mean,

boy?"

It was so naive of Julia to invoke common-sense.

"Exactly what I say. She has three hundred a year under this will."

"Three hundred----!" she gasped.

For the moment it was all she could do. A whiff at her ammonia brought

her round.

"You mean to tell me that Uncle Barton left this woman an income equal

to mine--equal--to--mine?"

"Certainly."

It is difficult to say what would eventually have happened to Mrs.

Darrow if a knock at the front door had not then brought her face to

face with another and even more stern reality. She gave a hasty peep

through the window. What she saw had an effect homoeopathic in

principle, though it certainly was not so in dose. It was surprise upon

surprise--like curing like. What she had seen was the figure of Mrs.

Parsley, and with the sight had come a great calm over her. For she

hated Mrs. Parsley more than she hated anyone at the present moment.

"Oh, my dear," she said, as the vicar's wife entered the room, "I _am_

so delighted--this _is_ a surprise. How _are_ you?"

"It's easy to see there's not much the matter with _you_," returned her

visitor, in her most aggressive manner.

"Indeed I am _very_ ill," said Mrs. Darrow, in the faintest of faint

voices, "if you only felt my pulse. I can hardly speak, it is so weak."

"Rubbish--_that_ day'll never dawn. It's liver that's the matter with

you. Liver, my dear--torpid liver. Too much to eat and too little to

do!"

Mrs. Darrow felt that something within her must give if this kind of

thing went on.

"I don't know how you can speak like that," she said. "I don't know I

have a liver."

"Of course you don't--if you did you'd be more careful of it. But here,

_you_----" She placed both of her sinewy hands upon her enormous green

umbrella, and brought it down with a thud in front of Gerald. "It's

_you_ I really came to see. I heard that you were here. Nothing escapes

_me_ in this village. Where is your wife?"

"She appears to have escaped you, Mrs. Parsley--she is in town!"

"Then she oughtn't to be. Why haven't you brought her down here to share

your good fortune? She should be at the Manor House beside you."

"I am shutting up the Manor House. I'm going abroad in a week."

"Is that her doing or yours?"

"Mine. Perhaps I had better tell you at once that my wife and I have

agreed to differ. We are not living together for the present."

"That means you've been doing something--what is it?"

"I assure you he has been doing nothing," put in Mrs. Darrow, "except

what is right. He has been very badly treated. Don't you know that----"

"Mrs. Parsley knows nothing, nor is it necessary she should," said

Gerald rising. "What has occurred between my wife and myself concerns us

only."

"Humph!" grunted Mrs. Parsley. "And where is Hilda, may I ask?"

Gerald flushed. He knew what she meant to insinuate.

"Mrs. Dundas is with her husband at Brampton, I believe," he replied.

"And you're going abroad?--well, that's as it should be."

"I'm glad you think so," said Gerald. He felt he was on rather rocky

ground, and didn't altogether like it. He turned to Julia. "I must be

going now," he said. "I'll see you again in a month or two. If I come

across anything pretty in Paris I'll send it over. Good-bye."

"Humph!" grunted Mrs. Parsley again. "Good-bye. Just a word with you,

Julia. I must be off too."

"Julia!"

"Well, I've known you for thirty-five years. I suppose I can call you by

your name."

In earnest whereof Mrs. Parsley again thumped the floor with her "gamp."

Gerald hurried away, Mrs. Darrow following him to the door.

"Not a word to anyone about Miriam," he whispered. "And see that Dicky

holds his tongue. Mind, you know what depends on it!"

"I believe he's got a sneaking kind of feeling for her still," thought

the widow, as she returned to the little drawing-room. Mrs. Parsley was

seated in an attitude quite characteristic of her--her chin resting on

her hands, and her hands clutching the handle of her huge umbrella. She

came to business at once.

"I want you to take the Sunday School for a fortnight, Julia--I'm going

up to town."

"Oh, the Sunday School gives me a headache," protested Mrs. Darrow, who

had no notion of obliging her enemy. "I haven't taught for years."

"Time you began then. Lady Dane has promised to take a class."

"Lady Dane!" Mrs. Darrow, like Tommy Moore, dearly loved a lord, and the

prospect of teaching in the same room as an earl's daughter was

irresistibly attractive. "Well, I'll do what you wish, Mrs. Parsley. I'm

sure I'm the most unselfish woman in the world."

"Then that's all right," sniffed the vicar's wife. "I thought Lady Dane

would fix it. If she isn't above it, I don't think you should be."

"I'm always ready to take my share of the parish work," said Julia. Then

her curiosity began to assert itself. "What are you going up to town

for?"

Mrs. Parsley waxed more amiable, and rubbed the tip of her nose.

"Well, my dear, I don't mind telling you I'm worried a good deal. I'm

sorry to say Gideon Anab hasn't turned out quite what I expected. The

scamp's been spending the money I gave him for his heathen companions on

himself, so I'm just going up to see about it."

"You shouldn't trust such creatures. He was a vile boy that."

"He'll be a sore boy when I get hold of him. I hear he lives at Lambeth,

in a horrid slum, with his grandmother. She's called Mother Mandarin.

Odd name, isn't it?"

Julia pricked up her ears. She had heard the name before. She remembered

distinctly hearing it mentioned by Jabez to Miriam. Even after that

space of time her memory wasn't likely to fail her regarding anything

detrimental to Mrs. Arkel.

"I think you'll find Miriam can tell you something about that old lady."

"Miriam? What does she know about her?" asked Mrs. Parsley sharply.

"That's more than I can tell you," replied Mrs. Darrow. "I know I heard

her mention the name, because it struck me as such a curious one."

"Humph!" said Mrs. Parsley to herself. To Julia she said no more on the

subject. She knew how she hated Miriam, and was not therefore reliable

in anything she had to say about her. She determined to find out for

herself, nevertheless, how much Miriam knew concerning the grandmother

of the wicked Gideon Anab.

"What has Gerald Arkel quarrelled with his wife about?" she asked.

"That I can't tell you either," replied Mrs. Darrow, "except that it was

something pretty bad."

"Anything to do with Hilda Dundas?"

"Certainly not."

"Well, don't be violent, my dear, don't be violent. I thought there might

be something of that sort. Hilda's not the kind of young lady to take a

loss of this sort lightly. Gerald was in love with her remember before

he married. He has quarrelled with his wife now, and Satan finds some

mischief still for idle hands to do."

"I don't understand you at all," said Mrs. Darrow testily.

"No? Perhaps you will in time, my dear," and the vicar's wife marched

out of the room.

It was not long before Mrs. Darrow did understand. For, within a month,

it was common talk in Lesser Thorpe that Hilda Dundas had eloped to the

Continent with Gerald Arkel.

CHAPTER VIII.

MRS. PARSLEY SEES A GHOST.

One afternoon, some twelve months later, Miriam sat sewing in the

drawing-room of the little flat at Rosary Mansions. The work she had in

hand was a nether garment intended for old Mother Mandarin, whom for

long past she had been trying to reform. But Mother Mandarin did not

want to be reformed, though she sadly wanted nether garments. The only

wants to which she confessed--which indeed she expressed--were gin,

tobacco, and what she termed "blunt," this latter being her playful way

of referring to the coin of the realm. For years she had inhabited her

den in the Lambeth slums, where she was wont to receive all sorts and

conditions of men--Lascars, Chinamen, and Europeans of every

nationality. At eighty-five she was not inclined for learning any new

tricks, and though Miriam--now on outside charity bent, it having of

necessity ceased at home--did everything she knew to bring her to a

sense of what was right and decent in life, Mother Mandarin was not to

be roused to any degree of enthusiasm. Cleanly ways were not her ways,

and her ways for the last five-and-eighty years had been good enough for

her.

Still Miriam continued to persevere, choosing this neighbourhood for her

work because it was known to her, and because more than any other

neighbourhood it appeared to her to be crying out in misery for help. It

held so many who seemed hopelessly bogged in the mire of the great city,

and the thought that she had succeeded in persuading some few of these

young men and women to a better life, was the greatest possible solace

to her in her own trouble. And so she came to be known in the purlieus

of the Archiepiscopal palace almost as well as that venerable building

itself.

She felt very lonely at this time. The ingratitude and utter

heartlessness of Gerald had come upon her as a blow from which she

seemed wholly unable to recover. Since his flight with Hilda she had

received no word from him save one short message from Paris to the

effect that she was quite at liberty to divorce him if she choose. But

against this she held out firmly, although Dundas, who was less rigid in

his views, did his best to persuade her to grasp the opportunity. He

himself had done so long since, and had of course experienced no

difficulty in the doing of it. But Miriam remained firm on the point.

And the worthy Major felt this hard to bear, for it closed his mouth

effectually, and obliged him to refrain from asking the one question in

the world he longed to ask. He could only live in hope that his

constancy would tell, and that in the end she would give way. He sought

what consolation he could in his profession. He withdrew from all social

life, lived quietly on his income, and devoted himself body and soul to

his work, striving thereby to drive into abeyance the one great longing

of his life. For he loved Miriam Crane as he verily believed man never

loved woman in this world before.

From the lawyers to the estate Miriam received her income regularly, and

seeing that it had been left her by Barton himself, and in nowise

entrenched upon her husband's moneys, she had no compunction in taking

it. From Gerald she would have starved rather than accept a penny. She

heard of him from time to time, and of the gay life he and Hilda were

leading at various pleasure resorts on the Continent. They were, from

all accounts, spending money lavishly and wallowing in what to them was

the enjoyment of life. They neither of them possessed either heart or

conscience to mar their happiness. They gratified every whim, and

achieved at length complete satiety of the world, its pleasures--and

themselves.

Furious indeed had been Dr. and Mrs. Marsh when they heard of their

daughter's elopement, and still more furious when it became known to

them that the two were passing under Hilda's maiden name. But righteous

and deeply rooted as was their indignation, taking many divers forms in

its expression, it did not take the particular form which might have

made for a cessation of the income allowed them by the partner of their

daughter's lapse from virtue. For in truth it was not so much the lapse

from virtue itself which they deplored, as the consequent and inevitable

social fall which it entailed. Never for one moment did it strike them

that they themselves had been in any way to blame. They had sold her to

the highest bidder--indeed they had helped no little in the bidding--and

they had received and were still receiving the price. It was she who had

played her cards so badly. So they looked at it. But gradually they were

forced to realise that so Lesser Thorpe did not look at it: for Lesser

Thorpe well knew their present source of income. And ere long the little

community showed so very plainly how it felt that, with many regrets,

Dr. and Mrs. Marsh decided to seek a cooler climate.

This they eventually found in a small market town on the borders of

Wales, where the doctor--he had contrived to save a certain amount of

Gerald Arkel's money--purchased a small practice, and commenced to

thrive. And as they throve, so, slowly and by degrees, did these good

people turn their backs upon their fallen daughter, and more slowly and

by smaller degrees upon the man who had brought about her downfall. And

henceforth, since they pass out of this story, we may turn our backs on

them.

Miriam stitched away at Mother Mandarin's nether garment until a knock

came to the door. She started as she heard it, because visitors were few

and far between with her now, and so much trouble had come upon her that

she was apprehensive of more. She waited to see who it was. Then the

door was thrown open, and Jabez was shown in--not the Jabez jaunty and

of gay attire whom last she had seen, but the Jabez she had known of

old--Jabez come assuredly to ask for alms. Added to his otherwise

dejected appearance he seemed to her to be completely broken down in

health. Instantly all that great fount of pity in her was touched. She

had not seen him since the time when in that same room he had come face

to face with Major Dundas, and she had been forced to confess her

relationship with him. She waited for him to speak. The words of welcome

would not come.

"As usual you prefer my room to my company," he said, with a scowl,

throwing himself down on the sofa.

"I am so surprised--I--I haven't seen you for a year or more, you must

remember."

"And you would rather I'd made it two I've no doubt."

"I've never given you cause to speak like that," she answered. "I made

inquiries about you--I felt anxious. But they did tell me at Mother

Mandarin's that they had seen nothing of you. I concluded you must have

left the country again."

"So I did. That Major of yours nearly spotted me last time I was here. I

thought I'd better skip."

"Yes, he did spot you, as you call it," replied Miriam quietly. "But I

persuaded him to leave you alone. I had some difficulty. But when I told

him our relationship he consented."