"I said it, I said it—I always said it. How well I knew what that woman was!"
A veritablefeu-de-joiethis 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; whilehewho 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 tellme. 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 giveyoucredit forsometaste—"
"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 naïve 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 homœopathic 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, "Iamso delighted—thisisa surprise. Howareyou?"
"It's easy to see there's not much the matter withyou," returned her visitor, in her most aggressive manner.
"Indeed I amveryill," said Mrs. Darrow, in the faintest of faint voices, "if you only felt my pulse. I can hardly speak, it is so weak."
"Rubbish—thatday'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'syouI really came to see. I heard that you were here. Nothing escapesmein 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.
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."
"Damn! if I'd known that I wouldn't have skipped. Why the devil didn't you let me know?"
"How could I? I couldn't find you. Where have you been?"
"Oh, back to the Cape—cleared out there two days after you saw me. I didn't think it was good enough to run any risks."
"Do you still call yourself Maxwell?"
"No—chucked it for another."
"I see," she said sorrowfully, "you are in low water again."
"I swear I'm the most unfortunate man on God's earth," he whined. "I started square enough out there, and made a tidy pile. You saw for yourself last time I was pretty flush. Well, as I told you, I left my pal to look after our claim while I did a scamper round, and what did the devil do but clear out to America with the whole swag. That cleaned me out, and I had to start all afresh. But every blessed thing I touched went wrong, till I got so sick of it that I scraped what I could together, and here I am. You'll give me a lift-up, Miriam, for the last time?"
"All my life I have been doing that, Jabez, and each time has been the last, hasn't it? But it is more difficult for me to help you now; you see——"
"Oh, I know all about it—that husband of yours has cleared out with another woman. But I don't see you're so much the worse for that. You've got your income from the old man! 'Fact, I reckon you've done pretty well for yourself!"
"I am glad you think so," she said bitterly. "Further than as a kind of banker, an orange to be squeezed, you will never understand what I am. Of what my life has been you can have no idea. You are utterly heartless, brutally callous."
"Oh, stow all that preaching, Miriam, and come to the point."
"That means how much have I got, I suppose? Understand then, Jabez, once for all, this is the last money I give you, and I give it you on one condition only—that you never come near me again!"
"Oh, all right, no need to bother about that. How much is it?"
"Thirty pounds is all I have."
"Lord! what do you do with it all?—you never seem to have much about you. Wonder I do come near you—it's not worth it I'm sure."
His tone had roused her.
"You worthless scoundrel," she said, "to speak to me like that after all I have done for you. There is not one woman in a thousand but would have turned her back on you long since—criminal that you are!"
"Should advise you to drop that! If it comes to who's the criminal there's not much to choose between us anyway. How about thieving, eh?—who stole old Barton's will? Oh, I know all aboutyou, my lady. Why, Shorty saw you do the whole trick."
"I think not," she answered. She had herself well in hand again now. "I fancy you'll find it was Mrs. Darrow he saw."
"Not a bit of it. He sawyouright enough. That was all kid his yarn to the Major to squeeze a fiver out of him."
"I have no wish to hear any details of you and your associates' abominable blackmailing schemes. Anything I have done I am not ashamed of. At all events you are the last man who has a right to taunt me with it."
"I don't want to taunt you," he replied, changing his tone. "There's nothing of the saint about me I know. What we are, we are: we're much of a muchness, I suppose."
"I should be sorry if it were so," she said. "However, the less said between you and me the better. We are long past words. Wait here and I will bring you the money, and I trust you will go to some other country and remain there. It is not too late even now for you to make at all events an independence for yourself."
When she had left the room he ran over the position in his mind. She seemed in no way surprised at, and not to care in the least for, what he had told her. He was very much afraid that dodge would not work. She knew the Major, too, and the Major certainly knew him, and altogether he came to the conclusion that this was a case where a little oil was likely to be more efficacious than a large amount of force.
"All right," he said, as she returned with the notes. "I'll go, as you're so mighty anxious to get rid of me. But if I do make another pile you'll be sorry. And take my advice, Miriam, and don't get trying your hand at 'light-finger' work, or you mayn't come off so well next time, and then you mustn't expect any help from me, you know."
"Leave the house, you brute," she cried, losing all control of herself for the moment, "or I'll send this moment for Major Dundas, and hand you over to him."
"What do I care for you and your bully?" he retorted, laughing somewhat uneasily. But he put on his dilapidated hat, nevertheless, and swaggered out into the hall.
In the street the meaning of her words came back upon him with even greater force, and with all the speed he was capable of he made for Mother Mandarin's—the only hole in the vast city where he felt secure.
Left alone Miriam shed a few tears. In truth it seemed she was the very sport of Fortune. Was it never to end—this torment of her life? She hungered so for love and peace. All through she had striven to do right, to benefit in every way those around her, and how had she fared? The words of Queen Mary came to her mind:—
"Mother of God,Thou knowest woman never meant so wellOr fared so ill in this disastrous world."
"Mother of God,Thou knowest woman never meant so wellOr fared so ill in this disastrous world."
How well they applied to her. It all seemed so dark. There was no sign of dawn. Yet she did not lose hope. Her faith in God was infinite.
Within a few minutes of her brother's departure Mrs. Parsley called. There was a thick fog outside, and from time to time the rain managed to pierce it. Against such elements Mrs. Parsley was well protected by mackintosh, umbrella, and the thickest boots. Thus arrayed she was not a comely vision. But underneath that gutta-percha sheeting there beat a heart of gold—a heart worthy all protection. During the past year her visits to Miriam had been frequent, for she sympathised with her deeply. The younger woman had laid her whole life bare to her, even to her connection with Mother Mandarin and Jabez and old Barton.
Gideon Anab, alias Shorty, was still a sore point with Mrs. Parsley. She had learned through him a very wholesome lesson—that charity was but a business after all, and like most other businesses, if left to go its own way, was apt to go all wrong. Thus convinced she had taken all further charitable operations under her own immediate supervision, with the result that for three days out of the week she was obliged to come to London, and then she was only too glad to make the flat in Kensington her headquarters.
"How glad I am to see you," said Miriam, taking her unlovely visage between her two hands and kissing her. "But, my dear Mrs. Parsley, how pale you look!"
The old lady had thrown off her impermeable chrysalis, and had emerged therefrom a very sober fritillary.
"Pale?—of course I'm pale. I've seen a ghost I tell you—the ghost of a man I thought dead years ago."
"Where?"
"Outside—just round the corner here. He seemed to be following some miserable, red-headed, out-at-elbows creature. They were both walking fast. But the man I mean—the ghost—is a tall, pale, thin fellow, with eyes like burning coals. I believe I saw him once at Thorpe, but I was not sure at the time if it was he. But I'm sure now. He was wearing a soft hat and a black cloak——"
"The shadow!" exclaimed Miriam, "it must be!"
"Shadow, my dear! Well, shadow or ghost I know him. His name is Farren. He's the man who ran away with your husband's mother thirty years ago!"
"Farren—Farren!" repeated Miriam thoughtfully, "yes, now I remember the name. Mr. Barton told me the whole story, how he bribed him to go to Australia and break off with Gerald's mother, and how in revenge she made mischief between Mr. Barton and the girl he was engaged to."
"Bribed him?" Mrs. Parsley rubbed her nose thoughtfully—a sure sign with her that she was puzzled. "I don't know so much about the bribing, although that was the story Barton told. Flora Barton had five hundred a year of her own, and Farren was deeply in love with her—no, I fancy it took something more than bribery to make him leave the woman and exile himself like that. I'm pretty sure Barton must have known something about the man's life, and so had him in his power."
"But this Farren, I suppose, was a man of position and reputation in those days, wasn't he, Mrs. Parsley?"
"My dear, he hadn't a rag of reputation—not a rag. He gambled terribly, and led a most dissipated life; all he did was just to keep on the safe side of the law."
"And you think now he hadn't even done that always?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Parsley, "that is my idea; as I have told you, I saw the man once at Lesser Thorpe, although, not being able to get a good look at him, I couldn't be sure it was he. Now if itwas, Barton was the only man whom he could have come to see in our parish, and you'd think he'd be glad to keep out of his way."
"That of course I don't know; but that you are right and Mr. Bartondidhave some hold over this man, I do know, because he told me so himself." Whereupon Miriam gave Mrs. Parsley a succinct account of the use made by Barton of the man he called the "Shadow."
"Humph!" remarked the old lady, seeing the possibilities of the situation. "So Barton got Farren to hunt down your brother, did he? and just now Mr. Farren was very busy following a red-haired man who came from the direction of these Mansions. Putting two and two together, my dear, I should say you had received a visit from your brother."
Miriam was astonished at her accomplishment in the way of deduction. She tried not to betray herself.
"How do you make that out?" she asked.
"The man Farren was following had very striking auburn hair—very much like your own. Come now, it was Jabez, wasn't it?"
"Yes; since you know so much, I may as well admit the truth—it was. After his recognition a year ago by Major Dundas Jabez returned to the Cape. There he found that his partner had sold their claim, and had levanted with the proceeds. The result is he returns here with nothing in his pocket, and once again throws himself on me."
"Of course—exactly," said Mrs. Parsley grimly. "I know the breed. And how much did you give him?"
"Thirty pounds—it was all I had. But I made him promise never to trouble me again. Yes; and he agreed. He's going to America."
"Agreed! My dear, in spite of all your troubles, you are as innocent as a baby. The only way you'll ever get rid of that man is to tell the truth and have him put in gaol. Promises! Bah!Hispromises! He'll not go to America, not he! He'll spend the thirty pounds and come back for more, that's whathe'lldo, and you'll have him like a black dog on your shoulders all your life, unless——" Mrs. Parsley rubbed her nose.
"Unless what?"
"Well, my dear, to tell you the truth, I'm not exactly clear in my own mind as to the position. This Farren knows what Jabez has done, since Barton employed him to find it out. Now that Barton is dead, and Farren we may safely say is hard up, I rather fancy your thirty pounds'll go in blackmail. Or else Jabez, to escape the other man's clutches, will make for the States after all."
"Oh, I only hope he does. It would be awful if, after so long, he were to be given up to the police—you don't think really that will happen, Mrs. Parsley, do you?"
"Depends entirely, I should say, on his willingness to be bled. But anyhow I don't see why you should mind, my dear."
"Oh, Mrs. Parsley, whatever Jabez has done—whatever he is, he is my brother."
"Humph! There is a limit even to fraternal affection to my thinking. Jabez is a bad, bad man, and all your goodness won't turn him into a good one. While he has you to fall back upon he will never do any good for himself. Leave him to Farren's clutches, my dear, and let the pair of them kick it out in the mud."
"But if Jabez gets into trouble his real name will become known. Then think of the disgrace to me."
"Fiddle-de-dee; nobody can disgrace you but your own self. Besides, if the name of Jabez Crane does appear in the police report, who's going to connect it with you? There are hundreds of Cranes in the world."
"Mrs. Darrow, Major Dundas."
"What, that Julia creature?" Mrs. Parsley snapped her fingers. "My love, her opinion is not worththat. She has all the instincts but none of the brains of a really bad woman. As to Major Dundas, what can he know more than he knows already?"
"He doesn't know everything."
"Well I do," snapped Mrs. Parsley, "and there is nothing foryouto be ashamed of that I can see. If there was, do you think I'd be sitting here? I approve of all you have done—yes, even to taking that will. I wish you had burnt it. And yet I don't know——" she added. "No; then you wouldn't have got rid of that idiot. After all, things are best as they are. Leave those two to themselves, my dear, and they'll finish each other sooner or later—sooner rather than later I fancy; though she'll manage to come out 'on top' as the Americans say—d'you know, I do like the Americans, dear!"
"But I really believe Hilda loves him—in fact, sometimes I think I was very wrong not to leave him to her."
"Loves him! Rubbish! It'll be a day with more than twenty-four hours in it when Hilda loves anyone but herself. Bless me, I believe you've a hankering after that man still. What you saw in him I never could make out."
"Sometimes I think he must have fascinated me—that it could not really be love I felt for him but pity. I saw how it was with him, and thought that I could save him."
"Save him! Strikes me, Miriam, you've gone through your life looking upon yourself as a sort of human rocket apparatus. You can't save people against their wills, my dear; and some of 'em won't be saved. Look at Shorty—and that Gerald Arkel is a pig if ever there was one. He prefers his own dunghill—that's vulgar perhaps, my dear, but it's expressive, and that's the great thing! Anyhow, I do hope you've got over all that sort of thing now, Miriam, because I have news of the scamp."
"News of Gerald?—Oh, Mrs. Parsley, he is not ill—not dead?"
The old lady snorted.
"Dead. No, my dear, 'naught was never in danger.' He's alive and sinning. But he's alone! Hilda has left him!"
"Hilda—left—Gerald?"
"Yes; is it so utterly impossible? Come, my dear, I don't deny he's good looking, but thereareother men in the world you know. They've been going it properly, I can tell you. The Manor House is mortgaged—that I could have told you three months ago; in fact, now she's spent his money for him, he has ceased to be so far as she is concerned, and she hasn't lost much time in nominating his successor either—she's gone off with an American millionaire. What d'you think of that? They're in Florence, I believe."
"Poor Gerald," she said slowly. "He has reaped his whirlwind."
"And why not; he sowed it, goodness knows. You don't mean to tell me you pity him? There!—I do believe I'm right, you—no!—you wouldn't go to the fellow now?"
"Only if he were ill—if he were dying would I go to him. When he left me that night in this very room, I told him when I saw him again it would be on his death-bed. When the end comes I shall be there."
Mrs. Parsley rose and kissed her. She could not but admire deep down in her soul the unswerving steadfastness of this woman. It touched her more than anything in life had touched her for years past; for she had a very tender heart had Mrs. Parsley.
"You are a silly fool, my dear," she said, "a great big silly donkey. We are both silly donkeys, I believe, when it comes to the point. But after the way that man's insulted you—well, most women would have liked to dance a polka on his grave."
"You wouldn't—if he had beenyourhusband."
"P'r'aps not—but although I said I was a donkey, not in my most asinine moments would I have gone as far as that. Gerald Arkel should never have beenmyhusband. And if he had, that hussy would never have got him—that I swear! But you, dear, you've just been soft soap in their hands; you're so good-natured and gentle and sweet, that I could—but there, I love you for it all the more."
So saying, Mrs. Parsley expressed her affection in a warm embrace, and seeing it was hurtful to her friend, changed the subject.
She was never at a loss for a topic. There were all sorts of parochial and urban schemes to be discussed, among the latter a new home for strayed street boys, which the good lady had established in one of the Lambeth lanes. She was now well known in that neighbourhood, and though she had her people under well nigh despotic rule, was none the less beloved on that account. Even the recalcitrant Mother Mandarin yielded to her. As for the street boys, who were her especial care, she had banged so many of their heads together, that they now no longer swore at her so much as they swore by her. By sheer persistence and strength to enforce her commands, she had brought about a cleansing nothing short of Augean. Her sway was absolute as that of any Cæsar—her methods every whit as drastic and vastly more beneficial.
"Do you know I had rather a shock last week, Miriam?" said Mrs. Parsley, rubbing her nose.
"Did you; how?"
"Well, that wretched Gideon Anab—no, he shan't be called Gideon Anab since he has fallen away from grace—that wretched Shorty has gone back to live with his disreputable old grandmother!"
"You don't say so; and where has he been all this time?"
"Somewhere in Whitechapel, I believe. I know he went off last year with five pounds of my money. I'm disappointed in that boy, Miriam. I thought his instincts were good, and that if he had the chance he'd rise. But he hasn't; he's taken a rise out of me instead!"
"The young vagabond he wants a good flogging."
"No good, my dear. Take my word for it, when they're past me they're past everything. However, he has promised a lot now, and we're going to begin over again, Miriam, my dear, for the last time. But I haven't told you what really gave me the shock. How old do you think the wretch is?"
"Oh, I don't know; about sixteen."
"He's twenty-three! You may well stare. It's perfectly true. Not that he hasn't wickedness for ninety-nine; still, even now I don't despair of him. I'll lead him to the stool of repentance yet, if I have to lead him by the ear."
"I rather think that's about the only way you'll ever lead him in that particular direction," said Miriam drily.
Mrs. Parsley rubbed her nose with more than her usual vigour. Miriam waited, taking it as an infallible sign that there was more to come. The old lady looked troubled and embarrassed.
"Of course," she began, "the boy's an awful liar; still——" she hesitated.
"Oh, do go on, please."
"Yes; I think you ought to know. Well, Shorty, amongst other things, has had a fit—don't be alarmed, dear, on his account, he's all right—the devil looks after his own—a fit of repentance, or what stands for such with him. Anyway, he's been confessing certain facts which are rather serious for your brother Jabez. It appears he saw him hanging round the Manor House on that Christmas night—in fact, he saw him in the library with Barton."
"I don't believe it," cried Miriam vehemently. "Why, I had that letter from him from London——"
"Exactly, my dear; but you saw him afterwards at Southampton remember. The fact is, Shorty hints pretty plainly that Jabez killed Mr. Barton! and although it's terribly painful to me to say, all things considered, it does look very like it. You know, dear, it can be no surprise to us to learn that he is capable of murder."
"No; I know. What can I say—it may be so; yes, it may be so. But, dear Mrs. Parsley, I don't believe it is, I really don't. I saw him in Southampton it is true, but—oh, I don't know what to say. What shall I do?"
"Do? There's nothing for you to do. Only if Jabez is wise he'll clear out, that's all. You see, dear, if this is the truth, and he know it, we can't condone it. He must be got away. That's his only chance. In an affair of this kind his past life would handicap him greatly, you mustn't forget that."
"Would to God that I could."
"Well, well, you must keep calm, Miriam dear; it was best I should tell you. We'll do nothing hastily. We'll see Major Dundas first. Only you see my position. If this boy persists in what he says, he'll have to be taken to the police—there's no help for it."
"No—I see." She seemed completely stunned by this fresh blow.
Mrs. Parsley rose to go.
"Now, Miriam dear, just turn things quietly over in your own mind—I must go before it gets any later, I've lots of things to do, and I want very much to catch the five o'clock. There's nothing to worry about for the moment. Only we must act rightly and circumspectly, that's all. You know, dear, I would not be the one to bring more trouble upon you. I want to lighten what exists. Now don't be silly, there's a dear girl." Then she kissed her and hurried away.
From the window Miriam watched her slopping through the rain with her vigorous stride and her skirts half way up to her knees. She thought what a good creature she was—almost the only friend she had in the world; almost, because there was one other, whom she felt she could trust with her life. He would surely help her now, as he had always been ready to help her in the past.
Sick at heart she returned to her chair by the fire, and meditated on this new trouble which threatened her. And the more she thought the more bewildered she seemed to become. A knock at the door roused her. Would that girl ever learn to answer the bell within five minutes of its being rung? At last her mind was put at rest, for the Major, looking very much himself, was shown into the room.
"I've come to see if you'll take pity on me, Mrs. Arkel," he said, "so far as to give me a morsel of dinner. I've taken what the Scotch call a 'scunner' at my club."
"Of course I will, though I fear it will be little more than a morsel," replied Miriam. "Put your hat and coat in the hall—I'm so glad you've come."
This was sweet music to the Major's ears. But he noticed she seemed nervous and not quite herself.
"Nothing wrong, I hope," he said.
"Yes, indeed; very little's right," sighed Miriam, "but you mustn't tempt me to begin pouring my troubles into your ears directly you enter the door."
"Your troubles are mine, Mir——"
"Oh, I know how good you are; that's why I hate to worry you."
"Now, come along, sit down and tell me all about it."
"No; not till after dinner. It will keep; but just that you may know why I look worried, I may tell you that Jabez has been here again this afternoon."
"Oh! the same old errand I suppose?"
"Yes; he wanted money. I gave him what I could."
"Well, that ended the matter, didn't it? My dear Mrs. Arkel, I do wish you'd let me deal with this scamp of a brother of yours. You see, I know all about him, and he wouldn't——"
"All? I'm afraid not even you knowallabout him?"
"Yes," said Dundas emphatically. "All; even to the fact that he is at this moment wanted on a charge of murder!"
Although for long Miriam had felt convinced that Major Dundas knew considerably more about her brother's life than he had any intention of acquainting her with, the force with which he drove home those last words completely terrorised her. Coming as they did immediately on the top of what Mrs. Parsley had told her, they, to her mind, conveyed only one meaning—that her brother was known now as the murderer of Mr. Barton, and as such would assuredly have to pay the penalty of his crime. She could not conceal the alarm she felt, and as she leaned back in her chair pale to the lips, her throat seemed almost to close, and her heart to stop with nervous dread. With quick indrawn breath she waited for his next words. They were words of comfort.
"Mrs. Arkel," he said, "I fear I have alarmed you. Believe me, you can trust in me. What I have just told you I knew a year ago. If I did not have your brother arrested then you need not fear that I shall do so now. He is safe from me—for your sake."
She was puzzled. It could not have been then to the murder of Mr. Barton he had referred after all. He could not have known about that a year ago. He must have meant that other—that terrible crime which had so overshadowed her life during all these years, and of the consequences of which to Jabez she had lived in daily dread. She took for granted that it was so.
"I know—I know," she said, "and I can never thank you for your forbearance. But, indeed, the charge against my unfortunate brother was not one of murder—it was manslaughter."
Dundas paused before replying.
"I am afraid," he said, a trifle drily, "that you will find the verdict of the coroner's jury leaves no room for misunderstanding on that point; still, there is of course the chance that after all this time—it is six years ago you remember—I may be mistaken."
"Do you know all the facts of the case, Major?"
"Surely. The affair made a great stir in my regiment at the time. You see your brother had shown very soon after enlisting that he was a man of ungovernable temper, and no amount of discipline seemed to have any effect upon him. He was punished again and again for his insubordination. At last after punishment more than usually severe he deserted, and for a long time, in spite of the most careful search, he eluded capture. When in the end they did find him it was in London, and he was arrested by four men and a sergeant. He surrendered so quietly that the sergeant foolishly omitted to handcuff him. The hour was late and the street ill-lighted. He attempted escape. The sergeant snatched a bayonet from the musket of one of the men, and as he did so Crane closed with him and stabbed him to the heart, and then managed to get clean away. The whole affair, I suppose, was the work of a few seconds. They chased him as far as the river, and he was seen to throw himself in. Then they appear to have abandoned him, and he has not since been heard of. I think these are the facts exactly, are they not, Mrs. Arkel?"
"From one point of view, yes; but Jabez has always declared that the sergeant tried to stabhim, and that he snatched the bayonet from him in self-defence only. In the struggle that ensued the sergeant was stabbed, true, but the act was defensive on Jabez' part, not aggressive. That I really believe is the truth, in which case of course it would be manslaughter and not murder."
"Your brother naturally makes out the best possible case for himself. But the evidence of the men went to prove conclusively that the act was deliberate. At all events he funked trial, and the coroner's verdict was one of wilful murder."
"Yes, I know he did. It was marvellous how he escaped, and afterwards he was afraid to give himself up. How he managed, good swimmer as he was, to keep himself afloat in that surging stream, was always inexplicable to him himself—sheer force of despair, I suppose. However, he did manage it, and eventually found shelter at Mother Mandarin's."
"Who is this Mother Mandarin?"
"She is an old woman who keeps an opium den in Lambeth. Her name came to her through her having been an orange-seller at one time. Jabez had among other vices contracted that of opium smoking, and he was a good customer of hers. Consequently when he rushed in soaking wet that night, and told her he was in danger, she took him in and concealed him. For months he remained there, not even the immediate neighbours knowing of his presence."
"No—it was assumed he was drowned. The district was supposed to have been thoroughly searched, and absolutely no trace of him was found. I myself was of the same opinion until that day I saw him here."
"How did you recognise him?"
"By the colour of his eyes and hair, and more particularly by the scar on his forehead. For a while I could not place him, though I was positive I knew the man. Then suddenly it flashed across me, and the identity of his name with yours struck me. You remember how startled you were? I concluded of course from the name that he must be some connection, but it never dawned upon me he was your brother. I can hardly describe to you what I felt when you told me."
"Can you imagine what it was to me to have to tell you?"
"I know—don't think of it now. It has all been very terrible—very horrible. And the worst of it is I fear there is more to come!"
She paled again, and looked up quickly.
"Is there something you are keeping from me? If so it would be kinder to tell me. I can bear anything now I think."
The Major appeared nervous and ill at ease.
"Well, Mrs. Arkel, I feel in one way I ought to, and yet the subject is so very painful for both of us——"
"For both of us?"
"Surely you know how I feel——"
"Yes, yes; but tell me what you have in your mind."
"Well, then, I am very much inclined to think that your brother killed my uncle."
Miriam remained perfectly calm. She had fully expected this; but she felt secure from what he had said, that for her sake he would take no action.
"What reasons have you for thinking that?"
"Perhaps it is safer to call them suspicions. I have really no direct evidence, only I feel that between you and me, even on this terrible topic, absolute frankness is best. I admit that for long past I have not been able to dissociate in my mind the fact of your brother having been in Lesser Thorpe on Christmas Eve, and having been heard to threaten my uncle, from the fact of the old man having been murdered the following night. You may say it was pure coincidence—that it is mere conjecture on my part, based on the most fallible of circumstantial evidence; but I tell you candidly that if it had not been for you, I should have sifted that thing to the bottom long ago. As it was I preferred to leave it in the hands of the police."
"What you say is perfectly true, and I, too, would rather we spoke quite freely on the subject, horrible as it is. I tell you that from the bottom of my heart I don't believe that Jabez is guilty of this crime. But there is another thing I must also tell you. Mrs. Parsley told me before she left to-day that the boy Shorty has recently made certain confessions in connection with Mr. Barton's murder, amongst them that he saw Jabez in the library that night—in fact, he accuses Jabez directly of the murder."
"And even in the face of that you believe him innocent? My dear Mrs. Arkel, I confess I cannot. It requires only the least bit of evidence to confirm my suspicions. But I am glad you told me this, for it is serious."
"You won't allow it to alter you? For my sake you won't——"
"For your sake I would do almost anything. I say almost, because there is just one thing I cannot do."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, don't you see my position? If this evidence gets to the police it will mean immediate action on the part of some of the smartest detectives in London—in fact, everywhere additional particulars of your brother and this crime will be sent. Within a month he may be caught and within another month have to stand his trial! What happens then? Why, in all probability it will transpire, or out of sheer spite at me—for he bears me no love I can tell you—he will say how we met at your house, and how I, knowing well who he was, failed to give notice to the authorities, as I should have done for your sake. Think then of the position I am in—in fact, of the position we both are in!"
"My God!" she cried, "that must not be. You must run no risks. You must not consider me. Oh, if anything were to happen to you through this!—through me! If necessary you must act at once—you must give him up before this fresh charge comes."
"First of all I think we had better inquire a little more closely into the value of this boy's evidence. He is an unscrupulous young liar, as I have already proved. Then we will act accordingly. Meanwhile, there is not the least need for you to alarm yourself. You can safely leave the whole affair in my hands. But there is something else I would like you to tell me if you will—that is, how, in the first instance, you came into contact with my uncle. I know partly it was through a governess agency, but somehow—I—I have often thought there was something more—something that you would tell me of your own accord perhaps some day?"
"Yes," she answered simply, "you are right, there is. And I had fully intended to tell you. Your friendship deserves——"
"Friendship, Miriam?"
"Let us call it that—it is best so. But before I can tell you exactly how I came to meet with Mr. Barton, I must tell you of my life before that time. It will not be pleasant hearing for you. It is terrible to me, even now, to go back to it, for it was a time of darkness and of deprivation, of absolute want, and of the most acute suffering, physical and mental."
He looked at her with a whole world of pity in his eyes.
"Don't, if it pains you so," he said.
"Yes, it is but right you should know," she replied simply. "I will begin at the beginning, and you shall judge of me for yourself. My father was, as I think I once told you, a sailor. For many years he was in command of a ship trading between London and China. We lived at Deal then, in our own house, with my mother, who was a most sweet and gentle woman, and devoted to us. But, alas, when I was only fifteen years of age she died, and I was left in charge of everything. Jabez was five years older than I, and for some time had occupied the position of clerk at a local bank. Even then he was violent tempered, and thoroughly idle, and given to affecting the lowest of company. My mother had adored him, as mothers always adore the scamp of the family. Yet she had not been wholly blind to the weakness of his nature. Indeed, she knew well that he would never withstand the temptations of the world, and on her death-bed she made me promise never to forsake him."
"And I'm sure you've kept that promise," said Dundas.
"God knows at what cost," said Miriam. "It is no use my making light of the burden I then took up. It was a heavy one, and the bearing of it took all the brightness out of my youth. When my father came back he engaged a housekeeper, and sent me back to school where I remained three years. Jabez still lived at home, but he did not get on well with the housekeeper. She was not a nice woman—in fact, she made up her mind she would marry my father, and I am sorry to say she succeeded. I returned from school to find myself a stranger in my own home. My father was a kindly man, but weak as water, and perfectly unable to deal with a woman like his wife. Jabez and she quarrelled constantly, and although I tried my best to keep peace I invariably got the worst of it, as peace-makers usually do."
"True—true," said Dundas, thinking of sundry family quarrels begun and continued by Mrs. Darrow, "I know that from my own experience."
"With such a home you can easily guess how Jabez went from bad to worse. He took to staying out at night, to drink, to gamble, and to idle away his time. Then one day he took some of the bank funds and made off with them. My father was at home at the time, and by repaying the money immediately managed to hush it up, but he swore never again to receive Jabez or to regard him as his son. After a while I heard from him from London. He was without money, and unknown to anyone I sent him what I could. The next thing I heard was that he had enlisted. You know his life and doings during that period.
"Just then my father started off on what proved to be his last voyage, for he and all his crew were lost in a cyclone in the Chinese seas. No sooner did we receive the terrible news than my stepmother turned me out of the house."
"But, my dear Mrs. Arkel, how was such a thing possible?"
"My father left everything to her—house, money, lands, everything. I was not so much as mentioned in his will. My stepmother told me plainly she had always hated me. For very shame she could not turn me out penniless, so she gave me fifty pounds. I took it, indeed, what else could I do? Besides the money was rightfully mine. But that was not the worst. Jabez' misfortune happened about that time. I saw the whole thing in the papers, and I was in despair. Still what could I do? I was helpless. Next I heard from him that he was penniless, and in hiding, and asking me for money to enable him to leave England. I had fifty pounds; so I sent him half. I had to keep the rest until I got a situation as nursery governess. While I was in this place I heard of my stepmother's marriage to a young sailor, then I knew that my father's money was lost for ever."
"How could your father make such a will?"
"He was weak, and this woman got the better of him. Besides, he believed naturally that she would look after me. It was shortly after hearing about the marriage that I again met Jabez. He had not left England but had spent the money. He found out my address from my stepmother, to whom he had written. She knew what he was, and she was always ready to do me an ill turn. At all events the result was he came to see me one day while I was in the Park with the children. Vice and poverty had set their marks on him, and he looked horrible. The children were frightened and complained when they came home, and I was dismissed."
"But did you not explain that he was your brother?"
"I did. And the explanation made matters worse. The lady with whom I was said that she could not retain in her services anyone having a brother so disreputable. She took the trouble even to drive to the Institute and tell them about it. Consequently I could not get another situation. In despair, as my money was running low, I went to see Jabez at the address he had given me at Lambeth."
"Ah, there you were wrong—you should have kept clear of him at all costs."
"What else could I do?" said Miriam plaintively. "I was alone, and Jabez—bad as he was—was my brother, my sole living relative. I went to see him, to beg him to try and get some honest work under an assumed name. He was at Mother Mandarin's"—she shuddered—"and for the first time I saw that awful den—it was like a glimpse of hell. Jabez would not go out and work, he was afraid of being recognised and arrested he said. So I shared what I had with him—I, oh——" Miriam covered her face with her hands. "How can I tell you the horrible life of those eighteen months!—the sufferings, the penury! I tried to get work—I walked into every registry office in London to hire myself out as a servant—but all in vain—my appearance was against me. They did not think my appearance was suitable. Everywhere I went it was the same thing. I applied at Nursing Institutes, at hospitals, but the authorities refused to take me without certificates of competency and respectability. My clothes got shabby—I could not buy more. Major Dundas, if you only knew what I suffered, what I did to keep the bread in the mouths of myself and Jabez!"
"The hound!" cried Dundas furiously, "and he wouldn't work!"
"He was afraid of arrest. I sang in the chorus at a music-hall—I sang in the streets—I sold flowers—I—I—I begged on one occasion. Rung by rung I fell lower and lower. But I was still true to myself—I was still honest—I believed that one day God would end my martyrdom. It ended on the night I met Mr. Barton."
"Where?"
"On Waterloo Bridge at midnight. We had been starving for days, and Jabez was seized with a fit of compunction. He went out with the boy Shorty to get food by fair means or by foul. He was desperate. I knew that he would stop at nothing that night, indeed I heard him say as much to Shorty. So I followed them. Mr. Barton came over the bridge. He had evidently lost his way in the fog. He stopped, asking Shorty to direct him. The boy, taking in his fur coat at a glance, saw at once that he was worth robbing. He called to Jabez, and the two of them set upon him, and half strangled him in the attempt to take his watch. I tried to stop them but it was no use. Jabez persisted. Then I climbed on to the parapet of the bridge, and threatened to throw myself into the river if he did not at once release Mr. Barton. He hesitated, and at that moment I heard the policeman coming. Jabez and Shorty took to their heels, and I helped Mr. Barton to his feet.
"The old man was considerably knocked about, but he was able to walk slowly to his hotel, where he insisted on my accompanying him, and on doing something for me to show his gratitude. Starving as I was I accepted his help only too gladly. It was the Pitt Hotel in Craven Street he took me to.
"After that he caused inquiries to be made about me, I believe, and the end of it was he took me down to Lesser Thorpe as governess to Dicky. The rest you know."
"Good God!" cried Dundas, much agitated, "how you must have suffered!"
"Indeed I have; but in all my suffering I never lost my faith in God. Tell me, Major, you do not shrink from me now that you know?"
Trembling with emotion he took her hand.
"Miriam," he said, "what you have told me has only confirmed the belief I had in you. You are a martyr, a saint."
"Poor saint, I fear," she said faintly.
"Dearest," said the Major gravely, "in my eyes you are the noblest and best of women."
She looked into his eyes. And as she did so she felt that all her suffering had not been in vain.