Miriam's accusation came on Barton like a bolt from the blue. For a moment he seemed utterly incapable of speech—while of emotion he showed not a trace. Casting a terrible look on the woman who at once defied and threatened him, he rapidly counted his chances against her. A very brief survey of the existing circumstances sufficed to assure him that the power to coerce her was his. Then an ironical smile broke over his withered face. He glanced at door and windows to assure himself that they were closed. The subject under discussion was too dangerous a one for him to run any risks in that direction. When he spoke it was with all calmness and some irrelevance.
"Won't you sit down, my dear?" he said. "We can talk as easily sitting as standing—more easily perhaps."
As composed as himself, Miriam took a chair, and prepared for the encounter.
"I won't have Jabez harmed," she repeated, "especially by you, who are every wit as bad, if not worse than he is. In a moment of weakness you extorted from me his real name, and thereby you learned more about him than I intended you should learn. But why you should desire to have arrested a man who, whatever his sins, has never harmed you, I do not know. But, understand, I shall stand between you and Jabez—I will protect him. I know too much about you, Mr. Barton, for you to treat me with impunity, and I think you know it."
"And this is gratitude," said Barton, casting up his eyes. "I drag you from the gutter, feed you, clothe you, introduce you to respectable society, and you turn on me!"
"What you did, you did for your own ends," retorted Miriam coldly, "and you know well that I am not from the gutter. There can be no question of philanthropy on your part, or of gratitude on mine."
"Do you think I counted on your gratitude, you jade! If you did, you were wrong. I know that you, like the rest of your sex, would turn on me the first time your uneasy virtue touched your conscience. However, enough of this. As you say, you gave me sufficient information to enable me to obtain more, and I did. So you may as well realise that I am in the position to talk of force, and not you!"
"Not if you harm Jabez, for it is only through him you have any hold over me."
Barton stroked his chin, and looked at her strangely. She was unpleasantly concise—for a woman. He changed his tone.
"Miriam, Miriam, you are but a child after all; you believe all that is told you. Why this man should have informed you that I meant to harm Jabez I cannot say, unless it was to make bad blood between us, and to thwart my scheme in which you are concerned. But I shall find out his reason, and make him pay—as Icanmake him pay—for his interference. But you may set your mind at rest, you silly child. I have no intention of molesting Jabez, if only because by doing so, as you say, I should lose my hold over you. So long as you do my bidding, Jabez is safe; of course, if you don't—well, we won't talk about that for the present. As to your threatening to disclose my secret vice—I am not afraid of that threat. To tell every one here about me would do you no good—and it certainly would not do me much harm. But if you were to do anything so spiteful, I may tell you that I should have Jabez under lock and key in a week."
"So long as you do not harm him I will be—as I have been hitherto," replied the woman wearily. "It was only from what your Shadow Man gave me to understand that I spoke as I did. I will do all I can to meet your wishes."
"Marry Gerald then!"
Miriam shook her head.
"I said I was prepared to do what I could," she observed, "but so far as Mr. Arkel is concerned, I can do nothing. I may as well tell you at once that he is engaged to Hilda Marsh."
"Damn her!" said Barton, without moving a muscle. "How do you know?"
"I saw them sitting together on the stile near Farmer Bell's. One glance at them was quite sufficient for me. They are engaged, Mr. Barton. You will find that I am right."
Barton mused.
"I am not surprised," he said, after a pause. "I have no doubt you are right. I fancy I know, too, what has brought it about. Last night I told Gerald that I intended to make him my heir; he has, of course, gone straight to her, the hussy, with it, and she—by Heaven, what fools men are!—well, she's lost no time in bringing him to the point. Well," Barton chuckled, "it is not too late to remedy my little mistake. I shall just contrive to let Miss Marsh know that I have changed my mind—that for Gerald I intend to substitute John Dundas, and I fancy you'll see that she'll change hers pretty quickly too."
"Even if she does, it can make no difference so far as I am concerned. As I told you before, I tell you again, there is no chance of my marrying Mr. Arkel."
"But I thought you said—your feelings——!"
"Yes, I know that to my cost, but he does not love me, and will never, never ask me to be his wife. He respects me, he admires me—I am sure he likes me very much. But I must have more than that, Mr. Barton—or less. Let me go, please. I have tried to win Gerald; but he is not for me."
"But think ofhim—you would not see the boy ruined? With Hilda for wife and my fortune his ruin will be very complete. As his wife you could save him—you know you could! And you have three times the brains of that minx. Surely you could manage——"
"Enough, Mr. Barton. I will not hear what you are going to say. I could save him. Yes, I know I could," cried Miriam, and the tears rose in her eyes. "But, much as I love him, and God alone knows how much that is—I cannot lower myself in his eyes and in my own. I cannot do more, Mr. Barton. The salvation of Gerald is in your hands, not in mine. If you hated his mother, who wronged you, that is no reason you should ruin him, a young man, who has done you no harm. It is a villainous, mad, horrible thing to do!"
"You think so? Well, it must suffice for you that I know what I am doing. If Gerald, after all my kindness and care, had shown any love for me—if he had been even ordinarily grateful, I might have spared him. But he is a brainless, selfish, cold-hearted fop, who abuses me even while he eats my meat. He is useless to man, ruinous to woman, so the sooner he drinks and debauches himself into an early grave, the better it will be for humanity in general. I brought you down here thinking to give him a chance, but he has thrown that away. I have no pity for him!"
"Let your will in favour of Major Dundas stand," urged Miriam, "and Gerald will not lose his chance. Hilda is a mere fortune-hunter. She will throw him over as soon as ever she hears that he is poor."
"I shall do nothing of the sort," replied Barton coldly. "He shall have my money, and, since he is so blind, he can marry Hilda. You—since you refuse to save him—can stand aside and watch his downfall."
"I tell you it is beyond my power to marry him, even if I wished to. I cannot achieve the impossible. Gerald's future cannot depend upon me."
"Then, if it is to depend upon me, a cruel future it will be for him. By a new will I am leaving everything to him."
"Mr. Barton, you are an incarnate devil!"
"Nothing of the kind—only very much a man."
"A coward, since you revenge yourself on a dead woman."
At this Barton was seized with a sudden fury.
"I revenge myself on the son of a woman who ruined me," he almost shouted. "I would have lived and died a decent man but for her. Within me I had the seeds of a wicked heredity, which drove me, if not to crime, at least into contact with crime. The woman I loved would have saved me from myself, and my sister stepped in to prevent my salvation. I hated her for it, I hate her son, and the knowledge that he will go headlong to ruin after my death, will be the sweetest of my dying thoughts."
Miriam looked at the old man with amazement, as he shook with fury and impotent rage. His face became positively brutish, his eyes glittered with insane light, and he shook from head to foot, as though seized with a palsy.
"You say that I am an opium-eater," he continued wrathfully. "I am—I am! For years I was possessed of seven devils which tore at me, and, in despair, I took to the drug. Mother Mandarin! you know her well, and she knows me. Many a time have I crept down that foul lane in Lambeth to the foul den of that old hag, and there with many a pipe have I sought to smoke myself into oblivion—into an imaginary paradise where at least I might hope to dream of her who was lost to me. But did oblivion come—was Paradise opened? No, no! I was taken into hell—to suffer the tortures of the damned. My waking life was agony—my sleeping, pain everlasting; yet I could not tear myself away from the thing. It gained too strong a hold on me, and I am a slave to it even now—I confess it, a slave to Satan, to Apollyon, to Beelzebub. You know now why I go to London, and seek to deliver myself into the grip of those things which lie in darkness."
In his agitation he rose and paced the floor, rent and torn by the devils which, as he said, and which Miriam, with the spectacle before her, was constrained to believe, possessed him.
She remained silent, stunned almost by the outburst of this terrible nature—brutish, animal, horrible. It was as though the cold ground underfoot had opened to spout fire and destruction. Barton went on,
"Do you know my fear, Miriam? It is that some day I shall kill some one. That is the gift that I inherit from my ancestors. A thousand times the impulse has seized me, but, so far, I have had the strength to hold me back. A wife—a good, fond, loving, tender wife, could have saved me from the tortures which that bloody instinct inflicts. She would have exorcised the devil within me. Of that, my only salvation, I was robbed by my sister. I hate her!" he hissed.
"Flora, dead or alive, I curse you! I will ruin your son, as you ruined me, and when he dies a drunkard and an outcast, I shall laugh—yes, even though I am in hell, I shall laugh."
Shaking his fists, the old man dropped into his chair, and burying his face in his hands, burst into tears. His paroxysm of anger had exhausted him, and he was now weak as a child.
Miriam was amazed and terrified by what she had heard. Here was a man with the awful instinct of murder in his blood, possessed of a hideous love of crime. Within him lurked a monster ravenous as a tiger—a source of danger to all around him, although they knew it not. Miriam wondered whether in truth he might not already have followed the promptings of his mania—whether his hands were not even now stained with blood. Or, perchance, he had watched others do this devil's work at his bidding, while he had stood aside, and thus kept himself within the limits of the law. She could not say, she could not guess; but, silent and aghast, she looked at the sobbing man. Filled with the instincts of terrible crime, what a life he must have led! What tortures he must have experienced! Was he really sane or insane? Should he be allowed to go free or not? She could not decide. She could only sit there fascinated as it were by the sight of him—a human being abject and impotent from abandonment to the vile instincts which had clamoured for expression. She could almost find it in her heart to pity him!
Of all things in this most inexplicable world, one of the most inexplicable is why some people, deserving of real happiness, should be predestined by circumstances to a misery they cannot avert. They may be honest, kindly, intelligent, industrious, praiseworthy in many respects, deserving in all; but some malignant fate misguides them, and drags them, as with invisible chains, to that abyss which is the scoundrel's natural goal. Every step they take is in the wrong direction, on the downward path; every act they do, however deliberate, leads only to trouble. With the ingenuity of a fox pursued they may twist and turn and double, only to end in running directly into the foreseen trap. How Fate must laugh at their futile efforts to avoid the inevitable, and sneer at their attempts to fend off a danger which is destined to overwhelm them. Kick against the pricks they may for a longer or a shorter period, according to their capacity for stubborn resistance; but in the end, worn out, terrified, despairing, they must perforce submit their bodies to the relentless whips of the gods. Why this should be so, why these innocents should suffer a fate than which no malefactor can suffer worse, is unilluminable by the light of either science or religion.
Poor Miriam was a prominent example of such relentless and predestined misfortune. Born with a noble nature and a kindly heart, gifted with beauty and with talent, she had been dragged down to the depths by some power she could not defy. When Barton had come to her aid she had thought that the tide of fortune had turned at last in her favour, and would drift her into a haven of peace. Such she had trusted to find in this quiet country village; but even here it seemed she was to be pursued and crushed by the same ubiquitous fate. Mrs. Darrow, on no reasonable grounds, hated her; Gerald, the one man whose love she now craved, withheld that love from her; Barton had her in his toils; Jabez was coming out of the darkness to haunt and trouble her; and on every side she was surrounded with difficulties. Since Mrs. Darrow had given her notice, she had almost in despair resolved to take what money was due to her and disappear—to break off with the past, and try once again to begin her life afresh and unhampered by the sins of others. But a very brief reflection showed her that she could not even do this. She was too keenly conscious of her duty to shirk her responsibilities—to do that would be with her only to carry remorse in addition to her other burdens. So she resolved to abide where she was, and face the worst. But her spirit was broken, and her power of resistance to evil fortune well-nigh gone.
Mrs. Darrow still held to her intention of dismissing her governess; but at the same time she had no fancy that Uncle Barton should know anything about it for the present. That would inevitably mean direct conflict in which she was sure to be worsted. It would be well, she thought, to put things to Miss Crane from that point of view.
"There is no need because we are going to part that we should do so in anger, Miss Crane," she said frigidly. "For my part I am quite willing that things should be just as they were until you go. Nor is it necessary really that Mr. Barton knows anything about it—it would only upset him, and lead to unpleasantness all round. Indeed, it might even hasten your departure, so I don't think if I were you——"
"I understand perfectly, Mrs. Darrow," interrupted Miriam. "I will say nothing to Mr. Barton for the present. I am quite willing to go."
"You must understand, Miss Crane," pursued the widow, egotistic and tactless as ever, "that I must be mistress in my own house. I approve of you in many ways, and I admit that you have fulfilled your duties with discretion. At the same time I confess I do not like the mystery with which you choose to surround yourself."
"There is no mystery about me, Mrs. Darrow. Mr. Barton made such inquiries as he thought necessary, I presume, before he engaged me."
"Then what satisfies Mr. Barton does not satisfy me. I find it impossible to reconcile your very mysterious behaviour with an absence of mystery in your life. You lock your bedroom door, and write letters to mysterious people of whom I know nothing, and you are intimate—far too intimate—with Mr. Barton himself, for that matter. I speak only for your good."
"If, as you suggest, we are to remain friendly until I go, I think you had better not speak at all," replied Miriam coldly.
"Miss Crane, this insolence——"
"Had better come to an end—so I think. You will observe, Mrs. Darrow, that hitherto I have treated you with scrupulous politeness, and I demand the same in return. Whether I go or stay is a matter of complete indifference to me, but I decline absolutely to put up with impertinence from you. Any further interference with my private affairs, and I complain to Mr. Barton—either that, or you behave properly to me, and I remain till the end of the month, as you wish. I don't think that leaves much room for misunderstanding, Mrs. Darrow. At least, there is no need to continue this very undignified wrangling."
And Miriam, with her head in the air, walked out of the room.
"Miss Crane, come back!—I insist—I command!" screeched Mrs. Darrow, like an angry parrot.
But Miriam paid no heed, and the worsted one was constrained to take refuge in tears.
"To be treated so in my own house!" she wept, "and by one of the lower orders, too! Bad woman—and red-haired minx that she is!"
But all Mrs. Darrow's expletives could not alter the situation. If she turned Miriam out of the house, as she would have dearly loved to do, there would be trouble with her uncle; and if, on the other hand, she kept her for the month, she would have to treat her civilly, since Miss Crane did not—as she put it—know her place; the word "place" being construed by Mrs. Darrow to mean a capacity for swallowing meekly as much of her bullying and bad temper as she might choose to indulge in. And as for this Miriam showed no kind of aptitude, she perforce had to make up her mind to the inevitable. So she went to bed, and dosed herself with a wondrous mixture of the combined "bromides," and brooded over her wrongs. She was a spiteful and malicious woman, with an element of hysteria thrown in, and she would freely have given a year of her life to do Miriam an injury. For the next few days she kept a cat-like watch on her. Possessed of a trifle more brain power she might have been dangerous. But, as it was, she inclined more to that peculiar class of cantankerous and neurotic female for whom the ducking-stool was surely designed.
Meanwhile, Miriam anxiously awaited a reply from Jabez. Two days before Christmas she received it. A dirty envelope, containing an even more dirty half-sheet of paper, was thrust into her hand by Mrs. Darrow herself, who, noting the particularly soiled appearance of it, immediately became suspicious. On the paper was scribbled a curt announcement from the writer that he would be at Lesser Thorpe on Christmas Eve at ten o'clock. Miriam was to meet him in the churchyard at that time, or, as he put it, "it'll be worse for you and me!"
There was no help for it, the appointment must be kept, though how she was to manage to get out at such an hour she did not know. When the night came, it was fine and frosty, although snow had been falling heavily during the day. She decided to put a bold face on it, and about nine o'clock presented herself to Mrs. Darrow in her hat and cloak.
"With your permission," she said briefly, "I am just going to run over and see Mrs. Parsley."
"Why on earth should you want to see Mrs. Parsley at this hour?"
"Well, the truth is, I have received a very important letter from London, and I want to consult her."
She felt half inclined to refuse, but remembering that Mrs. Parsley was a close friend of Miriam's, and had, moreover, anything but a soft tongue, she thought better of it, and consented. But she firmly believed her governess had some very different object for her errand, and determined to follow her.
"You can go," she said rudely, resuming her book.
"Thank you," replied Miriam, too grateful at receiving permission to be punctilious about the tone in which it was given. Then she went out.
As soon as the gate clashed after her, Mrs. Darrow put on her cloak, and followed swiftly.
The sky was clear of clouds, and though there was no moon, the frosty twinkle of the stars threw a steely light on the mask of snow covering the earth. Through the cold luminosity of this white world Miriam glided like a shadow, and after her stole Mrs. Darrow. There was no wind, no sound of any human voice. They two might have been the only denizens of that frozen landscape.
Resolved to give some colourable pretext in accordance with the excuse she had made, Miriam went straight from Pine Cottage to the Vicarage, at which Mrs. Darrow was not a little disconcerted, not to say incensed. She asked herself whether after all the girl might not have spoken the truth.
"But I'll wait and see you home, my young lady," she decided. "It is not Mrs. Parsley alone you are after at this hour, I'll be bound."
For a long time she waited, and waiting nursed her wrath. Several of the villagers passed along the road, more or less merry in honour of the festive season. But Mrs. Darrow was well hidden in the shadow, and they did not see her. When ten clanged from the square tower of the church, she was getting very tired of it, and had almost made up her mind to go home. She was nearly frozen, and there seemed to be no chance of catching Miriam in any mischief. But fate was kinder to her than she deserved, for hardly had the last boom of the hour died in the frosty air, when Miriam suddenly emerged from the Vicarage gate, and crossed the white road into the churchyard.
"Ah!" murmured Mrs. Darrow, with a thrill of pleasure, "so you are up to something after all, my lady!"
She hugged herself with malicious glee that she had at length got Miriam under her thumb, and darting across the road, followed stealthily in her wake. On the white surface of the snow she saw the girl's black figure turn the corner of the church. If discovered, she could always say that she had been alarmed by Miriam's long absence, and had come to look for her. But Mrs. Darrow had no intention of being discovered. There was too much at stake for that.
Keeping well in the shadow of the church walls, the widow stumbled over the tombstones ankle deep in the snow, turned the corner, and crept along the chancel wall under the great rose-window. Then the murmur of two voices struck on her ear, and she slipped behind a buttress where she could both see and hear. The friendly snow muffled her tread, and the deep shadows lent their aid in concealing her, and Mrs. Darrow found herself in an excellent position for the work she had in hand. Now at last she felt that Miriam was delivered up to her, and she rejoiced accordingly.
There, but a few yards away, stood two figures. The one was Miriam, the other that of a tall man, whose features Mrs. Darrow could not discern. But she gathered that he was ragged and unkempt, and, from the way he kept looking over his shoulder, evidently apprehensive. Miriam had her hand on his arm, and was speaking hurriedly and low, but in that rarified atmosphere Mrs. Darrow had no difficulty in following every word.
"Oh, Jabez, whydidyou come here—it issodangerous."
"No more dangerous than it is in London," growled the man. "Besides, no one bothers about me now."
"You are mistaken—Mr. Barton does for one."
"Barton!—what, the chap who took you up? What does he know of me?"
"Everything."
"You told him then!"
"No. But that night, weak and ill as I was, somehow he seemed to exert a power over me which I couldn't resist, and I told him your real name but nothing more, Jabez; I swear, nothing more!"
"You fool—what more need you tell him. That was quite enough to put him on my track anyway."
"God forgive me, yes!" wept Miriam, wringing her hands. "I know—he employed some man to find out all about you. Oh, Jabez, that is why it is so mad for you to be here, for I fear he knows the truth!"
"Who was the man?"
"I don't know his name. Barton calls him 'The Shadow'—he is a tall, dark, lean man, with a deep voice."
Jabez started.
"I've seen him. I know—he comes to Mother Mandarin's, but I have never spoken to him. The old hag knows his name right enough, but she keeps it mighty dark. So he has been hunting me down, has he?"
"Yes, yes—but he is friendly to you, Jabez. It was he who told me to advise you against coming here. That was why I wrote to you."
The man stamped impatiently.
"Now look here, Miriam, if that Barton of yours crosses my path, I'll slip a knife into him straight, so I tell you!"
"Jabez, don't—don't say it. Keep away, and I'm sure he won't harm you."
"Then why does he set this man on my track?"
"Only to gain power over me. He knows how afraid I am, lest—lest anything should happen to you, but I would do anything or suffer anything rather than you should come to harm. And so, knowing what he knows, he is able to force me to obey him. And, besides that, Jabez, I have an enemy in the person of this Mrs. Darrow, whose little boy I am teaching. She has dismissed me, and, if by any chance, she came to know my past, and my connection with you—well, I am afraid to say what might happen. You see how foolish you have been to come here!"
"So you are dismissed! Well, I'm sorry for that. I thought you were well provided for. I can't help you. But I won't bother you. I'm going off to America, to make a fresh start—that's really why I came down here. I want some money, Miriam."
"I can only give you twenty pounds," said the girl, feeling in her pocket "Here it is in gold. I knew you would want some."
"Lord, is that all?"
"Yes, Jabez. It is every pound that I have—it is the remains of the cheque Mr. Barton gave me to buy my outfit when I came here."
"Well, I'll take it, but it's little enough," he grumbled, slipping the purse into his pocket "I suppose I'll get to America somehow."
"Oh, dear, do take care of yourself—perhaps I shall never see you again. I feel so terribly alone, Jabez, and when you are gone——"
She burst into tears almost uncontrollable.
"Come, keep up your pecker, old girl—you'll be all right. Why don't you fix it up with the old man?"
"Ugh!"
Miriam's ejaculation expressed the greatest loathing.
"Jabez! I would as soon marry a snake! You don't know what he is."
"Yes I do—a meddlesome old devil, who goes poking his nose into other people's affairs——"
"Hush," cried Miriam, grasping his arm, "someone is coming."
"They can't hurt——"
But he got no further, for the sound of footsteps crunching the snow came rapidly nearer.
"Good-bye, Miriam," he whispered. "You've been a brick to me. Take care of yourself," and hastily kissing her, he made for the low wall of the churchyard, scaled it, and disappeared into the pine woods beyond.
Miriam looked after him until he was lost in the darkness, then hastily made her way home.
Mrs. Darrow's first impulse was to follow and confront her victim; but on second thoughts she considered she might do better than this. It would be more to her advantage she thought to go straight to the Manor House, and demonstrate to her uncle the terrible and awfulness of hisprotégée. It was late, and, as a rule, she knew he retired early, but she had a very shrewd idea that she would find him up on this particular night. The servants would no doubt want to attend the carol singing, and he would surely wait till they returned. It was his invariable habit to see personally to the locking up of his house, and he insisted on the inmates going to bed long before he did so himself. Indeed, she had often wondered at his scrupulous precautions in this respect, since such a thing as a burglar was hardly known in that part of the country. But then even Mrs. Darrow did not know everything about Uncle Barton.
Passing through the still lighted village she gained the Manor House gates, walked swiftly up the avenue, and climbed the steps on to the terrace of the house, directly opposite the library windows, which were still illuminated. She rapped smartly. She heard a sudden cry, and then the over-turning of a chair, as though someone had risen in mortal terror. Finally, the Squire's voice tremulous and low.
"Who is there?—who is there?" he asked.
"It's me," replied Mrs. Darrow. "Let me in, uncle; it's me, Julia!"
"Julia!" The old man pulled up the blind and opened the window. "What on earth are you doing here at this hour?"
Mrs. Darrow stepped into the room.
"I have something to tell you," she said.
The old man closed the window carefully, and turned on her. She saw that he was shaking and white.
"Why the devil can't you call at a reasonable time?" he demanded furiously, "and enter a man's house like a Christian? You know I am old, and not very strong, yet you deliberately shake my nerves in this inconsiderate fashion."
The widow, thoroughly exhausted, dropped into a chair.
"I am very sorry, uncle," she murmured. "I feel faint—is that wine? Give me some."
Barton poured out a glass of port and gave it to her. The colour began to return to her cheeks, and with it the spiteful sparkle of triumph in her eyes.
"Well, what is it?" asked the Squire irritably.
"It's about Miss Crane," replied the widow, plunging at once into the middle of her story. "She received a letter yesterday from London which made me suspicious. This evening she asked leave to go out at nine—a most unreasonable hour—but out of consideration for what I thought would be your wish, I gave her permission. But, at the same time, I thought it right to follow her, and see what she was up to."
"Very good of you I'm sure," sneered Barton, now more himself. "Well?"
"Well, I found your Miss Crane in very intimate communion with a man behind the church—a ragged, disreputable-looking person, whom she called Jabez."
To all appearances the Squire was not in the least impressed by this information. He betrayed no sign of emotion, but fixed his eyes steadily on the triumphant face of his niece.
"And you listened to their tittle-tattle, I suppose?" he said gravely.
"It was my bounden duty to do so, uncle—and, indeed, it is well I did, for now I am in a position to warn you. That is why I came at once. You are in great danger!"
"Oh, you think I'm in danger, do you? Well, go on, and repeat what you heard, and I'll tell you whetherIthink so."
"I can repeat it every word," said Mrs. Darrow, whose memory was stimulated to more than ordinary activity by the venom which had prompted her action.
Barton listened attentively, though outwardly perfectly immobile.
"Well," he said, when she had finished, "is that all?"
The lady was a trifle confused. She continued,
"Of course I shall not keep Miss Crane after this. Indeed, I had intended that she should leave at the end of the month. But now, of course, she must go at once. She is evidently associated with the criminal classes—we may have robbery and murder here in no time if she remains."
"Really, Julia, your imagination is positively repulsive in its abnormal activity. I am sorry in this case to have to deprive you of the pleasure of giving rein to it to other people."
"Indeed, I shall tell everybody," replied Mrs. Darrow viciously. "This wolf in sheep's clothing shall be known for what she is—she shall be punished!"
"That is my affair solely. About what you have heard you will maintain absolute silence—do you understand—absolute silence? Not a word either to Miss Crane or anyone else."
"Indeed, I refuse to do anything of the kind—the whole of Thorpe shall know—and, what's more, she shall go."
"In that case your income ceases from this day."
This was unexpected. Mrs. Darrow took counsel with herself, and realised that her position was hopeless. She made one final attempt.
"I'm sure I only did my duty," she wailed. "How can you ask me to allow my boy to grow up in the contaminating presence of such a creature? It is too bad, uncle—too cruel of you to place me in such a position."
"Julia, far from contaminating the child, Miss Crane has already done much to counteract the effects of your very injudicious management of him. What I have said I will do. You know I am not the man to break my word."
"Gracious Heavens! I believe you are in love with the woman!"
"No, you know better than that. My relations with Miss Crane are not of an amorous nature, but they are important, nevertheless, to me—and must be respected."
"Well, if this is all the thanks I am to get for warning you of a danger that threatens your life, I hope you'll be able to protect yourself—but, mark me, uncle, you will be sorry for having behaved so cruelly. What can I do? You know I am dependent upon you and must submit. But it is wicked and wrong of you to take advantage of that to force upon me the presence of a creature I detest. And for what good?"
And Mrs. Darrow once more opened the flood-gates wide, and with them her whole battery of accompanying gesticulations.
"There, there," said Barton, pouring out another glass of wine for her, "drink this, and have a little more confidence in me. You are quite wrong about Miss Crane. Be a sensible woman, Julia, for once in a way, and drop this. I have told you I won't have it, so there's an end of the matter."
She drank the wine, adjusted her cloak, and stepped towards the window which he held open for her.
"I must do what you wish," she blurted out, "because I am poor and defenceless—but the day will come, and that soon, Uncle Barton, when you will be sorry indeed for having trusted that wretch instead ofme."
Without another word he shut the window on her. Then he returned to his seat, and gazed moodily into the fire.
"I must see Miriam," he muttered, "there is danger—great danger."
Christmas Day dawned—the day of peace and goodwill, of renewed friendships and Christian forgiveness. Mrs. Darrow was very careful to observe the day as behoved a righteous and gentle spirit. Compelled by the weightiest of reasons to keep silence, she restrained the horrid words which were on the tip of her tongue, and at breakfast addressed Miriam with something like a show of kindness. The girl looked terribly pale and ill; but was, as always, complete mistress of herself. She had gone straight to bed on her return from the church, and had of course no idea that Mrs. Darrow had followed her; she did not even know she had been out. But the change in Mrs. Darrow's demeanour in nowise imposed on her. She accepted it gravely and quietly for what it was worth, and welcomed it only as tending to lessen the chances of friction for the time being.
"I have been thinking over things, Miss Crane, and I have come to the conclusion that I owe you an apology," said the widow, after having passed the customary compliments of the season. "I lost my temper the other day when I spoke of your leaving. But my wretched nerves—mother's side, you know—must be my excuse. You are too pleasant a companion and too valuable a teacher to my beloved child for me to lose you. You must please forget the words I said, and accept my sincere apology for them. Miss Crane, I ask you, will you stay?"
This was a very neat little speech, and glibly enough expressed, but Miriam at once detected its falsity. Still, she accepted Mrs. Darrow's apology, and agreed to remain.
"I'm sure I like you very much," said the widow effusively, "and I think someone else does too—someone who will be at the Manor House dinner to-night. Need I say that John is in my mind?"
"Major Dundas and I are very good friends," replied Miriam gravely.
"Yes, indeed; and some day you may be more than friends!"
"I think not, Mrs. Darrow."
"Well, we shall see. At all events, we are all going to enjoy ourselves to-night. Besides ourselves, Dr. and Mrs. Marsh are to be there, and Dicky by special desire—fancy the dear boy at a grown-up dinner-party! Uncle Barton's Christmas dinners are always excellent. I must say he does it very well. He seems to love to gather us all around him on this day, dear man," concluded Mrs. Darrow sentimentally.
Miriam had to restrain a smile.
"Really! You surprise me; but of course I have never yet seen Mr. Barton at Christmas time."
"Oh, believe me, there is much good in Uncle Barton, although he is rough. He does not understand me, it is true, but there, I am a problem even to myself—I am one of those complex natures. Dear! how they suffer! Nor does he like everyone. There is Mrs. Parsley, for instance; I know he hatesher, and I'm sure I don't wonder. By the way, you saw her last night—at least," added the widow pointedly, "you went out to see her." She looked directly at Miriam, who bore her scrutiny without flinching.
"Yes; I saw Mrs. Parsley, and remained with her for some time. I suppose you had gone to bed when I returned. I was careful not to disturb you."
"No; I was half asleep in the drawing-room," lied Mrs. Darrow glibly, "dozing over a stupid novel. I hope you had a satisfactory interview."
"Very, thank you," replied Miriam, and there the matter dropped.
At six o'clock the Squire sent his carriage, the coachman explaining that he came thus early, as he had to go on to fetch Dr. and Mrs. Marsh and their daughter. At this Mrs. Darrow grumbled loudly, for it meant she had to hurry over her toilet, and Mrs. Darrow's toilet was one of those things which did not do with hurrying. However, at length it was achieved, and the good lady, excited and flushed, allowed herself to be conducted to the carriage.
On arrival at the Manor House they found Major Dundas and Gerald Arkel in the drawing-room. The Squire was not there to receive them, but almost immediately after they had entered, a message was brought to Miriam that he wished to speak to her alone in the library. Mrs. Darrow was alarmed. Surely the man was not going to chose this opportunity for betraying her eavesdropping? Then she reflected that even if he did she had it in her power to make it equally unpleasant for Miriam. Thus comforted, she fell to chatting with Major Dundas.
In the library the Squire received Miriam. He looked particularly frail and old, she thought. Bidding her sit by the writing-table, he recounted to her all that had passed on the previous night between himself and his niece. But Miriam expressed little surprise.
"I knew she hated me," she said, "and would gladly ruin me if she could. Why, goodness only knows. I am not aware of ever having done anything to offend her."
"I know," snapped Barton. "You have committed the greatest offence you could commit in her eyes—that of being beautiful and young. That is more than enough to secure the enmity of the perambulating mass of vanity which we know by the name of Julia Darrow. But let us leave her for the present. She will keep—unfortunately. What about Jabez? Is there any truth in what she told me?"
"Yes; it is quite true he came here last night—to get money from me. He is going to America; indeed, he may have started by this time. I feel that I shall never see him again."
"That oughtn't to trouble you."
"Perhaps not—but bad and selfish as Jabez has been to me, I can't help feeling it. What I have done for him I did freely; I expected no gratitude."
"And you didn't get it. Well, that's the way of the world. But tell me, Miriam, what is he like, this worthy?"
"You couldn't call him handsome. He is tall and very spare. His eyes are blue, and he has a freckled complexion. His hair is red."
"No, it doesn't sound attractive. However, he's out of the way now, and I for one am glad; though I don't suppose he would have tried any tricks on with me."
"I'm sure he meant no harm to you. Of course, if you had interfered with him, I can't say what might have happened. He has always had the most ungovernable temper. But I have never known him do anything right down wicked in cold blood."
"Well, so much the better. I've enough enemies and to spare as it is. I shouldn't have interfered with him, even if he hadn't gone. I utilised him, as you know, merely to control you."
"All that is past and done with now. There is no possibility of my carrying out your scheme. I want you to let me go back to London, Mr. Barton."
"And there, what will you do?"
"God knows! Begin all over again, I suppose."
"You are absolutely without means!"
"Yes, that is true. I gave him all I had."
"Like you," growled Barton, going to his desk. "You must take this, Miriam"—he handed her a bank-note—"for the present. And when you are in London you must stay at the Pitt Hotel. I have told Mrs. Perks to look after you, and to leave the rest to me."
"I really am to go, then?"
"It is your own wish, isn't it? I can see there is no hope for my plans about Gerald. He and Hilda will make their way to the devil together, in a very short space of time.Facile est, etc."
"Then you still intend to leave your money to Gerald?"
"I have done so." He took a legal-looking document from the still open drawer. "Three days ago I sent for my lawyers in London to come here, and I executed this will. By it the whole of my property goes to Gerald, excepting three hundred a year to Julia, and the same amount yearly to yourself."
"To me!" exclaimed Miriam in surprise. "Mr. Barton, why should you leave money to me?"
"For one reason, because you are the only decent woman I have ever met—save one. For another, because in spite of what I told you the other night you had some pity for me."
"God knows I pity you!" cried Miriam with emotion. "I can imagine how awful it must have been for you to battle continually against what is born in you. You have resisted the devil and he has fled."
"I have resisted him these many years," said Barton moodily, "but he has not fled; he is as strong within me as ever. God, Who created me thus, alone knows how I have fought against my overwhelming desire—the desire for the blood of my fellow-men. So far, by His aid, I have succeeded in my fight, and my daily and hourly prayer is that the end may even now not be far off."
"You have done well—it is terrible for you. Indeed, you have my pity—I would do anything to help you, Mr. Barton. But you must not, please, leave me this money. For one thing, Mrs. Darrow——"
"I have foreseen all that, and have, I think, effectually provided against any molestation from her. I have seen all along how she has plotted against you. You need fear nothing from her. While I live, Miriam, I shall look after you; when I die, you will have money of your own."
"I had rather a thousand times you did not mention me. There is Major Dundas—he would make good use of your wealth. But Gerald—poor weak Gerald——"
"My mind is made up, Miriam. This will supplants the will in favour of Dundas, which is at my lawyers' in London. As soon as I send them this in its stead, the old will is to be destroyed. With the new year I intend publicly to proclaim Gerald my heir. Now come along to dinner—that is what I wanted to say to you."
She saw that all protestation was useless, supplication futile. Without a word she took his arm and returned to the drawing-room, there to find that Dr. and Mrs. Marsh had arrived meanwhile with Hilda, who was looking her best. Her mother was dressed untidily as ever, but there was also evident about her an air aggressive as it was unusual of splendour, significant of a desperate attempt on her part to make herself presentable. Dr. Marsh, in the immediate expectation of an uncommonly good dinner, saluted the Squire with positive unction, and an immediate adjournment to the dining-room met with his most unqualified approval.
To attempt to single out this Christmas dinner in particular from Christmas dinners in general would be a task as superfluous as unprofitable. Suffice it to say that Dr. Marsh's anticipations were more than realised, and that when the ladies left the room he was in a state of mind bordering upon the transcendental.
Barton, ever the most unconventional if not the most genial of hosts, took refuge in the seclusion of his library, and remained there for the rest of the evening. Chatter worried him, and that was the one spot in the world where he could depend upon enjoying complete immunity from it. But he had reckoned without his guest, for on this occasion Mrs. Darrow had decided he should come out of his shell, and was now casting about in her mind for some method of accomplishing her aim without risk to herself. It was rather more than she cared to venture upon in person. An expression came upon her face which seemed to intimate that she had an inspiration. Dicky!—yes, Dicky should go and ask his uncle to join what she termed the "circle." So away the boy sped on his errand of mercilessness, when of a truth he should have been in bed and fast asleep.
"If anyone can persuade uncle to play a game of forfeits, Dicky can," piped Mrs. Darrow, when the door had closed behind the little fellow; "he is such a dear, nobody can resist him—he has my own nature," this last in all seriousness.
"And your high spirits, Julia," added the Major.
"Yes, I never seem to lose them, though it's wonderful I don't in the face of my many trials. Miss Crane, you will sing to us till Mr. Barton comes, won't you?"
Miriam assented, with the result that song followed song, and the time flew by unheeded. As the clock struck eleven she rose quickly.
"Whatever has become of Dicky?" she said; "he can't be with Mr. Barton all this time. I must go and look for him."
She left the room hastily.
"Such a good creature!" exclaimed Mrs. Darrow. "If she only knew her place she would be quite perfect."
"I think Miss Craneisperfect," retorted the Major with some asperity.
"So say I," echoed Gerald.
At that moment Miriam appeared at the door, pale, terrified, and scarcely able to articulate. Mrs. Darrow saw that something was wrong, and shrieked,
"My child! my child!—my precious Dicky! Is he ill?"
Miriam shook her head, and beckoned to Marsh.
"Come, doctor, quick—Mr. Barton!" she gasped, and everyone made a rush for the door.
On entering the library they found the window wide open, and poor little Dicky lying prone upon the floor. In the chair before his desk sat Barton, with his head embedded in his outstretched arms. With another shriek Mrs. Darrow fell on her knees beside her son. Dr. Marsh walked swiftly up to Barton and raised his head. He stepped back a pace in horror.
"Dead!" he said. "The man is dead!"
Again they raised the lifeless head. A black line was distinctly visible round the throat.
"Strangled!" exclaimed the doctor. "He has been murdered!"
The murder of Barton made a considerable stir not only in the parish of Lesser Thorpe but throughout the county. From Southampton came the police to take charge of the body and the case; to discover, if possible, the murderer, and close the black chapter of the Squire's life. Barton had evidently been strangled about ten o'clock. Upon this Dr. Marsh insisted; the child had come into the library at half-past and had taken a fit from fright. Half an hour later they had both been found. The window was open, there were confused footmarks on the terrace, and the assassin—whoever he was—had had ample time in which to effect his escape. On such evidence did the police begin to build up their case. Needless to say that they were completely unsuccessful.
But the strangest part of the whole strange business was, that the will in favour of Gerald had disappeared. And upon this disappearance Mrs. Darrow, if no one else, was inclined to base the motive for the crime. Her mouth was now no longer closed—the only person who could close it was dead—and she was not long in venting her spite on Miriam. Communication with Barton's lawyers had elicited the fact that a new will had been executed by their client a day or two before his death. The old will in favour of Dundas still remained in their office. But although search was made everywhere for the more recent document, it could not be found. No one at the Manor House had seen it, Miriam alone having done so, but she thought it best to keep her own counsel; and indeed she was only too pleased to think that Gerald would now be compelled to earn his own living.
As soon as the will leaving the property to Major Dundas was read, and Mrs. Darrow learned that her three hundred a year was secure for life, she sent for Miriam. The moment of her triumph and revenge had arrived, and she determined to make the most of it. Throned in an arm-chair she threw off all disguise, and received her governess like the culprit she held her to be.
"You wish to see me, Mrs. Darrow," said Miriam quietly. She knew pretty well what was coming.
"Yes, Miss Crane, I sent for you to request that you leave my house to-morrow."
"I am quite willing to go," replied Miriam quietly; "indeed, if you wish it, I can go to-day."
"You will go when I please, and not before," cried the widow quivering with petty spite, for Miriam's impassiveness exasperated her beyond endurance. "And be good enough to remember that while youarehere you are my servant. You forget yourself. Because Mr. Barton engaged you is no excuse for the insolence to which you treat me. I am of course not liable for your money."
"In that case, Mrs. Darrow, I must apply to Major Dundas, as Mr. Barton's heir."
"Oh, I daresay you will," sneered Mrs. Darrow, "but there is no chance there; I know your tricks and your sly deceit. You think you'll catch him, but you shan't, not if I can help it. The county gaol—not the Manor House—is the proper place for young women of your stamp!"
"If you have nothing more to say I will go," said Miriam, keeping her temper wonderfully well under the woman's insults.
"But I have more to say. Don't be insolent, I tell you. I hold you in the hollow of my hand."
"What do you mean?" asked Miriam imperiously.
"Mean! you know well enough what I mean. You know you were in love with Gerald Arkel and tried your best to marry him; and as Hilda Marsh beat you and upset your little plans, you thought you would steal the will so that her husband should not get the property. Yes you did—and you are Mr. Barton's murderer—that's what I mean!"
"You must be mad!" gasped Miriam, thunder-struck. "I gave my evidence at the inquest as everyone else did; and the jury brought in a verdict that Mr. Barton had been murdered by some person unknown. You know what you say is a dastardly falsehood. I was in the drawing-room singing when Mr. Barton met his death; and Dicky saw the body half an hour before I did. I found the poor child in a fit, and rushed back to call you all. How dare you make such accusations against me—dare to say that I killed one of the few men who have been kind to me?"
"Oh, I daresay there are plenty of men who have been kind to you," scoffed Mrs. Darrow venomously. "We know all about that, Miss Crane—if Crane is your name, which I very much doubt. But I don't want your infamous London life dragged up here, thank you!"
"Mrs. Darrow," cried Miriam in a cold fury, "if you dare to slander me in this way I will bring you into Court to prove your charges."
"Do—do. It's what I wish. I have held my tongue so long for my dead uncle's sake, but no longer now, my young lady—no, I go straight to the inspector of police."
"There you will have to give some proof of what you say!"
"I can do so—in one word—Jabez!"
Miriam reeled, deadly white, and but for the support of a chair she caught she would have fallen. The blow was so unexpected, so suddenly delivered, that she knew not how to parry it.
"Jabez," she murmured, pale to the lips; "Jabez!"
"Yes, Jabez," cried Mrs. Darrow, following up her advantage. "Fie on you, you horrible woman! meeting low creatures behind the church and plotting murder!"
"Ah! you followed. Yes, Mr. Barton told me you did."
"Yes, I did follow you in the interests of purity. And it is well I did, for I found out what you are, a low, wicked——"
Miriam held up her hand and stepped forward so suddenly that Mrs. Darrow stopped short.
She saw how perilous was her position; and she nerved herself to cope with it.
"Silence!" she cried peremptorily. "You shall not abuse me in this way. If you have any definite charge to make, state it, and the evidence on which you have it."
"I accuse your lover, Jabez, of killing my poor uncle to steal that will and ruin Gerald Arkel, and I accuse you of aiding and abetting him."
"That is at least concise," said Miriam bitterly; "and your evidence?"
"I heard Jabez say that he would 'knife' Mr. Barton if he interfered with him."
"Quite so; well, as Mr. Barton did not interfere with Jabez, evidently the motive was wanting. As to my having been a party to anything calculated to harm either Mr. Arkel or Mr. Barton, that is a foul lie, such as only yourself could invent."
Mrs. Darrow rose and drew her shawl round her.
"We shall see what the inspector says," she said savagely. "I shall tell him all I overheard, and formally charge you."
"There is no need for you to do that," replied Miriam. "I shall go to the inspector myself and tell him everything."
"You dare not," cried the widow.
"Not only dare, but will! I leave your house at once, and apply to Major Dundas for the salary due to me."
"Yes, and take to your heels, no doubt—but I'll see you don't get very far, my lady."
"As far as Southampton, whither Major Dundas will, I have no doubt, accompany me. There, fortunately, I shall be able to put it out of your power to harm me. I will not say what I think of you further than to pity from the bottom of my heart the poor dear little child who has the misfortune to call you mother." Then, without another word, Miriam left the room.
Upstairs she packed her box, dressed herself, and went off to bid good-bye to Dicky. The child's nervous system had received a severe shock at the sight of the dead man's body. Since the fatal night they had been obliged to keep him in bed. Now, although more composed, he was still acutely nervous. When Miriam entered the nursery he started up with a slight cry. She took him in her arms, and could feel that he was trembling.
"Hush, Dicky dear!" she said, kissing him, "I have come to say good-bye to you just for a little while."
"Oh!" the boy clung to her and wept. "You are not going away, Miss Crane?"
"Yes, dear—I must." She had not the heart to tell him the whole truth. "But I shall come back and see you again very soon. I am only going up to London; and while I am away Dicky is going to be a brave boy, isn't he?"
"I promise—I promise; but I was so afraid when I saw Uncle Barton like that."
"Yes, dear, I know. But poor Uncle Barton is very happy now; you mustn't think any more about him. Tell me, Dicky, do you remember if the library window was open when you went in to see him?"
"Yes, wide open, Miss Crane." Dicky shuddered. "And when I touched Uncle Barton he fell on one side just like a doll. And when I saw his face I was so afraid, and I felt so giddy and I fell right down——"
"Did you see anyone, Dicky?"
"Oh, no, I saw no one."
"Did you hear anything?"
"Oh yes, the wind. I was so afraid of it. And I was so afraid of Uncle Barton too—he was so white, and he couldn't speak, and his mouth was open, and his eyes looked funny. Oh, Miss Crane, dead people are horrid—I can't bear them!"
"Yes, dear; we won't talk any more about it. Look, here is my gold chain, and while I am away I want you to wear it for my sake—will you?"
Dicky's fancy was caught at once.
"Oh, thank you; thank you, Miss Crane," he said, kissing her. "Now I will be your knight. The Knight of the Golden Chain. Oh, I shall always wear it, and I shall never forget you, Miss Crane, never! Must you go?"
"Yes, dear; I must go now. But some day I'll see my Dicky again. Perhaps he'll be a big boy then, and be going to school. You'll think of me even then, dear, won't you?—and of the walks and the talks we used to have? Oh, Dicky, it is so hard for me to leave you! You won't forget me? You must never forget your Miriam!" She pressed the boy's face to her own and let the tears run freely. Then with one last effort she dragged herself from him, and passed quickly out of the room.
She went straight to the village inn and ordered a fly to call and take her to the station in an hour. Then she walked up to the Manor House, and inquired for Major Dundas. He was in, and saw her at once. Indeed, so marked was the eagerness of his greeting that Miriam instinctively became more reserved.
"Major Dundas," she said, coming to the point at once, "I am indeed sorry to trouble you, but I thought it only right to come straight to you and tell you how I am placed. Mrs. Darrow has dismissed me. That of itself is nothing; but on the plea that she did not engage me, she has refused to pay the salary due, so I——"
"My dear Miss Crane," interrupted the Major, "you astonish me. Surely Mrs. Darrow——"
"Mrs. Darrow hates me," said Miriam bitterly. "In that you have the explanation of everything. She is only gratifying her spite by turning me out of her house. Not, as I say, that I mind that; but I felt sure in the circumstances you would rather I came to you."
"Of course; you did perfectly right. I shall certainly remonstrate with Mrs. Darrow about this. Let me see, your salary is——"
"Fifty pounds a year," said Miriam coldly, "and there are six months due to me."
Something in her tone prevented the Major speaking further. In silence he sat down to write a cheque, and in silence he handed it to her. She put it in her purse.
"I should like to write you a receipt for this, Major Dundas, if you don't mind."
"My dear Miss Crane, there is not the least necessity."
"Oh, thanks, I think I should prefer to be quite business-like. And perhaps you will show this to Mrs. Darrow." She sat down to the table, and producing a stamp from her purse, affixed it to her acknowledgment of the money. "There," she said, handing it to him, "I think that is sufficient. And now, before I go, there is something else I must speak to you about. When I leave here, I am going straight to the Police Station at Southampton to see the inspector."
"In Heaven's name what for!" exclaimed the perplexed Major.
"Because Mrs. Darrow accuses me of having aided and abetted someone to murder Mr. Barton and steal his will."
"Mrs. Darrow has dared to say that? She is mad!"
"No, hardly mad—malicious," replied Miriam with a faint smile. "But you will hear all she has got to say very shortly. She is sure to come to you with it."
"But I can't understand how such an idea could enter her head. It is monstrous!"
"Let me tell you something," said Miriam. "Not long ago a young man—who for the present must be nameless, save to tell you he is known as Jabez—came down from London to see me here. His object was to obtain from me money to enable him to go to America. This young man and I were brought up together, and I was devoted to him. Years after we met in London. I was in terribly poor circumstances, and he—well, I must confess it, he had reached the lowest depths of dissipation and despair. I was sorry for him even so, and I helped him in the only small way I could. Whenever I had the money to give him he had it. Ever since he has always looked to me for help. He knew I was here and comfortably placed, and he insisted upon coming down to see me. Very much against my will I met him by appointment one evening—it was Christmas Eve—in the churchyard. Mrs. Darrow followed me and overheard my conversation with him. It is upon what she says she heard that she bases this charge. It is of course a very serious charge, and because of this clandestine meeting I feel more strongly impelled than I might otherwise do (seeing the sort of woman Mrs. Darrow is, and is known to be) to take immediate action to clear myself."
"But the facts! my dear Miss Crane—I don't see how——Oh, the whole thing is too ridiculous for words. Now come, you really must leave this to me. I will see Julia at once. This is going a little too far. Believe me, your character will be quite safe in my keeping. I——"
"Yes, yes, I know, Major. You are more than good. But I feel it is a matter in which I should act for myself. I shall go to Southampton and forestall Mrs. Darrow."
"But you will let me know where you are—we shall meet again soon?"
"That I cannot say. You see from Southampton I shall go straight to London. It is very unlikely that we shall meet."
"But, Miss Crane, you must not take yourself away like this. Don't, I beg of you. It is not quite fair on—I mean, at least you will tell me where I may find you in London? Believe me, I——"
"After Mrs. Darrow has said to you all she has to say about me, you may not be so anxious to resume our friendship, Major. Indeed, I sadly fear, quite the contrary."
"Miss Crane! You are unjust—how unjust you do not know. I——"
"Oh, I admit, you have been all kindness to me. But——However, there is my address; come and see me if you will."
She handed him a card upon which were written her name and address. The address was the Pitt Hotel, Craven Street.