On her way from Lesser Thorpe to Southampton, Miriam, alone in a third-class carriage, was reading Jabez' letter for the fifth time. Short as it was, utterly selfish too as it was, it seemed to give her some sort of satisfaction. It bore a post-mark in the vicinity of the London Docks, and its contents were these:—
"28th December."Dear Miriam,"I am not going to the States after all. From all I can hear there's too much of a crowd in the beastly place already. I have got hold of a tub off to the Cape—going to kick around there in search of what she can snatch in the way of cargo. I've managed to persuade the skipper to let me work half my passage money, so I shall arrive in Table Bay with a pound or two in my pocket after all. But if you can manage to screw some more out of the old man do, and send me on a P.O.O., and I'll look in for it at the office at Cape Town when I arrive. The old tub's called the 'Firefly,' though there's precious little 'fly' about her, and altogether she's about as sick a hulk as ever you saw. If I make a pile, I'll come back under another name, and look you up. If I don't, well, then you've said good-bye to me for bad and all. You won't wipe your eyes out over that, or I'm much mistaken. Good-bye. Yours,"Jabez."
"28th December.
"Dear Miriam,
"I am not going to the States after all. From all I can hear there's too much of a crowd in the beastly place already. I have got hold of a tub off to the Cape—going to kick around there in search of what she can snatch in the way of cargo. I've managed to persuade the skipper to let me work half my passage money, so I shall arrive in Table Bay with a pound or two in my pocket after all. But if you can manage to screw some more out of the old man do, and send me on a P.O.O., and I'll look in for it at the office at Cape Town when I arrive. The old tub's called the 'Firefly,' though there's precious little 'fly' about her, and altogether she's about as sick a hulk as ever you saw. If I make a pile, I'll come back under another name, and look you up. If I don't, well, then you've said good-bye to me for bad and all. You won't wipe your eyes out over that, or I'm much mistaken. Good-bye. Yours,
"Jabez."
She sighed deeply as she finished reading, and her eyes were full of tears. How utterly callous and selfish he was! She wondered did he ever think of all that she had sacrificed for him—of the agony of mind, which, through him, she had been made to suffer. The letter was dated 28th of December. This was the third of January. He would be well away by now. How glad she was of that! At least she would be able to begin her life again without his burden to hamper her. She had thirty-five pounds in all, and, thanks to Barton's generosity, a roof at the hotel as long as she needed it. She had been worse off in days gone by. Then she fell to thinking of the unpleasant work before her. The mere thought of contact with the police repelled her. Still, she could see no help for it. Beyond reach of Mrs. Darrow she must be. Then came that other awful thought upon her: could it be possible—oh, the horror of it!—could it be possible after all that Jabez——She put it from her. She could hardly bear to think of it. And yet——But surely for his own sake he would not have risked that? It was not as if Barton had interfered with him. His hurried departure though, would of itself look suspicious she was afraid. And Mrs. Darrow would not fail to make the most of that injudicious threat of his against Barton. If only the letter had been dated the 25th instead of the 28th, she might have shown it to the inspector. It would have gone to prove an alibi. As it was she judged it would be wiser not to show it. She almost wished now that Jabez had waited. He might easily have been able to prove that he had returned to town on the morning of the 26th. But there again—no, he would not have dared even to come forward to do that. She feared that the past would be highly prejudicial even to him now if he were known. He was best away. She wondered if she were wise in stirring in the matter at all. But if she didn't Mrs. Darrow certainly would, and now, for once, she must consider herself. But she would screen Jabez if she could. The thing was how best to do it.
As Miriam was musing thus, the train ran in to Southampton. Depositing her traps in the cloak-room, she took a fly and drove straight to the police station. If possible she was very anxious to be able to return that night to London. She was received by Inspector Prince with all courtesy, for not only was the inspector well known in Lesser Thorpe, but he on his part had at his fingers' ends all that was worth knowing about everybody of any account in that not very extensive neighbourhood. And although he was by no manner of means a Vidocq, this genial officer, he was intelligent—highly so. To his present position he had risen deservedly if not with either rapidity or brilliance.
In appearance he was of ample figure and of fresh complexion, and his eyes were, Miriam thought, the lightest blue eyes she had ever seen. His whole bearing was nothing if not military. And like most men who have a very soft side to women, he was apt to convey that much when first coming into contact with them. Miriam therefore did not take long making up her mind that with him her course must be one of complete frankness and confessed weakness combined. With such weapons—and it must be confessed she knew well how to use them—she had every hope of achieving success with Mr. Inspector Prince.
"Well, Miss Crane, and what is it I can do for you?" he asked, when the door was closed upon them.
"I have come to see you about Mr. Barton's murder, Mr. Prince."
The pleasant smile vanished from his face, and gave place to an expression of extreme officialdom.
"Indeed!"
"Yes. I have something to tell you, which perhaps you will say I should have told you before. Mr. Barton's niece, Mrs. Darrow, accuses me of having inspired her uncle's murder!"
"Miss Crane, you surprise me," said the inspector. "That would mean that you were an accessory before the fact—a very serious charge, very serious."
"Exactly, and that is why I am here, Mr. Prince. I place myself unreservedly in your hands. It is, I need hardly say, as false a charge as it is malicious, and against such malice I feel I must protect myself. I felt that you were the proper person to come to. This Mrs. Darrow, I must tell you, hates me. I have been for some time, as I daresay you are aware, in her house as governess to her little boy. Not long since she contrived to overhear a conversation between myself and a friend of mine who came down from London to apply to me for help. She actually followed me to the place where I was to meet him, and in hiding listened to what passed between us. It so happened that my friend spoke of Mr. Barton in terms which he should not have used, and it is upon this that she has made this charge against me."
"May I ask the name of your friend?"
"Jabez——" Miriam gave a cursory glance round the room. "Jabez Tracey," she added, after a pause.
Now if Inspector Prince had been as clever as the cleverest of his kind, he would not have failed to notice that glance of Miriam's, and, having noticed it, to remark that the name Tracey was there in all the largeness of print upon a list of voters hanging on the wall. As it was he noticed nothing of the kind.
"Jabez Tracey," he repeated. "Well, let me hear some of the conversation, please, Miss Crane."
Miriam complied readily, suppressing nothing, not even the fact that Jabez had threatened to "knife" Barton should he molest him. To do so would have been to make a false move she knew, since Mrs. Darrow was sure to make a feature of it.
"And who is this man?" asked the inspector.
"That I have never told to anyone, but I will tell you now," said Miriam, in such a tone that the good inspector's protective shell of professionalism was so far pierced as to permit of the relaxing of his facial muscles visibly.
"He is an old playfellow of mine," she went on. "I must tell you I am the daughter of a sea-captain, and was brought up in the little fishing village of Brixham in Devonshire. Jabez Tracey was the son of a retired naval officer, and lived in the next house to ours. He became the teller of one of the banks in the West of England, and in a weak moment he embezzled some money. He was prosecuted and sent to prison. After he had served his sentence he went to London, where he fell into a life of dissipation and evil ways. About that time my father died, and I, too, had to go to London, and try and earn a living as a governess. One day I met Jabez in the street. He looked so miserably poor and ill, that in spite of everything I felt sorry for him, and I gave him what money I could. When I was engaged by Mr. Barton as governess for his little grand-nephew, I told him about Jabez. He, being intensely interested, as you probably know, in everything to do with crime and criminals, made inquiries about Jabez, and found out that he was once again in danger of arrest. Then I received a letter from Jabez saying that he was coming to Lesser Thorpe to see me, and asking me to help him to go to America, and make a fresh start there. By appointment I met him, as I have told you, near the church one evening, and gave him all the money I had—some twenty pounds. He took it gladly and went, saying that he was leaving for America at onceviaLiverpool. Since then I have not seen him."
"Nor heard of him?"
"Nor heard of him!" replied Miriam coolly. "But at that I am not in the least surprised, for he is the most selfish and ungrateful of men. There is another thing too; Mrs. Darrow, not content with her accusation of murder, says that I induced this man to steal Mr. Barton's will—you have heard of course that he made a will almost immediately before his death, and that it is nowhere to be found?"
"Certainly—that is so, Miss Crane. But excuse me, did Mr. Barton know this man?"
"No, I don't think he ever saw him."
"Will you be good enough to describe his appearance?"
"He is small and slight, very dark, and clean-shaven. His eyes are jet black, and he was very shabbily dressed in a suit of blue serge."
"And he said he was going to America—by that he meant the United States, I suppose?"
"Yes. On the night I saw him he left me with the expressed intention of joining the steamer at Liverpool next day."
"Rather strange, isn't it, that he didn't go by Southampton, since he was so near?"
"That I can't say. It never struck me. I have told you everything, Mr. Prince, exactly as it happened, because I feel I can trust you," and the look with which she accompanied her words was altogether too convincing for this very human inspector. "You see how absolutely baseless and spiteful this accusation is," she went on. "What interest could I possibly have in the theft of poor Mr. Barton's will? On the contrary, if she only knew it, I had a very strong interest in the opposite direction, since I believe it contained a legacy in my favour!"
"What's that, Miss Crane?"
"Mr. Barton was always very good to me. In fact, well——" and here Miriam cast down her eyes, "in fact, he wished to marry me!"
"'Gad, I don't wonder at that, miss. And may I make so bold as to ask why you refused him? He was eccentric we all know, but he did have a lot of money."
"Our ages alone made it quite impossible," replied Miriam. "I was obliged to tell him I could not marry a man I did not love, and I believe it was in the first instance that that made him think of me in his will. He told me I was the only woman he had ever known who put love before money, and that he intended leaving me a small income in his will."
"And did he?" asked the wily inspector, unable to resist laying a trap for her.
"Well, of course I don't know. I never saw the will. I only know he promised to, and I only tell you now to show you that it was presumably to my interest that the will should be forthcoming, not stolen."
"Most certainly. I have no hesitation in saying that from what you have told me, Miss Crane, there is not the slightest foundation for any sort of charge against you, and so I shall tell Mrs. Darrow if she comes to me."
"Then you won't require me to remain? I am quite willing to stay if you wish."
"Why, you're not leaving Lesser Thorpe?"
"Yes, that is exactly what I am doing, Mr. Prince. You can imagine it is not possible for me to remain with Mrs. Darrow after this. I am going to London to-night, to the Pitt Hotel in Craven Street, which will be my address for the present. Wherever I am, in fact, that will always find me."
"Well, so far as this matter is concerned, miss, there is no need for you to remain here. If I should want you I know where to find you."
"You may rely upon my doing anything that is in my power to help you, Mr. Prince, towards bringing to justice the murderer of my old friend. For Mr. Barton was the best of friends to me, and even if Jabez Tracey were to turn out to be guilty, which, mind you, I don't for one moment think likely, I should feel it my duty to do none the less on that account."
"Well, there's no denying it, miss, it is very strange that he should take himself off so very soon after he was heard to threaten Mr. Barton."
"But you forget; Mr. Barton was strangled—Jabez' threat was to 'knife' him!"
"Quite so. However, miss, these aren't the sort of things for you to meddle with. I may at some future time require your evidence, and in that case I'll let you know. Meanwhile, what you have told me, and your description of this young man, will be most useful. They shall have it in Liverpool within half an hour. Good-day to you, Miss Crane, good-day."
As Miriam turned the corner from the police station, she drew one long sigh of relief. For once it seemed as though Fortune were on her side. Inspector Prince might have been a very different kind of man, and then, well, Miriam had an uncomfortable conviction that her interview might have had a very different kind of ending. As it was she made her way to the station with a comparatively light heart, feeling that not only she herself but Jabez was perfectly safe. By means of the description she had provided, he would never be found in Liverpool or anywhere else.
There was the best part of an hour before her train left for London, so she went into the restaurant and ordered a chop.
When she came out the platform was already crowded, although there was still a quarter of an hour to wait. She was strung up and impatient, and the time seemed an eternity to her. At last the train was signalled and the bell rang. She stood beside the porter who was carrying her things. Suddenly she drew back with an exclamation of terror. There, on the platform before her, showing himself boldly to the world, was Jabez!
"Do you mean to tell me you are actually engaged to that penniless scamp," raged Dr. Marsh, bringing his fist down on the table.
"For Heaven's sake, George, take care of the china," implored his wife; "four cups already are broken, and it's so difficult to match this——"
"Answer me, Hilda!"
The young girl raised her head, in no wise daunted by the paternal wrath.
"If Gerald were not poor, he would not be so much of a scamp in your eyes, father," she said bitterly. "Engaged?—I am not so much engaged but that I can be quickly disengaged. I have only to tell Gerald you refuse your consent and the reason, play the part of a dutiful daughter generally, and the thing's settled, or rather unsettled."
"You should not have engaged yourself to the fellow without being certain of what you were doing," fumed Marsh.
"I couldn't be more certain," retorted Hilda. "When an old man goes the length of announcing a nephew as his heir, and actually makes a will in his favour, you naturally think that nephew will get the money. It isn't my fault that the will disappeared. I wasn't to know that."
"Of course not, dear," put in Mrs. Marsh; "but as it is now you must give up Gerald."
"And marry the Major, I suppose? What do you think I'm made of, I wonder, to turn like this from one man to another? I love Gerald as much as I could love any man. Why should I give him up now?"
"Because he can't keep you," retorted her father. "Marry Arkel without a penny; why, child, you must be mad!"
"I am sure Major Dundas is a very nice man, Hilda," put in her mother.
"Very nice," assented the girl with irony—"altogether too nice to buy me. I am for sale to the highest bidder, I know, but it doesn't say because I am for sale that Major Dundas is going to buy me. He's got his own little fish to fry. He's in love with Miriam Crane!"
"What! the governess?" scoffed the doctor, holding out his cup for another cup of tea. "You needn't trouble yourself about her. From what Mrs. Darrow hinted that young lady is no better than she should be. I couldn't quite get at the facts, but there's a good deal that's queer about her, and Dundas is not the man to marry a woman with a doubtful past."
"And he most certainly is not the man to marry a girl who jilts another man because he happens to be poor."
"There will be no jilting about the matter," replied Dr. Marsh irritably. "You engaged yourself to Gerald Arkel without my knowledge. Now that it has come to my knowledge I refuse to sanction it, that's all."
"And unless I obey you'll cut me off with a shilling, I suppose," sneered Miss Hilda.
"Don't be insolent, girl!" shouted the doctor, colouring with rage. "I won't have it. I've been more than a good father to you. Haven't I given you a first-class education, dressed you like a princess, and allowed you to do absolutely nothing, as if you had a thousand a year of your own?"
"Oh, you've done all in your power to make your Circassian a saleable article, I admit."
"Circassian! what does the girl mean?"
"Simply that I have been fed and dressed and pampered just like a Circassian for the Sultan's harem."
"Harem!" shrieked Mrs. Marsh. "Hilda, you positively shock me! Where do you learn such language?"
"I shock myself when I think of myself, mother. They sell Circassians in Turkey, and what do you and father intend to do with me—what have you always intended to do with me—but sell me to the highest bidder? Simply because it turns out now that Major Dundas has this money I am to be put on the market for his inspection. A little while ago I should not have minded—I did not mind; but now, oh!"—she was on her feet by this time and white with anger—"it is too degrading to be treated like a bale of goods. You think nothing of my heart—of my feelings. I believe you would throw me gladly into the arms of the Prince of Darkness himself if he was rich enough. I hate you both for it, and I hate myself, and—and I won't stand it! I won't!" And the wretched girl, unable to contain herself, ran out of the room. For she had discovered for the first time that she could feel, and her feelings had been touched, and all the training of past years was powerless to prevent a little outburst of nature.
The parents looked significantly at one another. This their first taste of Hilda, the matured woman, did not augur well. If rendered obstinate and driven into a corner, she was quite capable of destroying all their fine aerial edifices, and of marrying Gerald in spite of them. The doctor looked round at the untidy room, at the ill-appointed table, and thought of his many debts and small income, and incessant endeavours to make two refractory ends meet. And his brow grew dark at the thought, and he struck the table again.
"She shall not marry that pauper," he cried fiercely, "she shall marry Dundas. He'll turn to her right enough now that the Crane woman is out of the way. Cheer up, Amelia, we shall see Hilda at the Manor House yet."
But the wife of his bosom was not thus to be comforted.
"Any day the will might be found," she suggested, rather timidly.
"It won't be found. Search has been made in every hole and corner. There isn't a doubt but the blackguard who murdered the old man carried it off. And he daren't produce it again, you see, even as a means of blackmail, without risk of putting his head in a noose."
"Oh, George, you don't think the man is at large—you don't think he's about here, do you?"
"How the devil do I know where he is. There's not much doubt about his being at large I should say, seeing it's now three weeks since the funeral, and the police haven't progressed an inch. Prince told me they had a clue, and traced it to Liverpool, but there it ended. The man's got away safe enough."
"Perhaps it wasn't a man, George!"
"Of course it was. You don't suppose a woman would have had the strength to strangle Barton, do you? The thing was done deliberately, I tell you—by his friend, most likely."
Mrs. Marsh squeaked again.
"His friend, George?"
The doctor nodded.
"I was talking over the matter with Prince," he said, "and he agrees with me that the assassin was known to Barton. If you remember the window was open. Well, Barton must have opened it to admit his visitor, whoever he was. They talked about the will, no doubt, and Barton probably produced it. While he was reading it, or some clause from it, his good friend must have slipped a scarf or a rope or something of the kind round his neck, and the thing was done. I don't suppose he uttered as much as a cry."
"But what could anyone want with the will, George?"
"Ah! that's more than I can tell you. There's nothing in the will itself to help us there, although Dundas let me read the original draft: the lawyer brought it down to show him. You see, Barton," here the doctor shook his head and looked exceeding wise, "Barton was a queer customer, and what's more, he knew all manner of other customers a good deal more queer even than himself. Those journeys of his to London brought him into contact with a heap of rascality. I shouldn't be surprised if some of his slum friends had polished him off. But, as I say, whoever he is, the assassin can never produce the will. It is gone, Amelia, and you can take my word for it, it will never turn up again. Dundas will remain in possession of the Manor House for his time. So Hilda will be perfectly safe in marrying him."
"But Hilda says he is in love with Miss Crane!"
"Stuff and nonsense. Don't I tell you she's gone away? Besides, Mrs. Darrow'll soon stop anything in that direction. She's only got to tell Dundas a little of what she knows about this precious Miriam creature."
Mrs. Marsh was alive with curiosity.
"Oh, George, what does she know?"
"Can't say; but I gather it's something by no means to Miss Crane's credit. More than that I couldn't get out of her. But I can tell you that if Dundas shapes that way, Mrs. Darrow will make him open his eyes pretty wide, though I don't believe myself Dundas even knows where the woman is. She seems to have vanished like a drop of water in the ocean of London. Take my word for it, he'll stay here, my dear, and helped by Mrs. Darrow our little girl will before long be occupying her proper place at the Manor House."
"And Gerald?"
"I'll settle him. He's coming here to see me this morning. I sent for him directly I heard of this affair. It's got to be cut root and branch, Amelia, for I tell you what it is, if we don't get money soon from somewhere, the bailiffs'll be in the house; so now you know!"
Indeed, poor Mrs. Marsh had cause to know; she had already quite a bowing acquaintance with the shabby personality of the man in possession. With terror in her heart at the mention of him, she hurried upstairs to her daughter, whilst the doctor, in his character of Roman father, remained behind. The dining-room was not only untidy, but peculiarly shabby, and for that reason he had decided that it was especially well adapted for his interview with Gerald. Surrounded thus by the undeniable evidences of his poverty, he hoped the better to drive his very trenchant remarks well home. Indeed, he was anticipating his lecture with no little pleasure, for if there was one thing upon which Doctor Marsh prided himself more than another, it was his oratorical powers, and the present he judged an admirable opportunity for exhibiting them.
Gerald made his appearance with the air of a man about to be hanged. He guessed well enough why Marsh wished to see him, but even in his dejection he was resolved upon making a fight of it. He had lost his inheritance, but he was determined, in his weak, mulish way, that he would not lose Hilda. And he was depending no little upon the girl herself helping him, if indeed she had not done so already. But in this he was destined to disappointment. Miss Marsh, in spite of her recent little outburst, was not the young lady to defy the world and console herself with love in a cottage. By no means; the tree must grow as the twig is bent, and although at first she had been a good deal disturbed at finding out the nature of her own feelings, it was not long before she returned to her old self, and the conclusion that in the existing circumstances Gerald Arkel was not for her, nor she for Gerald Arkel. Poor fond lover—his very moustache drooped with melancholy!
"Sir," began the Roman father, for the younger man left him to open the ball, "I am astonished and pained to learn that without my consent, that utterly unknown to me, you have had the audacity to engage yourself to my child; under such provocation I have no hesitation in saying that many a father would break off such a connection, root and branch, without vouchsafing reason of any kind. But I condemn no man unheard. You will therefore perhaps grasp the opportunity I hold out to you to explain your—your part of this affair."
"I love her," said Gerald, sitting miserably on his chair, "and she loves me, and what's more, I shan't give her up."
"Sir! I need hardly say you astound me. But once again in justice I ask you if you are in a position to support my child?"
Gerald cast a cynical glance round the shabby room.
"I can give her a better home than this," he said sullenly.
At this the Roman father threw off his classic yoke and took refuge in a more vehement and less stately method of expression.
"Confound you and your damned impudence, Mr. Arkel. What the devil do you mean by calling my house names? We are poor if you like, but honest—and that is more, yes, a damned deal more than you are."
"I am poor enough, I know, but——"
"I know that; you are a pauper—an absolute pauper, yet you have the brazen impudence to want my daughter to marry you!"
"I can work for her, I suppose?"
"No, sir, that's just what you can't do. Idle and dissipated you have always been, and idle and dissipated you always will be. Oh, I have heard of your goings-on in London, Mr. Arkel. You spent Barton's money freely while you had it, now you haven't got it, you are certainly not likely to make any for yourself."
"If the will is found——"
"Will!—found!—stuff and nonsense! Do you think the man who murdered your uncle for the sole purpose of stealing it is going to emerge from his hiding and make you a present of it? Don't be a fool, sir! Go and ask Dundas to give you a leg up, and try and do something to earn a pound a week. As to Hilda, put her out of your head."
By this time Gerald was almost beside himself.
"Mind your own business, Marsh," he shouted, jumping up. "I will not touch a penny of Dundas' money. But how I make my living, and what I decide to do, has nothing to do with you."
"Right! it hasn't. If I gave my consent to your marrying Hilda, it would have; as I decline to let my child throw herself away on a pauper, it hasn't. The best thing you can do is to quit this house and try and preserve your few scattered wits."
"You are beastly rude. But allow me to say that before I go I must hear what Hilda says," and with a very dogged look upon his face Master Gerald sat down.
"You will find that although Hilda has lapsed so far as to engage herself to you, she has still sufficient regard for the wishes of those in authority over her to obey them." The doctor was becoming classic again. "However, you shall see her."
Again Gerald cast an ironical glance round the room, as though mutely inquiring if he could possibly take Hilda into surroundings more impoverished than those amid which she was at present. But Marsh ignored the look entirely, for the very good reason that its contention was irrefutable even by him. So he stalked away, leaving Gerald to gnaw his moustache, and curse the fate which had robbed him of his money and now threatened to rob him of "the only girl he ever loved."
"But Hilda will be true," he thought. "She is too fond of me to lose me!"
She entered the room alone, red-eyed and pale, but with a look of determination on her face which sent a chill through Arkel's heart the moment he saw it. He rose to meet her, holding out his arms in welcome. Her name sprang to his lips. But she waved him back.
"No, no, Gerald! I cannot! I cannot! We must part."
"We will not part!" cried the man furiously. "You love me and I love you—no one has the right to part us."
"I must obey my parents."
"Not if they counsel you wrongly."
"Do they counsel me wrongly?" asked Hilda. "Gerald, do be reasonable—you are poor; I am poor. How can we marry?"
"I will work for you, Hilda—with you I can do anything!"
The girl shook her head sadly.
"If you were any other sort of man than what you are, perhaps," she said with relentless common-sense. "But I know you better than you do yourself. You love pleasure and you hate work. You have always pursued the one and avoided the other. I hate poverty with all the loathing of a lifetime. We should soon tire of each other. Believe me, Gerald, love in a cottage would not suit either of us. It would be madness to attempt it. Fond as I am of you I cannot contemplate it. It isn't to be thought of."
"So you really give me up?" cried he in anger.
She bowed her head.
"For both our sakes I give you up."
"You never really cared for me!"
"I did—I do. You are the only man I ever loved; but I cannot blind myself even so. If you had only a small income I would marry you; or if you had a strong will or a clever brain I would marry you. But, Gerald, dear Gerald, you know you have neither. You are the dearest fellow in the world; yes, and the handsomest, and the nicest, but—but without an income! No, dear, it would never do. We should grow to hate each other in no time. Take my advice: marry a rich woman, and you will be happy."
He looked at her for a moment, and tried to speak. Then his fury overcame him, and he grew scarlet in the face and inarticulate. Alarmed at his violence Hilda ran out of the room. As she opened the door her father appeared.
"Arkel, Arkel, what is this?" he said. "Control yourself, man, control yourself."
Gerald staggered forward and clutched the doctor's arm. Again he tried to speak, but failed to articulate a word. Then, with a pitiable cry, he fell senseless to the floor.
"Ah," said the doctor, bending over him with professional calm, "even were you rich as Crœsus, you are not the husband for my child."
"What is it?" cried Mrs. Marsh coming on the scene.
"Nothing—don't alarm yourself. Just a little exhibition of the Barton family nerves, my dear, that's all. Neurosis, neurosis: that ever tabooed word! It came out queerly enough in the uncle, goodness knows! I wonder what shape it's going to take now in the nephew?"
"Has he given up Hilda?"
"Well, no; but she's given him up. Wait here, Amelia. I must get something from the surgery."
Mrs. Perks received her quondam lodger with much show of heartiness. During those few weeks' stay at the Pitt Hotel, while she had been recruiting her shattered health prior to taking up the engagement at Lesser Thorpe, Miriam had endeared herself to the little woman. And Mrs. Perks, although snappish, distrustful, and burdened by the many cares and hardened by the experience of sordid London life, was, nevertheless—as she said herself—not slow to recognise a good woman when she saw one, and she had long since admitted Miriam in her own mind to that category. She had regretted Miss Crane's departure sincerely, and now welcomed her even more so.
"You shall 'ave your own bed and sitting-room," she said, drawing her shawl tightly round her spare form, "and that for as long as you likes. Don't offer me money, or I shall refuse it with scorn; so don't offer it, I begs."
"But I can't live on you for nothing, Mrs. Perks."
"If it's pride which sticks in your throat," said the landlady rubbing her nose, "there is the 'ouse accounts which I can't do nowise, not 'aving an intelligent 'ead for figures. Do them for me, Miss Cranes, and you'll be paying me 'andsome."
"I'll do the accounts with pleasure," replied Miriam, thankful for the opportunity of thus paying her way; "and if you accept payment for my board and lodging like that, I shall be only too pleased."
So the bargain was struck, and Miriam undertook to balance the finances of the Pitt Hotel, which, to speak truly, were in a sad muddle. Mrs. Perks was a good landlady, an excellent housekeeper, but when it came to figures, Mrs. Perks was not in the first flight. The hotel, though by no means a high class one, paid well enough. Those who patronised it were of the shabby-genteel order. Would-be authors, frowsy foreigners, shabby ne'er-do-weels, came here for bed and board; and Mrs. Perks, as hard as a diamond if not so brilliant, screwed money out of them somehow. But the fact that they generally came again argued that even pertinacious and dogged as she was, Mrs. Perks had something on the other side which more than counterbalanced her capabilities in this direction. There were those who could speak very feelingly of the natural kindness within Mrs. Perks, and of her invariable readiness to hold out a helping hand to the unfortunate. A hard woman, a sordid woman, yet a true woman withal, and therefore capable of a great tenderness. There were many worse people than Mrs. Perks.
As the days went by and Miriam grew in favour, the landlady contracted the habit of taking tea with her in the bed-sitting room which was her abode for the time. And on these occasions, softened by the tea and mellowed by the toast, the old lady was wont to wax confidential, and talk a great deal about the late Mr. Barton. But what had been the true state of affairs between them Miriam never learned. Mrs. Perks was quite able, and evidently intended, to keep that to herself. For the rest she spoke both good and ill of the Squire, though on the whole she seemed in nowise to grieve that he was no more.
"Ah, Miss Cranes," she sighed on one of these occasions, "he was a bad 'un, was Mr. Barton; in fact, I don't think I ever knowed a wuss. Yet he 'ad 'is good points too. You couldn't call 'im 'oly and you couldn't call 'im wicious; he was betwixt and between like—a Moses and a Judas—and where he's gone to is more than I can tell."
"I suppose you know all about his life in London?"
"I do and I don't, Miss Cranes. He 'elps me to take this 'otel, and I paid off the money 'e advanced, so 'im and me was quits. But although I was 'ouse-keeper at the Manor House some time, and 'e put me 'ere in the way of earnin' my own livin', it wasn't a good 'eart as made 'im do it—oh dear no, not at all. He wanted a home 'ere where 'e could go and come without bein' talked about."
"Why, where did he use to go?"
"Ah!"—Mrs. Perks sniffed significantly—"where didn't he go? Slums was pleasures to 'im and criminals delights. Lor', Miss Cranes, if you only knowed the awful people as called 'ere to see Mr. Bartons, your blood would freeze in your veins!"
"Did you ever happen to notice a tall dark man, wearing a black cloak?"
"Wot, with a white face and a scar on it? Ah, that I did. What 'is name was, I didn't rightly know. The Shadder Mr. Barton called 'im, and shadder 'e was in his comin's and goin's, an' no mistake. 'E was a bad 'un, that Shadder, and I believe 'e did all Mr. Barton's wicked work for 'im. I never looked in the noospapers, Miss Cranes, but I expected to see a 'orrid murder by the Shadder and Mr. Bartons, but some'ow they managed to keep clear of the gallers."
"It was extraordinary his connection with that man," assented Miriam. "I can't think what he kept him for—there's no doubt he employed him regularly."
Mrs. Perks tossed her head, rose and tightened her shawl again.
"Oh, I don't know. I never saw anything wrong except that Mr. Bartons came 'ome at all hours, and let all kinds of 'orrid creatures call on 'im; but I'm sure there was some devilment goin' on. Not that I ought to be surprised," cackled Mrs. Perks, "for the Bartons family was all of 'em mad as March 'ares."
"Mad?"
"Yes, Miss Cranes. His father drank 'orrid, and he was fond of low company for some wickedness I couldn't rightly make out. Mrs. Arkel, his sister, 'ad the temper of a demon, and Mrs. Darrow, his niece, 'as the same, as no doubts you know well. As for young Mr. Arkel, 'e's on 'is way to die of strong drink."
Miriam felt a thrill.
"You don't mean to say that Mr. Arkel drinks to excess?"
"I should jus' say 'e do. 'E comes 'ere at times and is drunk for days! Can't 'elp it, 'e sez—I'd 'elp 'im if I'd my way. There was another of 'em in an asylum; she was always stealin', couldn't 'elp it, it seemed no'ow. As for the morals of 'em, I blushes to think of the way they used to carry on. It's a blessin', I'm sure, that some of 'em's committed suicide."
"Major Dundas seems to be perfectly normal in every way."
"Oh, 'e's the proud and 'aughty sort, 'e is. I never 'eard anything worse than that about 'im. But 'e'll break out some day, Miss Cranes, never you fear. What's born in the Barton bones'll come out in the Barton flesh, mark my words if it don't."
Apparently Major Dundas was the only member of the house of Barton for whom Mrs. Perks had even comparative approval. And Miriam had little doubt but that she was correct in her judgment, if not in her prognostications. At least she had had a lengthy experience of the family. An hereditary weakness had undoubtedly exhibited itself in various manners, none of which was either trivial or attractive. Theft, or to give it the more scientific name, kleptomania, uncontrollable rage, alcoholism, and—in the Squire—distinct and avowed homicidal mania, which characteristics left little ground for doubt as to there being decided mental aberration in the Barton family. But of the last, and more serious failing on the part of the late Squire, Mrs. Perks seemed to be wholly in ignorance. To her he was an eccentric, and a dilettante in crime—a seeker after the lower strata of humanity, but nothing more.
As soon as she arrived in town Miriam had at once proceeded to investigate the fact of Jabez' being in England. Her first visit was to the hovel of Mother Mandarin, for there she knew he was wont to take refuge when in London. But to her surprise Mother Mandarin knew nothing of his present whereabouts. She had not seen him indeed since he had left for Lesser Thorpe. Shorty, too, although he looked knowingly at her and seemed once or twice on the point of being confidential, denied all knowledge of him. For Jabez' own sake she inserted a cypher advertisement in several of the daily papers, warning him of the great danger he was running by remaining in England. But he made no sign of any kind, and Miriam gave up in despair.
She heard from Inspector Prince that in spite of the thorough search of all outgoing steamers for America, both at Southampton and at Liverpool, no trace had been found of the man she had described. And from the mere fact of the inspector writing to her thus ex-officio, she gathered—and rightly—that she had not failed so far as he was concerned. So she was forced to rest content with the knowledge that for the present, at least, Jabez, wherever he was, was safe.
Then one morning Gerald Arkel made his appearance at the Pitt Hotel. He was very much changed. His former expression of light-hearted gaiety had given way to one of dejection, even sullenness. His dress, usually so irreproachable, was conspicuous now by his untidy carelessness; and the springy gait, which had always been so characteristic of him, was gone. It was almost as if the breath of old age had passed over him, and in the passing had roughed the outlines of his youth.
"My! you do look bad, Mr. Arkel!" was Mrs. Perks' greeting. "Wot 'ave you been doin'?"
"Mourning for my uncle," retorted Gerald with a discordant laugh. "Having lost my benefactor, Mrs. Perks, you can't expect me to be very sprightly, eh? Is Miss Crane in?"
"Yes, sir, she is—you'll find 'er first door on the right there. I wonder what 'e wants with 'er," she mumbled, as Gerald made his way along the passage. "No good, I'll be bound. You've been drinkin' 'ard, young man, and wot's more, you'll come to no 'appy end, unless I'm much mistaken."
A knock at the door of the room in which Miriam was occupied at her morning's work caused her to bid her visitor to enter. She did not raise her eyes from her work. She was accustomed to be thus disturbed for some trivial matter or other in the morning. For half a minute Gerald stood there looking at her. How beautiful and composed her expression was! He faltered out her name. She paled at the sound of his voice, and rose slowly to her feet, repeating his name in a tone hardly less faltering. In silence their eyes met.
"You are surprised to see me?" said Gerald, throwing his hat on a chair and sitting down. "I got your address from Dundas. I thought you would not mind if I came and saw you."
A more serious expression came over her face as she looked at him.
"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Arkel," she said; "but you look to me terribly ill. Is anything the matter? I am afraid——" She hesitated.
"That I've been making a fool of myself?" he finished bitterly. "Well, you're right as usual—I have. And what's more, I'm afraid I shall go on making a fool of myself until I can find someone to give me a helping hand."
"But is not Hilda——?"
"Hilda!" His face crimsoned, and he bit his lip. "Hilda has given me up. That's all over now!"
"Given you up?" She did not know whether she felt glad or sorry.
"Yes; given me up. When through the theft of that will I lost everything, she flatly declined to marry me. Her father forbade her to. I saw him—I saw her—and the whole thing was too much for me. I had a kind of fit, I believe."
"Poor Mr. Arkel!"
"Still Mr. Arkel?—you used to take an interest in me. You used to be my friend."
"That I am still; but surely Major Dundas is your friend. Surely he——?"
"Oh yes; in a cold-blooded sort of way," replied Gerald listlessly. "He has helped me. He gave me three hundred pounds, and said he would try and get me something to do. Considering that he has all that I should have had, that is not a great deal."
"It is very good, I think," replied Miriam. "And what do you think of doing?"
"Blessed if I know." He spoke fretfully and with discontent. "The thing is, what am I fit for?"
"What are you fit for?—what any man worthy of the name is fit for—work—hard work. Do you remember how I always told you it would be your salvation. Well, now it has come—no longer is it a matter of choice with you, but one of necessity. Will you be angry with me if I say that I am glad it is all over between Hilda Marsh and you? She was not the woman for you. She was not fit to be any poor man's wife. You have everything before you now. In robbing you of what you had come to think of as your inheritance, Providence befriended you—not the opposite. Your uncle's money would have been your ruin, Gerald." His face brightened at the sound of his name on her lips. "Yes, you know it would. You know how weak you are, how you love pleasure, self-indulgence—how already you have indulged your love of it far too much. Oh, do try now, I beg of you. Let me help you if I can. I will do anything if it will help to put you on your feet again. Who is there you can go and see? Tell me you will try."
She had risen from her seat and was standing by his side. He looked so dull, so heavy-eyed, so despairing.
"Gerald, this chance is thrown right in your way. Don't neglect it."
"You put new life in me, Miriam—and indeed I have tried. I have vowed that I would overcome my weakness. And when I am with you I feel as if I really could. But somehow, when I am alone, the feeling goes, and I can't go on. You know I am not religious, but I tell you I have prayed for help to do what you would have me do. But it hasn't come to me. Life is too much for me alone. If I had you to help me——"
"I will help you!"
"Oh, Miriam, if only you would—if I could think that I should have you by me, that you would not leave me, I believe I could succeed, Miriam." He looked at her, and took her hand and grasped it hard. "I know I am a wreck compared to what I was, that I am weak, and poor, and helpless. You know how I am handicapped. But I feel that with you—if you would take me—life would all be different. I could work for you. With you I should feel safe, without you I am doomed. Will you take pity on me?—will you marry me, Miriam?"
She looked at him and smiled so sadly.
"I will help you, Gerald. I will stay beside you—always. Your life shall be my life—but not because I pity you, Gerald—because I love you!"
The neighbourhood of West Kensington is nothing if not genteel. It is, moreover, by no means a costly area, and is thus in every way calculated to recommend itself to those about to marry on an income somewhat sharply defined. And the income of Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Arkel was somewhat sharply defined. They accordingly looked around West Kensington, and succeeded in finding, on the fifth floor of a palatial red-brick erection, a flat to suit their requirements at the very moderate rental of fifty pounds a year. This they took on a three years' agreement, and proceeded to embellish with a sufficiency of furniture and upholstery, which if not valuable, was in eminently good taste. But their good fortune did not stop here—it extended even to the securing of a "cook-general," a model of her kind, who not only spared the china to an extent almost uncanny, but did not object to "do" the dining-room, and asked for no more than three nights out a week. Thus blessed, and with a gross income of three hundred pounds per annum, Mr. and Mrs. Arkel commenced their married life for all the world as content as if their address had been Grosvenor Square.
For two years Fortune had continued to smile on them in an unobtrusive yet perfectly satisfactory manner, and they were now celebrating the second anniversary of their wedding-day by witnessing the performance of a certain masterpiece of farcical comedy from the centre of the dress-circle of the Avenue Theatre. To those who may think such an extravagance unjustifiable in the circumstances, let it be said at once that the tickets had not been paid for, but were a present from the hands of the author of the piece himself, who was for the time being finding a Klondyke in the, to him, wholly inexplicable mania of the London public for the child of his brain. For the rest the evening's expenditure was strictly limited to a sixpenny bill of the play, and two second-class return tickets by the Metropolitan Railway.
The play over, Mr. and Mrs. Arkel returned home to a cold supper, at peace with themselves and all the world. With the temperature at something under forty they considered themselves justified in lighting the fire. But this was easier said than done, for the West Kensington chimneys, excellent as they may seem to the naked eye, are at times disconcerting in their refractoriness, and on this especial evening this especial chimney chose to be unusually so. At last, by the aid of his morning paper—carefully brought home in the pocket of his tail-coat—and a rather alarming expenditure of faggots, Gerald contrived to induce something approaching a cheerful blaze. That done, he got into the arm-chair, and prepared to enjoy his final pipe.
The excursion to the theatre had been so "out of the usual," so wholly commemorative in character, that it was natural that, after expression of appreciation or otherwise of their friend's production, they should fall into a gentle retrospect.
"It was a lucky day, Miriam, old girl, when I dropped in on you at the Pitt Hotel," said Gerald. "If you hadn't consented then to become my domestic angel, I suppose I should have been dead by this time, or in a lunatic asylum, or worse!"
"Gerald, don't. I won't have you talk like that. You have worked hard, and I am proud of you. Lots of men have done for less without half your weaknesses."
"Well, there's no denying it is jolly rough on any man to have to give up a life like mine, and go and grub in a beastly office."
"I say you have done more than well, dear. But don't call the office 'beastly,' Gerald. They have done everything to show their appreciation of you. Remember, you started with three pounds a week, and they are now giving you six. I often think it was very good of the Major to get you so good a start."
"I owe nothing to the Major," returned Gerald hotly. "What he did, he did as a salve to his own conscience, that was all. It's no use, Miriam, I can't forget that it was through him I lost everything—not that I regret the exchange so far as Hilda is concerned. You are worth a hundred of her any day. You know, dear, I don't regret that. Still, I can't help feeling sore when I think that Dundas got everything and I nothing. I can see now that Hilda was no loss. She showed her hand pretty plainly. I believe she'd have married Beelzebub himself for money. Anyhow, directly she knew I was out of it, she made very short work of me."
"But, dear, you told me yourself that her father made her give you up!"
"I don't fancy she required so much 'making.' But don't let's talk about her now. Do you know, Miriam, I used to think Dundas was rather sweet on you."
Miriam shook her head and laughed.
"Nonsense, dear. He liked to talk to me, nothing more. Besides, if he had been ever so in love with me, I wouldn't have married him. I'm afraid I had too soft a spot for someone else!"
The young man chuckled inwardly at this allusion to her preference for himself. He was as vain as ever. But to Miriam's mind there came back the recollection of a certain day at the Pitt Hotel—it was strange how indissolubly connected was that hotel with the greater issues of her life—when Major Dundas had come to her and asked her to be his wife, only to be told that she was already engaged to his cousin. She recalled, too, his great generosity—so ill-appreciated, she was forced to confess, by the recipient of it—in straightway using every endeavour to procure for his more successful rival a berth in a shipping-office where he had some influence. He had even gone so far as to offer her an income, which of course she had refused. And he had promised always to be her friend. After that she had seen him no more. He had drifted back to Lesser Thorpe, there to do his work as lord of the manor, and twelve months later had capitulated to Hilda. She could see it all in her mind's eye—the good-natured, simple, easy-going soldier, and the pretty, covetous, artful girl, backed by her poverty-stricken, designing parents, and, as a result, Miss Hilda Marsh the lady of the manor of Lesser Thorpe.
All this passed rapidly through her mind now as she sat gazing into the fire. Her two years of married life had not engendered in her any admiration for her husband's character. She was obliged to confess that it was not to be admired. By dint of much exertion of her superior moral force over him she had so far succeeded as to keep in check his innate tendencies to lapse. She had kept him to his work, and it was only fair to him to say he had worked. He had even proved to have more capacity than she had ever credited him with. Strong as her feeling was for him, there had been times when she had come very near being ashamed of it. She could not account for it. She only knew that it existed—had existed from the moment when they first had met. It was a thing almost apart from her life, and yet wholly of it. There were times when she tried to persuade herself that it was pity she had felt for him—that pity which is so akin to love. But in her heart of hearts she knew better—she knew that it was rather that fierce passion which no woman can control; which exists of itself and for itself, and is outside and utterly unaffected by any admiration or lack of it, and which comes but once in the lifetime of any man or woman. This was the feeling inspired in her by Gerald Arkel, and she had not been proof against it. It had whirled her off her feet, and she was now irrevocably committed to it. She had married a child—a weak, vain, selfish, pleasure-loving child, with instincts tending all towards destruction. The tinkle of a glass aroused her from her reverie. She looked up at him.
"Gerald dear, don't take any more whiskey; you have had two glasses already."
"Luck in odd numbers," he replied gaily, "we don't celebrate our anniversary more than once a year. Just one more, Miriam, and then to bed."
She looked at him in reproof.
"It's the thin end of the wedge, Gerald—you know your weakness!"
He turned on her angrily.
"I ought to; you're always telling me of it."
"Gerald, that is unjust. You know I speak only for your good."
"People invariably do when they have anything disagreeable to say. Hang it, Miriam, you might leave me alone for once in a way. I am awfully sick of your everlasting preaching. Goodness knows I've given up quite enough for you as it is. I never get the taste of a glass of wine; a drop of whiskey at night's my only comfort."
"A comfort which means ruin to you, Gerald—you know it."
"Jove! how like a woman that is—always ready to picture the worst of horrors. Why, I'd like you to see some fellows! What they drink in a night would keep me going a twelvemonth."
"Gerald, how can you speak so foolishly when you know how it is with you! Didn't you beg of me——"
"Oh, damn it, do leave me alone. Preach, preach, preach, from morning till night. After all you're not such a purified saint as all that yourself. You forget you sang in the chorus at a music-hall once!"
"I did, and you knew it, and why I had to do it, before you married me."
"Perhaps I did; but there are some things you took precious good care I should not know—Jabez, for instance! Who is he?"
She did not flinch, although she was hurt to the quick. She looked into the fire, with her head resting on her hand.
"Jabez is a man with whom you can have nothing to do. He passed out of my life two years ago. I have never seen him since."
"He was evidently very much in it once. Oh, Julia told me all about your little goings on—how you met him on the quiet, and gave him money, and worse even than that!"
"Gerald, what do you mean?"
"Why, what I say. According to Mrs. Darrow, you primed this chap to steal Uncle Barton's will."
"And you believe that?"
"I—I don't know. I can't say. At all events he threatened to kill my uncle, and the old manwaskilled the very next night!"
"He was not killed by Jabez."
"How do you know that?"
"Because I am sure of it. Jabez had no reason to harm Mr. Barton. As to the will, I will only ask you—to put it on the lowest possible grounds—what had I to gain by its disappearance?"
"This, that you wanted to see me done out of the money. You know how you were always preaching to me on that subject, and urging me not to take it, saying that it would be my ruin, and I don't know what else!"
"And so it would have been. You know well that if you had inherited that money you would have been in your grave by now."
"Now look here, Miriam, I've had about enough of this. I'll drink what I jolly well please. Here goes." He poured out nearly half a tumbler of whiskey, and drank it down. "Now then, what have you to say?"
"Nothing, Gerald—for the present—further than I think you had better go to bed."
"Oh, that's just like you—after you have riled a chap. 'Pon my soul, Miriam, you're the most exasperating woman I know. You're always ready to go for me; you take precious good care, though, not to tell me much about yourself."
"You know everything about me, Gerald."
"No, I don't. That Jabez business is precious queer. Who is he?—what is he to you I should like to know?"
"Jabez is not unlike yourself—a weakling and an ingrate. I tried to save him from himself, as I have tried to save you."
"Oh, you seem to be a pretty old hand at experimenting with men. I don't believe you're any better than you ought to be!"
The drink had mounted to his brain now, and he was quite beside himself.
As Miriam left the room, she saw him pour out another half-tumbler of spirit.
"I shall sleep in the small bedroom to-night," she said. "You will probably sleep on the floor."
It was not the first time she had occupied that little room. Indeed, the number of occasions upon which she had been forced to do so, had been increasing all too frequently of late. She had made a huge mistake—she recognised it now. With such a man as this there could be no sense of security, hence no real happiness, though the sun of prosperity shone ever so brightly. With the pitying love of an angel she had put out her strong arm to pluck him from destruction. And for a time she had succeeded. But now he was eluding her grasp. The instinct within him was too strong for her to combat. His employer would soon come to complain of him. And then the end would soon be. Already he complained of her. Her very virtues were fast becoming faults in his eyes. But even now it was not of herself she thought, though her intellect was being starved, and her soul was sick with the sorrow of despair. No longer could she feel any hope for the future—for his future. Worn out and utterly dejected, she threw herself on the bed in the bare little room, and cried herself to sleep.
Next morning Gerald rose late, and, it seemed, repentant. In truth, he rose from the floor which had been his bed that night. He took a cold bath, and so braced up his shattered nerves a trifle. She received him with a smile, and made no reference to what had been. He apologised, and she forgave him, and there the thing ended—for the time. She alone knew how her heart ached. It was Sunday. He went to church, and rebuked her because she said she felt unable to accompany him. From the window she watched him, smartly dressed and for all the world the most punctilious of men. His tendencies were strongly ritualistic. He would probably confess his sins and take holy vows about the future. But the future would be no better than the past for all that.
With the assistance of the "cook-general" she made the beds, and dusted the rooms, and laid the table. Then she took a book and sat down in the drawing-room to read. But her thoughts would not follow her page. They drifted back to Jabez. Where was he now she wondered? What had become of him? It was two whole years since she had seen him.
There was a ring at the bell, and the "cook-general" entered with a card held between a floury thumb and a buttery forefinger.
Miriam looked at the card.
"Mr. Maxwell." She did not know the name. She wondered who it could be. Probably some friend of Gerald's.
"Show Mr. Maxwell in, Jane."
A tall man in a frock-coat, with a flower in his button-hole, and the most shiny of silk hats in his hand, stood in the door. She stepped forward to meet him, and recoiled, pale to the lips.
"Jabez!" she gasped. "You here!"
It was Jabez. The prodigal had returned, though by no means in the rags of his Biblical prototype. Rather was he like the rich man in the parable—clothed in purple and fine linen. In modern parlance there was about him the look of a man with a balance at his bank. A vastly different person from the scarecrow who had met Miriam under the wall of Lesser Thorpe church.
"Jabez," she repeated—her voice was hoarse and low—"what are you doing here?"
"Not much yet; thought I just drop in and look you up, dear," replied the man, tossing his hat and gloves on to the sofa and making himself comfortable. "You don't seem overjoyed to see me though."
"No, I am not. Can you expect me to be? I thought you had passed out of my life for ever. How did you find me out here?"
"Shorty! There you have it. I looked in at the old shop where Mother M. still hangs out, and sure enough there the rascal was."
"And how did Shorty know?"
"Ah, that's more than I can tell you. You'd better ask him if you're curious on the point. For some reason of his own—and you may bet your bottom dollar it's a good one—he seems to have been keeping his wicked eye on you and your husband ever since you joined forces. It was Shorty told me you were married." He looked round the little room with a sneer which well became his Mephistophelian countenance. "But I say, Miriam, I should have thought you might have done a bit better than this! West Kensington, and cheap at that, isn't it?"
"I must ask you if you have anything of importance to say, Jabez, to say it and go. My husband will be home directly. He must not find you here."
"And why not, pray? You can introduce me as your old friend, Harry Maxwell—that's my name now. Thank the Lord Jabez is dead and buried for ever."
"You think so?" said Miriam, with a searching look and dropping her voice. "I should not advise you to be too sure about that. There is always the possibility of his being dug up, and then all the fine clothes in the world won't disguise him."
The man drew his hand across his throat with a significant expression.
"Not much fear of that," he replied, "especially with this beard. I flatter myself it's rather a neat growth." He stroked his chin complacently.
She pointed to his high bald forehead, on which was scarred a purple cicatrice—evidently the result of some terrible blow.
"That alone is always enough to betray you," she said in a whisper. "Jabez, it was sheer madness for you to return to this country. Remember Mother Mandarin knows everything."
"Oh, the old girl's right enough. I always take jolly good care to keep her in good tune. Besides, if it comes to that, I know enough about her to make it pretty hot for her. But you don't ask me what I've been doing, Miriam—I should have thought you'd have taken a bit of interest in a chap, especially when he's done as well as I have. The Cape's treated me pretty well all round, and I've come home with a tidy sum, I can tell you."
"Honestly, Jabez?"
"Rather—led a dog's life though to get it. I went shares in a claim with a pal. We struck gold, and struck it pretty rich, in no time—in fact, my luck changed as soon as ever I turned my back on this old country. I left my pal out there to look after our little patch; he's a good sort, and I shall be off out again to join him in a couple of months. Perhaps it is a bit risky my knocking about in a free and easy way like this; but to tell you the truth, Miriam, I got such a twist on me for the old place, that I had to pack up my traps and come just for a mouch round. I'm not really afraid. That old affair of mine is pretty stale now—shouldn't wonder even if they'd forgotten all about it by this time."
"Thatbusiness—perhaps, Jabez, though I don't think so. But they are after you for another now!"
The man stopped twisting his red moustache, and stared at her in genuine consternation.
"What do you mean? What other? There's no other that I know of! 'Pon my soul, Miriam, I don't know what you're talking about."
"Mr. Barton was strangled in his house at Lesser Thorpe the night after I met you by the church and gave you twenty pounds!"
"Yes; I heard that. It was in the papers a few days after. But what has that to do with me?"
"Can't you guess?" cried Miriam vehemently. "They suspect you of the murder!"
He jumped from the sofa, and looked round wildly.
"Is—is my—do they know my name?" he asked harshly.
"No; that is, they know your first name, not your other. They think it's 'Tracey'—Jabez Tracey. I told them so."
"Go on; what description have they?"
"Small and dark, in fact in every respect the opposite of what you are. About to leave, I said, for New York,viaLiverpool. Oh, Jabez, you don't know how hard it was to do it, but I did it to screen you—to keep you safe!"
"How on earth did you get at them?—how did they come to suspect me?"
"We were followed, and our conversation overheard that night in the churchyard. I knew it was dangerous, Jabez, I told you so. Mrs. Darrow hated me. It was she who did it. She listened to everything hidden away somewhere. She taxed me to my face with being implicated in the murder of Mr. Barton and the theft of his will. So I thought it best to go straight to Inspector Prince at Southampton, and put the whole thing before him. I told him how I had met you, and even what you had said—that you would kill Mr. Barton if he interfered with you. I knewshewould make capital out of that. But I made it quite clear to him that you had had no provocation from Mr. Barton, and of course from the description I gave of you I knew they were not very likely to find you."
"You don't believe I killed him, Miriam?"
"No, dear, I never did. But that woman heard you say you would."
"Yes; if he had interfered with me I believe I would, but he didn't. I never thought any more about him till I saw the account of the affair in the papers."
"You did go back to London, then?"
"Yes; you got the letter I wrote you from the Docks?"
"I did; but a day or two afterwards I saw you on the platform at Southampton Station. Don't deny it, Jabez; I know it was you!"
"Why should I deny it? As a matter of fact, I missed the boat I intended working my way out in. She swung out on the early morning tide, after they had told me she wouldn't be leaving till the evening. So I got back to Southampton as sharp as I could, and booked a steerage berth on one of the Union boats. But about the murder of that old man, Miriam, I swear to you I know absolutely nothing."
"I believe you, Jabez. Nevertheless, in the face of the evidence, and your—your past history, it might go badly with you for all that if they were to catch you. Oh dear, I am perfectly terrified when I think of it! Good Heavens, what's that? I'm so nervous I can hardly contain myself this morning." They could hear the front door open and someone enter the hall.
"Quick, it's Gerald, I expect—my husband. What is it you call yourself?—Harry Maxwell? Very well, remember we are old friends."
He nodded, and took a seat with his back to the window. The door opened to admit not Gerald Arkel but Major Dundas. Smart and well-groomed as ever, he came forward and shook Miriam by the hand.
"My wife and I are up in town for a few days with Dicky," he said, "so I just dropped in to ask you when she might bring the boy round, Mrs. Arkel; he is so anxious to see you again."
"Dear little fellow—I shall love to see him. But let me introduce Mr. Maxwell—my friend, Major Dundas."
The two men turned towards each other. As their eyes met Jabez winced, and a puzzled expression came across the Major's face.
"Surely," he said, "I can't help thinking we have met before, Mr. Maxwell, I seem to know your face, I——"
"If so, you have the advantage of me, sir; I cannot say yours is familiar to me. It's quite possible, though, we may have come across each other at the Cape."
"I was never at the Cape," replied Major Dundas bluntly.
"Then I fear our acquaintance must date from to-day, Major, for I've been out there for about fifteen years, and have only just got back. I'm sorry." Then he turned towards Miriam. "Good-bye, Mrs. Arkel," he said, "I'm afraid I must be going now. I have to lunch with some people a little way out, and I have not much more than time to get there. I'll wish you good-day, Major Dundas."
"I must let you out, Mr. Maxwell; my maid-of-all-work is hardly presentable, I——"
"Oh, please don't trouble——"