"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."

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE REWARD OF MIRIAM

Mrs. Perks received her quondam lodger with much show of heartiness. During those few weeks' stay at the Pitt Hotel, while she had been recruiting her shattered health prior to taking up the engagement at Lesser Thorpe, Miriam had endeared herself to the little woman. And Mrs. Perks, although snappish, distrustful, and burdened by the many cares and hardened by the experience of sordid London life, was, nevertheless – as she said herself – not slow to recognise a good woman when she saw one, and she had long since admitted Miriam in her own mind to that category. She had regretted Miss Crane's departure sincerely, and now welcomed her even more so.

"You shall 'ave your own bed and sitting-room," she said, drawing her shawl tightly round her spare form, "and that for as long as you likes. Don't offer me money, or I shall refuse it with scorn; so don't offer it, I begs."

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

"If it's pride which sticks in your throat," said the landlady rubbing her nose, "there is the 'ouse accounts which I can't do nowise, not 'aving an intelligent 'ead for figures. Do them for me, Miss Cranes, and you'll be paying me 'andsome."

"I'll do the accounts with pleasure," replied Miriam, thankful for the opportunity of thus paying her way; "and if you accept payment for my board and lodging like that, I shall be only too pleased."

So the bargain was struck, and Miriam undertook to balance the finances of the Pitt Hotel, which, to speak truly, were in a sad muddle. Mrs. Perks was a good landlady, an excellent housekeeper, but when it came to figures, Mrs. Perks was not in the first flight. The hotel, though by no means a high class one, paid well enough. Those who patronised it were of the shabby-genteel order. Would-be authors, frowsy foreigners, shabby ne'er-do-weels, came here for bed and board; and Mrs. Perks, as hard as a diamond if not so brilliant, screwed money out of them somehow. But the fact that they generally came again argued that even pertinacious and dogged as she was, Mrs. Perks had something on the other side which more than counterbalanced her capabilities in this direction. There were those who could speak very feelingly of the natural kindness within Mrs. Perks, and of her invariable readiness to hold out a helping hand to the unfortunate. A hard woman, a sordid woman, yet a true woman withal, and therefore capable of a great tenderness. There were many worse people than Mrs. Perks.

As the days went by and Miriam grew in favour, the landlady contracted the habit of taking tea with her in the bed-sitting room which was her abode for the time. And on these occasions, softened by the tea and mellowed by the toast, the old lady was wont to wax confidential, and talk a great deal about the late Mr. Barton. But what had been the true state of affairs between them Miriam never learned. Mrs. Perks was quite able, and evidently intended, to keep that to herself. For the rest she spoke both good and ill of the Squire, though on the whole she seemed in nowise to grieve that he was no more.

"Ah, Miss Cranes," she sighed on one of these occasions, "he was a bad 'un, was Mr. Barton; in fact, I don't think I ever knowed a wuss. Yet he 'ad 'is good points too. You couldn't call 'im 'oly and you couldn't call 'im wicious; he was betwixt and between like – a Moses and a Judas – and where he's gone to is more than I can tell."

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

"I do and I don't, Miss Cranes. He 'elps me to take this 'otel, and I paid off the money 'e advanced, so 'im and me was quits. But although I was 'ouse-keeper at the Manor House some time, and 'e put me 'ere in the way of earnin' my own livin', it wasn't a good 'eart as made 'im do it – oh dear no, not at all. He wanted a home 'ere where 'e could go and come without bein' talked about."

"Why, where did he use to go?"

"Ah!" – Mrs. Perks sniffed significantly – "where didn't he go? Slums was pleasures to 'im and criminals delights. Lor', Miss Cranes, if you only knowed the awful people as called 'ere to see Mr. Bartons, your blood would freeze in your veins!"

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

"Wot, with a white face and a scar on it? Ah, that I did. What 'is name was, I didn't rightly know. The Shadder Mr. Barton called 'im, and shadder 'e was in his comin's and goin's, an' no mistake. 'E was a bad 'un, that Shadder, and I believe 'e did all Mr. Barton's wicked work for 'im. I never looked in the noospapers, Miss Cranes, but I expected to see a 'orrid murder by the Shadder and Mr. Bartons, but some'ow they managed to keep clear of the gallers."

"It was extraordinary his connection with that man," assented Miriam. "I can't think what he kept him for – there's no doubt he employed him regularly."

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

"Oh, I don't know. I never saw anything wrong except that Mr. Bartons came 'ome at all hours, and let all kinds of 'orrid creatures call on 'im; but I'm sure there was some devilment goin' on. Not that I ought to be surprised," cackled Mrs. Perks, "for the Bartons family was all of 'em mad as March 'ares."

"Mad?"

"Yes, Miss Cranes. His father drank 'orrid, and he was fond of low company for some wickedness I couldn't rightly make out. Mrs. Arkel, his sister, 'ad the temper of a demon, and Mrs. Darrow, his niece, 'as the same, as no doubts you know well. As for young Mr. Arkel, 'e's on 'is way to die of strong drink."

Miriam felt a thrill.

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

"I should jus' say 'e do. 'E comes 'ere at times and is drunk for days! Can't 'elp it, 'e sez – I'd 'elp 'im if I'd my way. There was another of 'em in an asylum; she was always stealin', couldn't 'elp it, it seemed no'ow. As for the morals of 'em, I blushes to think of the way they used to carry on. It's a blessin', I'm sure, that some of 'em's committed suicide."

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

"Oh, 'e's the proud and 'aughty sort, 'e is. I never 'eard anything worse than that about 'im. But 'e'll break out some day, Miss Cranes, never you fear. What's born in the Barton bones'll come out in the Barton flesh, mark my words if it don't."

Apparently Major Dundas was the only member of the house of Barton for whom Mrs. Perks had even comparative approval. And Miriam had little doubt but that she was correct in her judgment, if not in her prognostications. At least she had had a lengthy experience of the family. An hereditary weakness had undoubtedly exhibited itself in various manners, none of which was either trivial or attractive. Theft, or to give it the more scientific name, kleptomania, uncontrollable rage, alcoholism, and – in the Squire – distinct and avowed homicidal mania, which characteristics left little ground for doubt as to there being decided mental aberration in the Barton family. But of the last, and more serious failing on the part of the late Squire, Mrs. Perks seemed to be wholly in ignorance. To her he was an eccentric, and a dilettante in crime – a seeker after the lower strata of humanity, but nothing more.

As soon as she arrived in town Miriam had at once proceeded to investigate the fact of Jabez' being in England. Her first visit was to the hovel of Mother Mandarin, for there she knew he was wont to take refuge when in London. But to her surprise Mother Mandarin knew nothing of his present whereabouts. She had not seen him indeed since he had left for Lesser Thorpe. Shorty, too, although he looked knowingly at her and seemed once or twice on the point of being confidential, denied all knowledge of him. For Jabez' own sake she inserted a cypher advertisement in several of the daily papers, warning him of the great danger he was running by remaining in England. But he made no sign of any kind, and Miriam gave up in despair.

She heard from Inspector Prince that in spite of the thorough search of all outgoing steamers for America, both at Southampton and at Liverpool, no trace had been found of the man she had described. And from the mere fact of the inspector writing to her thus ex-officio, she gathered – and rightly – that she had not failed so far as he was concerned. So she was forced to rest content with the knowledge that for the present, at least, Jabez, wherever he was, was safe.

Then one morning Gerald Arkel made his appearance at the Pitt Hotel. He was very much changed. His former expression of light-hearted gaiety had given way to one of dejection, even sullenness. His dress, usually so irreproachable, was conspicuous now by his untidy carelessness; and the springy gait, which had always been so characteristic of him, was gone. It was almost as if the breath of old age had passed over him, and in the passing had roughed the outlines of his youth.

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

"Mourning for my uncle," retorted Gerald with a discordant laugh. "Having lost my benefactor, Mrs. Perks, you can't expect me to be very sprightly, eh? Is Miss Crane in?"

"Yes, sir, she is – you'll find 'er first door on the right there. I wonder what 'e wants with 'er," she mumbled, as Gerald made his way along the passage. "No good, I'll be bound. You've been drinkin' 'ard, young man, and wot's more, you'll come to no 'appy end, unless I'm much mistaken."

A knock at the door of the room in which Miriam was occupied at her morning's work caused her to bid her visitor to enter. She did not raise her eyes from her work. She was accustomed to be thus disturbed for some trivial matter or other in the morning. For half a minute Gerald stood there looking at her. How beautiful and composed her expression was! He faltered out her name. She paled at the sound of his voice, and rose slowly to her feet, repeating his name in a tone hardly less faltering. In silence their eyes met.

"You are surprised to see me?" said Gerald, throwing his hat on a chair and sitting down. "I got your address from Dundas. I thought you would not mind if I came and saw you."

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

"I am very glad to see you, Mr. Arkel," she said; "but you look to me terribly ill. Is anything the matter? I am afraid – " She hesitated.

"That I've been making a fool of myself?" he finished bitterly. "Well, you're right as usual – I have. And what's more, I'm afraid I shall go on making a fool of myself until I can find someone to give me a helping hand."

"But is not Hilda – ?"

"Hilda!" His face crimsoned, and he bit his lip. "Hilda has given me up. That's all over now!"

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

"Yes; given me up. When through the theft of that will I lost everything, she flatly declined to marry me. Her father forbade her to. I saw him – I saw her – and the whole thing was too much for me. I had a kind of fit, I believe."

"Poor Mr. Arkel!"

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

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

"Oh yes; in a cold-blooded sort of way," replied Gerald listlessly. "He has helped me. He gave me three hundred pounds, and said he would try and get me something to do. Considering that he has all that I should have had, that is not a great deal."

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

"Blessed if I know." He spoke fretfully and with discontent. "The thing is, what am I fit for?"

"What are you fit for? – what any man worthy of the name is fit for – work – hard work. Do you remember how I always told you it would be your salvation. Well, now it has come – no longer is it a matter of choice with you, but one of necessity. Will you be angry with me if I say that I am glad it is all over between Hilda Marsh and you? She was not the woman for you. She was not fit to be any poor man's wife. You have everything before you now. In robbing you of what you had come to think of as your inheritance, Providence befriended you – not the opposite. Your uncle's money would have been your ruin, Gerald." His face brightened at the sound of his name on her lips. "Yes, you know it would. You know how weak you are, how you love pleasure, self-indulgence – how already you have indulged your love of it far too much. Oh, do try now, I beg of you. Let me help you if I can. I will do anything if it will help to put you on your feet again. Who is there you can go and see? Tell me you will try."

She had risen from her seat and was standing by his side. He looked so dull, so heavy-eyed, so despairing.

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

"You put new life in me, Miriam – and indeed I have tried. I have vowed that I would overcome my weakness. And when I am with you I feel as if I really could. But somehow, when I am alone, the feeling goes, and I can't go on. You know I am not religious, but I tell you I have prayed for help to do what you would have me do. But it hasn't come to me. Life is too much for me alone. If I had you to help me – "

"I will help you!"

"Oh, Miriam, if only you would – if I could think that I should have you by me, that you would not leave me, I believe I could succeed, Miriam." He looked at her, and took her hand and grasped it hard. "I know I am a wreck compared to what I was, that I am weak, and poor, and helpless. You know how I am handicapped. But I feel that with you – if you would take me – life would all be different. I could work for you. With you I should feel safe, without you I am doomed. Will you take pity on me? – will you marry me, Miriam?"

She looked at him and smiled so sadly.

"I will help you, Gerald. I will stay beside you – always. Your life shall be my life – but not because I pity you, Gerald – because I love you!"

PART II

CHAPTER I.
5A, ROSARY MANSIONS

The neighbourhood of West Kensington is nothing if not genteel. It is, moreover, by no means a costly area, and is thus in every way calculated to recommend itself to those about to marry on an income somewhat sharply defined. And the income of Mr. and Mrs. Gerald Arkel was somewhat sharply defined. They accordingly looked around West Kensington, and succeeded in finding, on the fifth floor of a palatial red-brick erection, a flat to suit their requirements at the very moderate rental of fifty pounds a year. This they took on a three years' agreement, and proceeded to embellish with a sufficiency of furniture and upholstery, which if not valuable, was in eminently good taste. But their good fortune did not stop here – it extended even to the securing of a "cook-general," a model of her kind, who not only spared the china to an extent almost uncanny, but did not object to "do" the dining-room, and asked for no more than three nights out a week. Thus blessed, and with a gross income of three hundred pounds per annum, Mr. and Mrs. Arkel commenced their married life for all the world as content as if their address had been Grosvenor Square.

For two years Fortune had continued to smile on them in an unobtrusive yet perfectly satisfactory manner, and they were now celebrating the second anniversary of their wedding-day by witnessing the performance of a certain masterpiece of farcical comedy from the centre of the dress-circle of the Avenue Theatre. To those who may think such an extravagance unjustifiable in the circumstances, let it be said at once that the tickets had not been paid for, but were a present from the hands of the author of the piece himself, who was for the time being finding a Klondyke in the, to him, wholly inexplicable mania of the London public for the child of his brain. For the rest the evening's expenditure was strictly limited to a sixpenny bill of the play, and two second-class return tickets by the Metropolitan Railway.

The play over, Mr. and Mrs. Arkel returned home to a cold supper, at peace with themselves and all the world. With the temperature at something under forty they considered themselves justified in lighting the fire. But this was easier said than done, for the West Kensington chimneys, excellent as they may seem to the naked eye, are at times disconcerting in their refractoriness, and on this especial evening this especial chimney chose to be unusually so. At last, by the aid of his morning paper – carefully brought home in the pocket of his tail-coat – and a rather alarming expenditure of faggots, Gerald contrived to induce something approaching a cheerful blaze. That done, he got into the arm-chair, and prepared to enjoy his final pipe.

The excursion to the theatre had been so "out of the usual," so wholly commemorative in character, that it was natural that, after expression of appreciation or otherwise of their friend's production, they should fall into a gentle retrospect.

"It was a lucky day, Miriam, old girl, when I dropped in on you at the Pitt Hotel," said Gerald. "If you hadn't consented then to become my domestic angel, I suppose I should have been dead by this time, or in a lunatic asylum, or worse!"

"Gerald, don't. I won't have you talk like that. You have worked hard, and I am proud of you. Lots of men have done for less without half your weaknesses."

"Well, there's no denying it is jolly rough on any man to have to give up a life like mine, and go and grub in a beastly office."

"I say you have done more than well, dear. But don't call the office 'beastly,' Gerald. They have done everything to show their appreciation of you. Remember, you started with three pounds a week, and they are now giving you six. I often think it was very good of the Major to get you so good a start."

"I owe nothing to the Major," returned Gerald hotly. "What he did, he did as a salve to his own conscience, that was all. It's no use, Miriam, I can't forget that it was through him I lost everything – not that I regret the exchange so far as Hilda is concerned. You are worth a hundred of her any day. You know, dear, I don't regret that. Still, I can't help feeling sore when I think that Dundas got everything and I nothing. I can see now that Hilda was no loss. She showed her hand pretty plainly. I believe she'd have married Beelzebub himself for money. Anyhow, directly she knew I was out of it, she made very short work of me."

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

"I don't fancy she required so much 'making.' But don't let's talk about her now. Do you know, Miriam, I used to think Dundas was rather sweet on you."

Miriam shook her head and laughed.

"Nonsense, dear. He liked to talk to me, nothing more. Besides, if he had been ever so in love with me, I wouldn't have married him. I'm afraid I had too soft a spot for someone else!"

The young man chuckled inwardly at this allusion to her preference for himself. He was as vain as ever. But to Miriam's mind there came back the recollection of a certain day at the Pitt Hotel – it was strange how indissolubly connected was that hotel with the greater issues of her life – when Major Dundas had come to her and asked her to be his wife, only to be told that she was already engaged to his cousin. She recalled, too, his great generosity – so ill-appreciated, she was forced to confess, by the recipient of it – in straightway using every endeavour to procure for his more successful rival a berth in a shipping-office where he had some influence. He had even gone so far as to offer her an income, which of course she had refused. And he had promised always to be her friend. After that she had seen him no more. He had drifted back to Lesser Thorpe, there to do his work as lord of the manor, and twelve months later had capitulated to Hilda. She could see it all in her mind's eye – the good-natured, simple, easy-going soldier, and the pretty, covetous, artful girl, backed by her poverty-stricken, designing parents, and, as a result, Miss Hilda Marsh the lady of the manor of Lesser Thorpe.

All this passed rapidly through her mind now as she sat gazing into the fire. Her two years of married life had not engendered in her any admiration for her husband's character. She was obliged to confess that it was not to be admired. By dint of much exertion of her superior moral force over him she had so far succeeded as to keep in check his innate tendencies to lapse. She had kept him to his work, and it was only fair to him to say he had worked. He had even proved to have more capacity than she had ever credited him with. Strong as her feeling was for him, there had been times when she had come very near being ashamed of it. She could not account for it. She only knew that it existed – had existed from the moment when they first had met. It was a thing almost apart from her life, and yet wholly of it. There were times when she tried to persuade herself that it was pity she had felt for him – that pity which is so akin to love. But in her heart of hearts she knew better – she knew that it was rather that fierce passion which no woman can control; which exists of itself and for itself, and is outside and utterly unaffected by any admiration or lack of it, and which comes but once in the lifetime of any man or woman. This was the feeling inspired in her by Gerald Arkel, and she had not been proof against it. It had whirled her off her feet, and she was now irrevocably committed to it. She had married a child – a weak, vain, selfish, pleasure-loving child, with instincts tending all towards destruction. The tinkle of a glass aroused her from her reverie. She looked up at him.

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

"Luck in odd numbers," he replied gaily, "we don't celebrate our anniversary more than once a year. Just one more, Miriam, and then to bed."

She looked at him in reproof.

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

He turned on her angrily.

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

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

"People invariably do when they have anything disagreeable to say. Hang it, Miriam, you might leave me alone for once in a way. I am awfully sick of your everlasting preaching. Goodness knows I've given up quite enough for you as it is. I never get the taste of a glass of wine; a drop of whiskey at night's my only comfort."

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

"Jove! how like a woman that is – always ready to picture the worst of horrors. Why, I'd like you to see some fellows! What they drink in a night would keep me going a twelvemonth."

"Gerald, how can you speak so foolishly when you know how it is with you! Didn't you beg of me – "

"Oh, damn it, do leave me alone. Preach, preach, preach, from morning till night. After all you're not such a purified saint as all that yourself. You forget you sang in the chorus at a music-hall once!"

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

"Perhaps I did; but there are some things you took precious good care I should not know – Jabez, for instance! Who is he?"

She did not flinch, although she was hurt to the quick. She looked into the fire, with her head resting on her hand.

"Jabez is a man with whom you can have nothing to do. He passed out of my life two years ago. I have never seen him since."

"He was evidently very much in it once. Oh, Julia told me all about your little goings on – how you met him on the quiet, and gave him money, and worse even than that!"

"Gerald, what do you mean?"

"Why, what I say. According to Mrs. Darrow, you primed this chap to steal Uncle Barton's will."

"And you believe that?"

"I – I don't know. I can't say. At all events he threatened to kill my uncle, and the old man was killed the very next night!"

"He was not killed by Jabez."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I am sure of it. Jabez had no reason to harm Mr. Barton. As to the will, I will only ask you – to put it on the lowest possible grounds – what had I to gain by its disappearance?"

"This, that you wanted to see me done out of the money. You know how you were always preaching to me on that subject, and urging me not to take it, saying that it would be my ruin, and I don't know what else!"

"And so it would have been. You know well that if you had inherited that money you would have been in your grave by now."

"Now look here, Miriam, I've had about enough of this. I'll drink what I jolly well please. Here goes." He poured out nearly half a tumbler of whiskey, and drank it down. "Now then, what have you to say?"

"Nothing, Gerald – for the present – further than I think you had better go to bed."

"Oh, that's just like you – after you have riled a chap. 'Pon my soul, Miriam, you're the most exasperating woman I know. You're always ready to go for me; you take precious good care, though, not to tell me much about yourself."

"You know everything about me, Gerald."

"No, I don't. That Jabez business is precious queer. Who is he? – what is he to you I should like to know?"

"Jabez is not unlike yourself – a weakling and an ingrate. I tried to save him from himself, as I have tried to save you."

"Oh, you seem to be a pretty old hand at experimenting with men. I don't believe you're any better than you ought to be!"

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

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

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

It was not the first time she had occupied that little room. Indeed, the number of occasions upon which she had been forced to do so, had been increasing all too frequently of late. She had made a huge mistake – she recognised it now. With such a man as this there could be no sense of security, hence no real happiness, though the sun of prosperity shone ever so brightly. With the pitying love of an angel she had put out her strong arm to pluck him from destruction. And for a time she had succeeded. But now he was eluding her grasp. The instinct within him was too strong for her to combat. His employer would soon come to complain of him. And then the end would soon be. Already he complained of her. Her very virtues were fast becoming faults in his eyes. But even now it was not of herself she thought, though her intellect was being starved, and her soul was sick with the sorrow of despair. No longer could she feel any hope for the future – for his future. Worn out and utterly dejected, she threw herself on the bed in the bare little room, and cried herself to sleep.

Next morning Gerald rose late, and, it seemed, repentant. In truth, he rose from the floor which had been his bed that night. He took a cold bath, and so braced up his shattered nerves a trifle. She received him with a smile, and made no reference to what had been. He apologised, and she forgave him, and there the thing ended – for the time. She alone knew how her heart ached. It was Sunday. He went to church, and rebuked her because she said she felt unable to accompany him. From the window she watched him, smartly dressed and for all the world the most punctilious of men. His tendencies were strongly ritualistic. He would probably confess his sins and take holy vows about the future. But the future would be no better than the past for all that.

With the assistance of the "cook-general" she made the beds, and dusted the rooms, and laid the table. Then she took a book and sat down in the drawing-room to read. But her thoughts would not follow her page. They drifted back to Jabez. Where was he now she wondered? What had become of him? It was two whole years since she had seen him.

There was a ring at the bell, and the "cook-general" entered with a card held between a floury thumb and a buttery forefinger.

Miriam looked at the card.

"Mr. Maxwell." She did not know the name. She wondered who it could be. Probably some friend of Gerald's.

"Show Mr. Maxwell in, Jane."

A tall man in a frock-coat, with a flower in his button-hole, and the most shiny of silk hats in his hand, stood in the door. She stepped forward to meet him, and recoiled, pale to the lips.

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