replied the woman wearily. "It was only from what your Shadow Man gave me to understand that I spoke as I did. I will do all I can to meet your wishes."

"Marry Gerald then!"

Miriam shook her head.

"I said I was prepared to do what I could," she observed, "but so far as Mr. Arkel is concerned, I can do nothing. I may as well tell you at once that he is engaged to Hilda Marsh."

"d.a.m.n her!" said Barton, without moving a muscle. "How do you know?"

"I saw them sitting together on the stile near Farmer Bell's. One glance at them was quite sufficient for me. They are engaged, Mr. Barton. You will find that I am right."

Barton mused.

"I am not surprised," he said, after a pause. "I have no doubt you are right. I fancy I know, too, what has brought it about. Last night I told Gerald that I intended to make him my heir; he has, of course, gone straight to her, the hussy, with it, and she--by Heaven, what fools men are!--well, she's lost no time in bringing him to the point. Well,"

Barton chuckled, "it is not too late to remedy my little mistake. I shall just contrive to let Miss Marsh know that I have changed my mind--that for Gerald I intend to subst.i.tute John Dundas, and I fancy you'll see that she'll change hers pretty quickly too."

"Even if she does, it can make no difference so far as I am concerned.

As I told you before, I tell you again, there is no chance of my marrying Mr. Arkel."

"But I thought you said--your feelings----!"

"Yes, I know that to my cost, but he does not love me, and will never, never ask me to be his wife. He respects me, he admires me--I am sure he likes me very much. But I must have more than that, Mr. Barton--or less.

Let me go, please. I have tried to win Gerald; but he is not for me."

"But think of _him_--you would not see the boy ruined? With Hilda for wife and my fortune his ruin will be very complete. As his wife you could save him--you know you could! And you have three times the brains of that minx. Surely you could manage----"

"Enough, Mr. Barton. I will not hear what you are going to say. I could save him. Yes, I know I could," cried Miriam, and the tears rose in her eyes. "But, much as I love him, and G.o.d alone knows how much that is--I cannot lower myself in his eyes and in my own. I cannot do more, Mr.

Barton. The salvation of Gerald is in your hands, not in mine. If you hated his mother, who wronged you, that is no reason you should ruin him, a young man, who has done you no harm. It is a villainous, mad, horrible thing to do!"

"You think so? Well, it must suffice for you that I know what I am doing. If Gerald, after all my kindness and care, had shown any love for me--if he had been even ordinarily grateful, I might have spared him.

But he is a brainless, selfish, cold-hearted fop, who abuses me even while he eats my meat. He is useless to man, ruinous to woman, so the sooner he drinks and debauches himself into an early grave, the better it will be for humanity in general. I brought you down here thinking to give him a chance, but he has thrown that away. I have no pity for him!"

"Let your will in favour of Major Dundas stand," urged Miriam, "and Gerald will not lose his chance. Hilda is a mere fortune-hunter. She will throw him over as soon as ever she hears that he is poor."

"I shall do nothing of the sort," replied Barton coldly. "He shall have my money, and, since he is so blind, he can marry Hilda. You--since you refuse to save him--can stand aside and watch his downfall."

"I tell you it is beyond my power to marry him, even if I wished to. I cannot achieve the impossible. Gerald's future cannot depend upon me."

"Then, if it is to depend upon me, a cruel future it will be for him. By a new will I am leaving everything to him."

"Mr. Barton, you are an incarnate devil!"

"Nothing of the kind--only very much a man."

"A coward, since you revenge yourself on a dead woman."

At this Barton was seized with a sudden fury.

"I revenge myself on the son of a woman who ruined me," he almost shouted. "I would have lived and died a decent man but for her. Within me I had the seeds of a wicked heredity, which drove me, if not to crime, at least into contact with crime. The woman I loved would have saved me from myself, and my sister stepped in to prevent my salvation.

I hated her for it, I hate her son, and the knowledge that he will go headlong to ruin after my death, will be the sweetest of my dying thoughts."

Miriam looked at the old man with amazement, as he shook with fury and impotent rage. His face became positively brutish, his eyes glittered with insane light, and he shook from head to foot, as though seized with a palsy.

"You say that I am an opium-eater," he continued wrathfully. "I am--I am! For years I was possessed of seven devils which tore at me, and, in despair, I took to the drug. Mother Mandarin! you know her well, and she knows me. Many a time have I crept down that foul lane in Lambeth to the foul den of that old hag, and there with many a pipe have I sought to smoke myself into oblivion--into an imaginary paradise where at least I might hope to dream of her who was lost to me. But did oblivion come--was Paradise opened? No, no! I was taken into h.e.l.l--to suffer the tortures of the d.a.m.ned. My waking life was agony--my sleeping, pain everlasting; yet I could not tear myself away from the thing. It gained too strong a hold on me, and I am a slave to it even now--I confess it, a slave to Satan, to Apollyon, to Beelzebub. You know now why I go to London, and seek to deliver myself into the grip of those things which lie in darkness."

In his agitation he rose and paced the floor, rent and torn by the devils which, as he said, and which Miriam, with the spectacle before her, was constrained to believe, possessed him.

She remained silent, stunned almost by the outburst of this terrible nature--brutish, animal, horrible. It was as though the cold ground underfoot had opened to spout fire and destruction. Barton went on,

"Do you know my fear, Miriam? It is that some day I shall kill some one.

That is the gift that I inherit from my ancestors. A thousand times the impulse has seized me, but, so far, I have had the strength to hold me back. A wife--a good, fond, loving, tender wife, could have saved me from the tortures which that b.l.o.o.d.y instinct inflicts. She would have exorcised the devil within me. Of that, my only salvation, I was robbed by my sister. I hate her!" he hissed.

"Flora, dead or alive, I curse you! I will ruin your son, as you ruined me, and when he dies a drunkard and an outcast, I shall laugh--yes, even though I am in h.e.l.l, I shall laugh."

Shaking his fists, the old man dropped into his chair, and burying his face in his hands, burst into tears. His paroxysm of anger had exhausted him, and he was now weak as a child.

Miriam was amazed and terrified by what she had heard. Here was a man with the awful instinct of murder in his blood, possessed of a hideous love of crime. Within him lurked a monster ravenous as a tiger--a source of danger to all around him, although they knew it not. Miriam wondered whether in truth he might not already have followed the promptings of his mania--whether his hands were not even now stained with blood. Or, perchance, he had watched others do this devil's work at his bidding, while he had stood aside, and thus kept himself within the limits of the law. She could not say, she could not guess; but, silent and aghast, she looked at the sobbing man. Filled with the instincts of terrible crime, what a life he must have led! What tortures he must have experienced!

Was he really sane or insane? Should he be allowed to go free or not?

She could not decide. She could only sit there fascinated as it were by the sight of him--a human being abject and impotent from abandonment to the vile instincts which had clamoured for expression. She could almost find it in her heart to pity him!

CHAPTER XII.

MIRIAM KEEPS AN APPOINTMENT.

Of all things in this most inexplicable world, one of the most inexplicable is why some people, deserving of real happiness, should be predestined by circ.u.mstances to a misery they cannot avert. They may be honest, kindly, intelligent, industrious, praiseworthy in many respects, deserving in all; but some malignant fate misguides them, and drags them, as with invisible chains, to that abyss which is the scoundrel's natural goal. Every step they take is in the wrong direction, on the downward path; every act they do, however deliberate, leads only to trouble. With the ingenuity of a fox pursued they may twist and turn and double, only to end in running directly into the foreseen trap. How Fate must laugh at their futile efforts to avoid the inevitable, and sneer at their attempts to fend off a danger which is destined to overwhelm them.

Kick against the p.r.i.c.ks they may for a longer or a shorter period, according to their capacity for stubborn resistance; but in the end, worn out, terrified, despairing, they must perforce submit their bodies to the relentless whips of the G.o.ds. Why this should be so, why these innocents should suffer a fate than which no malefactor can suffer worse, is unilluminable by the light of either science or religion.

Poor Miriam was a prominent example of such relentless and predestined misfortune. Born with a n.o.ble nature and a kindly heart, gifted with beauty and with talent, she had been dragged down to the depths by some power she could not defy. When Barton had come to her aid she had thought that the tide of fortune had turned at last in her favour, and would drift her into a haven of peace. Such she had trusted to find in this quiet country village; but even here it seemed she was to be pursued and crushed by the same ubiquitous fate. Mrs. Darrow, on no reasonable grounds, hated her; Gerald, the one man whose love she now craved, withheld that love from her; Barton had her in his toils; Jabez was coming out of the darkness to haunt and trouble her; and on every side she was surrounded with difficulties. Since Mrs. Darrow had given her notice, she had almost in despair resolved to take what money was due to her and disappear--to break off with the past, and try once again to begin her life afresh and unhampered by the sins of others. But a very brief reflection showed her that she could not even do this. She was too keenly conscious of her duty to shirk her responsibilities--to do that would be with her only to carry remorse in addition to her other burdens. So she resolved to abide where she was, and face the worst. But her spirit was broken, and her power of resistance to evil fortune well-nigh gone.

Mrs. Darrow still held to her intention of dismissing her governess; but at the same time she had no fancy that Uncle Barton should know anything about it for the present. That would inevitably mean direct conflict in which she was sure to be worsted. It would be well, she thought, to put things to Miss Crane from that point of view.

"There is no need because we are going to part that we should do so in anger, Miss Crane," she said frigidly. "For my part I am quite willing that things should be just as they were until you go. Nor is it necessary really that Mr. Barton knows anything about it--it would only upset him, and lead to unpleasantness all round. Indeed, it might even hasten your departure, so I don't think if I were you----"

"I understand perfectly, Mrs. Darrow," interrupted Miriam. "I will say nothing to Mr. Barton for the present I am quite willing to go."

"You must understand, Miss Crane," pursued the widow, egotistic and tactless as ever, "that I must be mistress in my own house. I approve of you in many ways, and I admit that you have fulfilled your duties with discretion. At the same time I confess I do not like the mystery with which you choose to surround yourself."

"There is no mystery about me, Mrs. Darrow. Mr. Barton made such inquiries as he thought necessary, I presume, before he engaged me."

"Then what satisfies Mr. Barton does not satisfy me. I find it impossible to reconcile your very mysterious behaviour with an absence of mystery in your life. You lock your bedroom door, and write letters to mysterious people of whom I know nothing, and you are intimate--far too intimate--with Mr. Barton himself, for that matter. I speak only for your good."

"If, as you suggest, we are to remain friendly until I go, I think you had better not speak at all," replied Miriam coldly.

"Miss Crane, this insolence----"