"What do you mean?"

"Why, don't you see my position? If this evidence gets to the police it will mean immediate action on the part of some of the smartest detectives in London--in fact, everywhere additional particulars of your brother and this crime will be sent. Within a month he may be caught and within another month have to stand his trial! What happens then? Why, in all probability it will transpire, or out of sheer spite at me--for he bears me no love I can tell you--he will say how we met at your house, and how I, knowing well who he was, failed to give notice to the authorities, as I should have done for your sake. Think then of the position I am in--in fact, of the position we both are in!"

"My G.o.d!" she cried, "that must not be. You must run no risks. You must not consider me. Oh, if anything were to happen to you through this!--through me! If necessary you must act at once--you must give him up before this fresh charge comes."

"First of all I think we had better inquire a little more closely into the value of this boy's evidence. He is an unscrupulous young liar, as I have already proved. Then we will act accordingly. Meanwhile, there is not the least need for you to alarm yourself. You can safely leave the whole affair in my hands. But there is something else I would like you to tell me if you will--that is, how, in the first instance, you came into contact with my uncle. I know partly it was through a governess agency, but somehow--I--I have often thought there was something more--something that you would tell me of your own accord perhaps some day?"

"Yes," she answered simply, "you are right, there is. And I had fully intended to tell you. Your friendship deserves----"

"Friendship, Miriam?"

"Let us call it that--it is best so. But before I can tell you exactly how I came to meet with Mr. Barton, I must tell you of my life before that time. It will not be pleasant hearing for you. It is terrible to me, even now, to go back to it, for it was a time of darkness and of deprivation, of absolute want, and of the most acute suffering, physical and mental."

He looked at her with a whole world of pity in his eyes.

"Don't, if it pains you so," he said.

"Yes, it is but right you should know," she replied simply. "I will begin at the beginning, and you shall judge of me for yourself. My father was, as I think I once told you, a sailor. For many years he was in command of a ship trading between London and China. We lived at Deal then, in our own house, with my mother, who was a most sweet and gentle woman, and devoted to us. But, alas, when I was only fifteen years of age she died, and I was left in charge of everything. Jabez was five years older than I, and for some time had occupied the position of clerk at a local bank. Even then he was violent tempered, and thoroughly idle, and given to affecting the lowest of company. My mother had adored him, as mothers always adore the scamp of the family. Yet she had not been wholly blind to the weakness of his nature. Indeed, she knew well that he would never withstand the temptations of the world, and on her death-bed she made me promise never to forsake him."

"And I'm sure you've kept that promise," said Dundas.

"G.o.d knows at what cost," said Miriam. "It is no use my making light of the burden I then took up. It was a heavy one, and the bearing of it took all the brightness out of my youth. When my father came back he engaged a housekeeper, and sent me back to school where I remained three years. Jabez still lived at home, but he did not get on well with the housekeeper. She was not a nice woman--in fact, she made up her mind she would marry my father, and I am sorry to say she succeeded. I returned from school to find myself a stranger in my own home. My father was a kindly man, but weak as water, and perfectly unable to deal with a woman like his wife. Jabez and she quarrelled constantly, and although I tried my best to keep peace I invariably got the worst of it, as peace-makers usually do."

"True--true," said Dundas, thinking of sundry family quarrels begun and continued by Mrs. Darrow, "I know that from my own experience."

"With such a home you can easily guess how Jabez went from bad to worse.

He took to staying out at night, to drink, to gamble, and to idle away his time. Then one day he took some of the bank funds and made off with them. My father was at home at the time, and by repaying the money immediately managed to hush it up, but he swore never again to receive Jabez or to regard him as his son. After a while I heard from him from London. He was without money, and unknown to anyone I sent him what I could. The next thing I heard was that he had enlisted. You know his life and doings during that period.

"Just then my father started off on what proved to be his last voyage, for he and all his crew were lost in a cyclone in the Chinese seas. No sooner did we receive the terrible news than my stepmother turned me out of the house."

"But, my dear Mrs. Arkel, how was such a thing possible?"

"My father left everything to her--house, money, lands, everything. I was not so much as mentioned in his will. My stepmother told me plainly she had always hated me. For very shame she could not turn me out penniless, so she gave me fifty pounds. I took it, indeed, what else could I do? Besides the money was rightfully mine. But that was not the worst. Jabez' misfortune happened about that time. I saw the whole thing in the papers, and I was in despair. Still what could I do? I was helpless. Next I heard from him that he was penniless, and in hiding, and asking me for money to enable him to leave England. I had fifty pounds; so I sent him half. I had to keep the rest until I got a situation as nursery governess. While I was in this place I heard of my stepmother's marriage to a young sailor, then I knew that my father's money was lost for ever."

"How could your father make such a will?"

"He was weak, and this woman got the better of him. Besides, he believed naturally that she would look after me. It was shortly after hearing about the marriage that I again met Jabez. He had not left England but had spent the money. He found out my address from my stepmother, to whom he had written. She knew what he was, and she was always ready to do me an ill turn. At all events the result was he came to see me one day while I was in the Park with the children. Vice and poverty had set their marks on him, and he looked horrible. The children were frightened and complained when they came home, and I was dismissed."

"But did you not explain that he was your brother?"

"I did. And the explanation made matters worse. The lady with whom I was said that she could not retain in her services anyone having a brother so disreputable. She took the trouble even to drive to the Inst.i.tute and tell them about it. Consequently I could not get another situation. In despair, as my money was running low, I went to see Jabez at the address he had given me at Lambeth."

"Ah, there you were wrong--you should have kept clear of him at all costs."

"What else could I do?" said Miriam plaintively. "I was alone, and Jabez--bad as he was--was my brother, my sole living relative. I went to see him, to beg him to try and get some honest work under an a.s.sumed name. He was at Mother Mandarin's"--she shuddered--"and for the first time I saw that awful den--it was like a glimpse of h.e.l.l. Jabez would not go out and work, he was afraid of being recognised and arrested he said. So I shared what I had with him--I, oh----" Miriam covered her face with her hands. "How can I tell you the horrible life of those eighteen months!--the sufferings, the penury! I tried to get work--I walked into every registry office in London to hire myself out as a servant--but all in vain--my appearance was against me. They did not think my appearance was suitable. Everywhere I went it was the same thing. I applied at Nursing Inst.i.tutes, at hospitals, but the authorities refused to take me without certificates of competency and respectability. My clothes got shabby--I could not buy more. Major Dundas, if you only knew what I suffered, what I did to keep the bread in the mouths of myself and Jabez!"

"The hound!" cried Dundas furiously, "and he wouldn't work!"

"He was afraid of arrest. I sang in the chorus at a music-hall--I sang in the streets--I sold flowers--I--I--I begged on one occasion. Rung by rung I fell lower and lower. But I was still true to myself--I was still honest--I believed that one day G.o.d would end my martyrdom. It ended on the night I met Mr. Barton."

"Where?"

"On Waterloo Bridge at midnight. We had been starving for days, and Jabez was seized with a fit of compunction. He went out with the boy Shorty to get food by fair means or by foul. He was desperate. I knew that he would stop at nothing that night, indeed I heard him say as much to Shorty. So I followed them. Mr. Barton came over the bridge. He had evidently lost his way in the fog. He stopped, asking Shorty to direct him. The boy, taking in his fur coat at a glance, saw at once that he was worth robbing. He called to Jabez, and the two of them set upon him, and half strangled him in the attempt to take his watch. I tried to stop them but it was no use. Jabez persisted. Then I climbed on to the parapet of the bridge, and threatened to throw myself into the river if he did not at once release Mr. Barton. He hesitated, and at that moment I heard the policeman coming. Jabez and Shorty took to their heels, and I helped Mr. Barton to his feet.

"The old man was considerably knocked about, but he was able to walk slowly to his hotel, where he insisted on my accompanying him, and on doing something for me to show his grat.i.tude. Starving as I was I accepted his help only too gladly. It was the Pitt Hotel in Craven Street he took me to.

"After that he caused inquiries to be made about me, I believe, and the end of it was he took me down to Lesser Thorpe as governess to d.i.c.ky.

The rest you know."

"Good G.o.d!" cried Dundas, much agitated, "how you must have suffered!"

"Indeed I have; but in all my suffering I never lost my faith in G.o.d.

Tell me, Major, you do not shrink from me now that you know?"

Trembling with emotion he took her hand.

"Miriam," he said, "what you have told me has only confirmed the belief I had in you. You are a martyr, a saint."

"Poor saint, I fear," she said faintly.

"Dearest," said the Major gravely, "in my eyes you are the n.o.blest and best of women."

She looked into his eyes. And as she did so she felt that all her suffering had not been in vain.

CHAPTER XI.

IN THE DEPTHS.

It was characteristic of John Dundas that after hearing Miriam's story he was more than ever bent upon making her his wife. In so far as the chief traits of their respective dispositions were concerned, there was a good deal of similarity between the Major and Mrs. Parsley. Both were "big" in their way of looking at the more serious issues of life; both were inclined to ignore the smaller ones; both were generous, steadfast, and strong. Consequently, the free confession of what her past had been, which Miriam had made to each of them in turn, was attended with much the same result in either case--a strengthening rather than otherwise of their belief in and of their love for her.

And it must be confessed that there are many men who, while believing themselves to be ever so deeply in love with the woman of their choice, would still hesitate at marrying her in the face of the almost certain arrest and conviction of her brother for double murder. But not so this worthy soldier. His only qualm was lest she should on that account refuse to marry him when she was free to do so. And that time seemed very near at hand. News had come from Gerald in Paris.

"I am very ill," he wrote, "in fact, they tell me I cannot last long."

It was a pitiful letter. He begged his wife to forgive him; he had sinned, and sinned deeply against her he knew. Hilda had left him, and he craved that his wife should be with him when he died. As soon as there was the slightest chance of his being able to bear the journey, he was coming to London. Would she receive him? Would she forgive? Would she stay beside him and soothe his last hours?

With such a woman as Miriam there was but one answer to this plea. The tears fell fast as she read.

There was only one thing of more importance to her now. Since it had been made clear to her that the safety of Jabez meant not the safety of Jabez alone, but the safety of John Dundas--meant indeed the upholding of his good name, she had made up her mind to act. If Jabez could be got right away before any official intimation could be given of this new charge against him, she felt convinced of his ability to evade capture.

She determined that this must be her work. And it must be done too at once, before he should have opportunity of getting rid of much of the money she had given him.

She knew where to find him. The den of Mother Mandarin was no new ground to her, though she loathed the idea of going there. Strange that the night she chose for her errand should be just such a night as that on which she had met Mr. Barton. The fog was dense, almost as dense as it had been that night, and a thick drizzle was beginning to squeeze its way through it as she left the respectable portico of Rosary Mansions for the abode of vice and profligacy which sheltered her brother. In half an hour she was at Westminster Bridge. As she crossed over, the clock tower rang out nine.

Leaving the main thoroughfare she plunged into the network of lanes and alleys which thread the ma.s.s of miserable dwellings lying within a stone's-throw of the river. How familiar were those ways to her even now! How vividly she recalled the days of penury and misery when footsore and in despair she had trodden the stony pavements there! Every corner loomed up a landmark in her mind!