As she left the room Hilda went in search of Master Dicky, and found him stretched out on the floor of the bedroom. He was very busily occupied with a heap of treasures he had found in an old ivory work-box which Miriam had managed to keep possession of in spite of her many vicissitudes. It was true it had for a few months reposed on the shelf of a pawnbroker in the Strand, to whom she had confided it during that terrible time just before she met with Barton. But it had been the first thing she had redeemed. It was a very old piece of Indian work, wondrously carved, and had always been a favourite of Dicky's at Pine Cottage. The boy welcomed it now as an old playfellow.
"Dicky, whatever are you doing?" exclaimed Hilda, when she saw him. "You'll catch it from Miriam, upsetting her things like that!"
"No, I won't," replied the boy calmly. "She always let me play with this; there's such a funny little place in the lid she used to show me, I can't find it now—ah, here it is, I've got it."
Hilda bent over him curiously. His little fingers had touched a spring, which, when pressed, caused the lining of the lid—a plain sheet of ivory—to fall inwards. As it opened an oblong sheet of bluish paper, folded—a typical legal document—fell out.
"Now, Dicky, see what you've been doing; you've——"
She stopped short, for she had read the writing on the paper: "The Will of George Barton. Dated December the 20th, 189-."
* * *
CHAPTER V.
JUST IN TIME.
At the sight of those words even Hilda's self-possession forsook her for the moment The will of George Barton, dated December, here, in Miriam's keeping! There was only one conclusion to be arrived at from that. She had stolen it—that she might secure Gerald. As the thought flashed through her mind a great bitterness—a greater hatred for her rival came over Hilda. Dicky, absorbed as he was, saw that something was wrong. His keen little eyes had not failed to read the fateful heading. The word "will" was by no means without meaning for him. How often his mother had spoken of Uncle Barton's will! He had heard her not once, but a score of times. Child as he was, he knew quite well what had happened to deprive Gerald of his inheritance.
Hilda glanced hurriedly, stealthily, through the contents of the deed. "I devise all my real and personal estate to my nephew, Gerald Arkel, absolutely"—those were the words her eye now caught, and they were more than enough. And she was the wife of John Dundas! Why had Fate played her such a sorry trick?—she who had given up so much—had schemed so zealously for the possession of this affluence. It had been her goal through life. She had sacrificed everything to it, only to have it snatched from her now that she had tasted the sweet of it. It was too cruel. What should she do?
Dicky looked up, all innocent inquiry. That look brought her to herself again. At any cost the truth must be kept from him. She smiled and put her hand upon his shoulder.
"Dicky dear," she said in a whisper, "do you know what this is?"
"It's a will, Hilda, isn't it? Mother was always talking about Uncle Barton's will. Is this the one?"
"Yes, dear, this is the one. It's been lost for ever so long, and now that you have found it your dear Miriam will be so rich."
"Oh, how jolly!—I am so pleased, aren't you, Hilda?"
"Yes, dear; and I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll prepare such a surprise for Miriam."
"Oh yes; how, Hilda, how shall we do it?" The little fellow's eyes positively danced with delight.
"Well, first I must talk to Major Dundas about it, because of course he will have to give the money to Miriam's husband. Now, Dicky, whatever you do you must not say a word about it. It must be a great secret. You must promise me that first of all. Very well——"
"But, Hilda, I wonder why Miriam didn't know it was in her box?"
For a moment the woman was at a loss. Then she answered.
"Well, that we don't know, Dicky. Perhaps she hid it there herself and forgot all about it, or perhaps Gerald put it there. That doesn't matter—we've found it, that's the great thing, and it will be such a surprise for both of them."
"Oh yes, Hilda. I won't say a word about it, I promise."
"That's a good boy. Now put away the work-box quickly, just as you found it, and don't tell Miriam even that you were playing with it." She kissed him, and slipped the deed into her dress. Dicky put back the trinkets and replaced the box.
She felt she could rely on the boy's not betraying her, and she congratulated herself on the success of her plan. She could bear Miriam in the drawing-room now. Hurriedly she picked up a copy of the Strand Magazine which Dicky had been looking at and gave it to him.
"We must go to tea, Dicky. Come along, bring your book with you."
At that moment Miriam called.
"That boy's simply crazy about pictures," said Hilda, as she entered the room. "I can't get him away from them." She looked at Dicky hard. He seemed to understand—it was to him all part of a glorious surprise for Miriam. And the element of secrecy appealed to him irresistibly.
"What's he got—the Strand Magazine?" said Miriam, catching sight of the well-known cover. "Oh, that's Gerald's—he's never happy without his Strand."
"It is an awfully jolly magazine, Miss Crane—I wish mother would get it."
"Ah, here is Gerald," exclaimed Hilda, as at that moment he entered the room. "Speak of angels and you hear their wings."
"That's dangerously suggestive of another phrase more often applied in the same circumstances—and rather more apt in this case too, I fancy!"
With heightened colour he came forward and took her outstretched hand. He was quite unable to conceal his emotion at this unexpected meeting.
"I didn't hear you come in, Gerald," said his wife in surprise.
At the sound of her voice some of his self-possession returned to him.
"No, I stole a march on you—unawares—got awfully sick of the office, so I chucked it for to-day."
Miriam looked at him uneasily. This sort of thing was continually happening. She was thankful at least he was himself in other ways.
"Well, Mrs. Dundas, I must certainly congratulate you—I don't know when I've seen you look so well."
"Why don't you call her Hilda?" put in the convivial Dicky. "I hate Mrs. Dundas."
"Do you? Well, you see, there are certain difficulties in the way, Dicky. In the first place we are all very much 'grown-up' now; indeed, I don't know that strictly speaking we oughtn't to call you 'Mr. Darrow.' Besides, if I were to call Mrs. Dundas by her Christian name, she might reprimand me severely."
"What nonsense you talk, Gerald," put in that young lady; "there, you see, I take the wind out of your sails at once—I am sure Mrs. Arkel doesn't mind. Do you?" she turned to Miriam with the sweetest of smiles.
"I—indeed no. Surely you are old enough friends for that. Well, we're relations too, now, in a sort of way, aren't we, Hilda?"
"I suppose we are—cousins by marriage."
"I'm a cousin by marriage too," announced Dicky; with his mouth full of cake; "we're all cousins."
"In that case, Dicky, let me give you cousinly advice—not to speak with your mouth full!"
"No, Miss Crane—I won't."
"Hullo, young man," cried Gerald; "and who's Miss Crane I'd like to know?"
"This is, of course—your Mrs. Arkel, but my Miss Crane. She ought to have waited till I was grown up, and I'd have married her," said Dicky with all the solemnity in the world.
"You precocious young rascal," laughed Arkel, ruffling the boy's hair. "Are you staying for any time in town, Hilda?"
"No, only for a few days. But, Gerald, this is an unexpected pleasure to see you. I thought you had joined the noble army of toilers in the city, and weren't visible except by night?"
"Nor am I, as a rule. Needs must you know when a certain gentleman's on the box. But, as I was telling my wife, to-day I felt I couldn't stand the place, so I toddled home. It's a case of reward for a lapse from virtue for once in a way."
"Well, hard work's good for you, I've
no doubt. At all events, you had plenty of play once," said Hilda, putting on her gloves and rising to go.
"Yes, this is the swing of the pendulum, I suppose. But, by Jove, if ever it swings back again, I'll take jolly good care it sticks there until I shuffle off, anyhow."
And Miriam sighed, knowing only too well how true that was.
"Well, come along, Dicky, we must be off; the Major'll be waiting, and he hates that. I've managed a good many things with the Major, but I've never managed to imbue him with a sense of patience."
The boy rose rather reluctantly. He would so much rather have stayed with Miriam. He had not had her to himself at all. Gerald put on his hat and coat.
"You must let me come some of the way with you," he said.
"Oh, no, Gerald, you mustn't leave Miriam—I'm sure she——"
"Oh, please don't think about me. It's so dull for Gerald. I'm only too glad for him to enjoy himself when he can."
There was a rather embarrassing silence for a few minutes. Then Hilda imprinted upon Miriam's cheek the kiss of Judas, and they left.
"Jove, she's about right," said Arkel, when they were out of earshot. "I should think it is dull. I never realised before, Hilda, how much London was the rich man's paradise and the poor man's Sheol."
"Oh, come, Gerald, it's not so bad as all that, surely. You're out of sorts to-day."
He did not reply, but hailed a four-wheeler that was passing.
"Oh, Gerald, why did you do that? I do dislike these dirty growlers," she said.
"You won't get a decent hansom in this God-forsaken part of the world. Better take this now."
"Very well, I suppose we must."
"And may I sit beside the driver?" said Dicky. "I should like to awfully."
"Oh, I don't know, dear. I am afraid of your catching cold."
"No fear of that," replied Gerald. "It's quite warm, and he's well wrapped up. Jump in, Hilda."
He helped her in, and confided Dicky to the care of the cabby. The boy's proposition suited him in every way. Indeed, it had been an essential part of his plan. As for Hilda, she had a very shrewd idea of what she might expect. It is only fair to her to say that she hesitated—but the eloquent appeal from those blue eyes of Gerald's had been too much for her. She was surprised at herself now, for her heart was beating as she had never known it beat before.
"I wish you could get a hansom," she said; "we shall be hours getting home in this."
"And would that be so very terrible?" he asked. "It would not have been once, Hilda."
"Oh, Gerald, don't talk about that. You know that is all over and done with now."
"It is not over, Hilda—it never has been over, we need never have parted but for you. For these two years I have been longing for a chance of seeing you alone. I have got it now, and I'm not going to lose it."
"What is it you want? You forget Miriam——"
"Oh, hang Miriam! I wish I could forget her. But she's not the sort of person one can forget, worse luck. Hilda, it was cruel of you to drive me to her——"
"Cruel of me? I drove you to Miriam? Really, Gerald, if that's the kind of thing you're going to say, I am sorry I allowed you to come at all. You know perfectly well things were not in my hands. I had to do as I was told. And you—well, you and Miriam were always what you call 'good friends.'"
"You managed to console yourself pretty quickly any way."
"Not so quickly as you, I believe," retorted Hilda.
"I console myself? A pretty sort of consolation mine has been! You at least have the satisfaction of having plenty of money. If it were only the other way round, I tell you, Hilda, I wouldn't hesitate for one moment; I'd clear out with you to-morrow."
"Indeed, that's taking me a little bit for granted, isn't it? You don't seem to count the cost—to me! Remember, the unfortunate woman always pays in these cases, as indeed she does in most others, as far as I can see. No, Gerald, you've got to stick to your bargain and I to mine. I was always fond of you, you know. But Fate evidently didn't intend us for one another."
"If only I thought you really cared for me still—Hilda, tell me you do; say you do care for me now as you used to do."
"Gerald, I forbid you to behave like this. Are you crazy? What do you expect this sort of thing to lead to?—ruin, absolute ruin, in every way for me—yes, and for you too for that matter."
"I don't care—I care for nothing but you. I will have you, I——"
He was blind with passion now, and she saw it. Without another word she pushed his arm aside, and letting down the window, called upon the driver to stop.
"Very well," he said, when he saw what she had done. "I have finished with you from this moment. Remember, whatever happens is your doing."
"Will you help Dicky inside, please, and tell the driver to go on?"
Her intense placidity infuriated him only the more. He seized her wrist roughly and twisted it, glaring at her. Then he banged the door and strode away.
Without word or sound—though he had hurt her wrist badly—she jumped out of the cab and got Dicky down from his perch. She bade the driver go on to the hotel. Then she leaned back in her seat and smiled, well pleased with herself. Placed as she was she couldn't have done better, she thought. He was as much in love with her as ever, that was quite certain. He would not be content to leave her like that. She had thrilled at his savage clutch of her, painful though it was. It meant that he was hers, body and soul. He would come at her bidding—he would be her slave. But not now was he for her or she for him. There might come a time, perhaps——
But that was another story. Now, she was face to face, she knew, with the crucial point of her life. On her immediate action depended everything. The will was in her possession to do with it what she would. What should she do with it? Destroy it—destroy it—destroy it—the words seemed to buzz continually in her brain.
She was so completely engrossed that she did not notice that they had arrived at the hotel. The porter came to the door. Taking Dicky by the hand, she went straight upstairs to their private sitting-room. Her husband was there reading the paper. She was surprised to see him.
"Dear me," she said, "you here, John? I thought you surely would be at the club. You don't mind if I leave the boy with you till Kimber can take him? I have such a splitting headache that I must go straight and lie down."
"Sorry, Hilda—leave him by all means." She certainly looked tired he thought.
In her own room, having dismissed her maid, she threw herself on the bed, and fell to thinking again. Five minutes after she rang the bell.
"Kimber," she said, as the maid appeared, "I am shivering—just put a match to the fire. That will do, thank you; you needn't wait."
As the fire burned up she rose from the bed, and settled herself on the rug by the hearth. Then she took the will from the pocket of her dress and spread it out before her. She read it from beginning to end. And so she learned how Miriam, if she had done this thing, had sacrificed herself in the doing of it. Could she have sacrificed herself like that? No—emphatically no. Could Miriam? She was obliged to confess to herself that she thought she could—and had. But the confession galled her ever so, and she hated her the more for it. And then for a moment she gave way to her hate.
"She shall not have it," she almost hissed; "nor shall she have him much longer. Yes, I'll burn it I'll teach her not to try conclusions with me!"
At that moment her meditations were interrupted. The door opened, and her husband, pale and short of breath, literally burst into the room. Their eyes met. Instinctively she knew that he knew. Without a moment's hesitation she threw the will into the fire. Catching her round the waist he flung her quickly to one side and rescued it.
"Just in time," he panted; "only just in time!"
* * *
CHAPTER VI.
SOME MUTUAL COMPLIMENTS AND A CONFESSION.
In silence husband and wife stared at each other—she as furious with anger at discovery as with the knowledge
that therewith all chance of her retaining wealth and position was at an end; he, astonished at the utter want of scruple, at the horrid immorality in the nature of the woman whom he had chosen to bear his name. It was as much as he could do to contain himself. Every instinct within him revolted at the cowardly criminality at which he had caught her red-handed. He wondered she had not been afraid, if only of her own skin.
"Do you realise what I have saved you from?" he asked sternly; "that but for the innocent betrayal of you by that little boy downstairs, you would now be a common felon and answerable to the law—you, my wife, the mistress of Thorpe Manor! Hilda, speak—for God's sake speak."
For some moments she did not answer. One feeling now had come uppermost in her—the feeling of hate and loathing for Miriam, intensified by the knowledge of her husband's admiration for her, while she, his wife, stood debased utterly in his eyes. The whole fury of her puny vindictive nature was striving to be let loose. At last she answered him.
"I have nothing to say," she said, "beyond this—that I am glad at last you know your friend for what she is—that even if your wife, as you say, was in danger of jeopardising her liberty, the pure, beautiful, saintly creature whom you so admire has done so long ago, since she is nothing but a common thief!"
"Hilda, how dare you! Upon my word, I begin to think you've lost your senses."
"Indeed; you'll find that whatever I may have lost, I still have them. You must allow me to repeat that your friend is a common thief, and therefore a criminal. She stole this will."
"She stole that will?—why, woman, how can you say such a thing. Mrs. Arkel is the soul of honour."
"I thought you'd be surprised. Evidently Dicky didn't tell you everything. As it happens, I myself saw it abstracted by him quite accidentally this afternoon from some false bottom, or rather, top, of her work-box, which no doubt has proved eminently useful to her before this, during her career."
"Hilda, for God's sake don't be so spiteful—if you have any decent womanhood in you don't crush it. Miriam Arkel is no thief. You may have found this will in her box, as you say. But she did not steal it. It was taken from Barton's table on Christmas night by—by Julia Darrow!"
Fergus Hume Page 20
