It is not to be supposed that during all this time Miriam had lost sight of Gerald. Their conversation in the wood had had the effect of drawing them much more closely together, so much so that there had grown upon Arkel the habit not only of going with his troubles to Miriam, but of taking her rebukes ever so meekly whenever she choose to mete them out to him. But so far only had things progressed. He was at no time in danger of falling in love with her, being as much as ever the slave of Hilda's physical charms. But that young lady did not seem to be in the least in a hurry to bring matters to a more definite conclusion between them.

"You see, I cannot yet be sure that Gerald will really inherit Mr. Barton's money," she explained to her mother. "Once I am certain of that, you will find he'll propose quick enough. He'd have done so half a dozen times already if I hadn't stopped him."

"And what about Major Dundas? I thought——"

"Never mind Major Dundas. I assure you, although of course he likes me, he's quite crazy about Mrs. Darrow's governess. And she is welcome to him for all I care—solemn long-nosed thing that he is!"

"But, Hilda; suppose after all Mr. Barton should leave the money to him and not to Gerald?"

"Then Miss Crane would have to take a back seat, that's all. I should have to put up with him, long-nosed as he is."

"You might not find it so easy to get him, my dear."

"Oh yes, I would. I tell you, mother, that Miss Miriam, with all her goodness, is awfully in love with Gerald herself. I know it. So even if Major Dundas did propose to her she wouldn't have him. As it is we all know Gerald is devoted to me, and as he is almost certain to inherit old B.'s property, that is as it should be. As soon as I am satisfied that there is no longer any 'almost' about it, why then our little affairs will settle themselves quite quickly and nicely, you shall see. Believe me, dear mother, I know what I am doing."

Mrs. Marsh, weary and untidy as ever, looked at this guileless offspring of hers with something like surprise.

"Really, Hilda," she said, "your feelings are delightfully adaptable!"

It was not often Mrs. Marsh indulged in sarcasm—in fact, it was something of an effort for her. But her daughter's utter callousness brought it out of her.

"Cannot you understand that either Gerald or Major Dundas would, in his capacity of future Squire, be equally able to take me out of this pig-sty and give me something like a decent life? And cannot you understand that the man who can do that is the man for me? I don't pretend to any sentimental feelings at all."

"Well, you are candid, to me, at all events, Hilda. But at your time of life I confess I should like to see a little more romance. It is terrible to hear such purely mercenary sentiments from a girl of your years."

"That's so like you, mother. You actually blame me for doing credit to your own teaching—that's what I call so ridiculous and unfair. Who has told me for years that my face was my fortune? Who has always drummed into me that it was my duty to help my family by making a good match? I think you know."

"It is true, Hilda; we are so poor," wailed Mrs. Marsh. "But I'm sure I always wished that you might marry someone you loved, only I said it would not do for you to love a poor man, or else what would become of us? I can tell you I lie awake at night thinking of what would happen to us if your father died. We should all have to go to the workhouse, for he hasn't saved a penny, and his life is not even insured."

"Then is that not all the more reason why on this occasion, at all events, I should forego the luxury of sentiment. You may thank your stars that I am as I am."

"I married for love myself," wept poor Mrs. Marsh, with a flush at the recollection of what had been, "and I was very happy—for a time."

Hilda cast an eloquent glance at the slatternly room and at her prematurely aged parent.

"Well, you must forgive me, mother, but if this is the result of marrying for love, I trust my heart will continue to be governed by my head. After all, it isn't as if I didn't like Gerald. I do, very much, and I am sure I could be perfectly happy as his wife."

"Then I hope you'll marry him, Hilda. I should like to know that you had some feeling for your husband, and at the same time—well, be able to help us. And I hope, too, it may be soon, dear, for the butcher's bill has been running these three months past, and I don't know how we are to pay him. His meat's very bad too. As for the grocer's bill, it seems endless. I'm sure I never spare myself, and I cut down expenses to the very lowest. Yet your father is always grumbling. He says now he can't do with one candle but must have two. The number we seem to get through is appalling. He is never contented."

"Job himself would grumble in this house," retorted Hilda, and leaving Mrs. Marsh in the lowest of spirits, she went upstairs to dress, for Gerald was due to take her for a walk.

Recently that young man had shared his time pretty equally between London and Lesser Thorpe. For one thing he was deeply in love with Hilda, for another he found the greatest possible comfort in Miriam's company. So far he was obliged to confess to himself that, notwithstanding his promise to Miss Crane, he had achieved nothing very definite even negatively speaking. His life in town continued pretty much as it had been. Every now and then he would put some mild restraint upon himself, but such times were few and far between, and the result but fleeting. There was no backbone in the man, and an entire absence of any power of resolve. But at Lesser Thorpe he was always the repentant prodigal. Hilda was his Venus, Miriam his Minerva; but like Paris he did not hesitate to bestow the apple on beauty rather than on wisdom. His choice was wholly characteristic of his nature. In life there was but one path for him—the path of dalliance and of ease.

Notwithstanding the circumstances, it did not take Hilda long to dress on this occasion. Within ten minutes she was downstairs, and greeting Gerald with a smile. As she looked at him she thought how young, good-looking, and altogether desirable he was. She was sure she liked him as well as she could like any man. Hilda Marsh was a shallow girl, a vain girl, but on the whole not a bad girl. With a judicious bringing up she might have turned out a very respectable specimen of her sex; vain always, since vanity was the essence of her being, but still a woman of good instincts and some sense of duty in the world. As it was, she had not been thus blessed, and her position of beauty to the family, to be sold to the highest bidder, had done the rest. She had been taught that her mission in life was three-fold—to be careful of her beauty as her stock-in-trade, to catch a rich man with it, and to help her family when the rich man had been caught. In that misguided and slovenly household and sordid commonplace existence, there was nothing to appeal to or in the least degree to stimulate any of the other and finer feelings which might have lain dormant in her. What she saw around her gradually became reflected in her nature. As she saw others do, so she did, until she came to look upon material satisfaction, and the securing of it, as the whole object of life. But even so, as has been said, she was not wholly without redeeming qualities.

After her first burst of spite against Miriam she came to like her, and even to appreciate her high principles and wholesale disdain of the petty vanities of everyday existence. Such a personality was something altogether new to Hilda—something "larger" by far in human kind than she had ever met before. And it said no little for the girl that she acknowledged this to herself, and allowed her better nature to have its say, even to the point of dissociating herself from Mrs. Darrow in the persecution of her governess. So it was that Mrs. Darrow, deprived of her ally, felt it incumbent upon her to carry on the war with that double energy which had so quickly resulted in the dismissal of Miriam. Had Hilda's attitude continued, as it had been in the beginning, it is probable that the lady's tactics would have been based more upon a "linked business long drawn out," wherefrom not only would she have obtained enjoyment, but would have saved herself much personal inconvenience.

"You are looking very sprightly to-day, Mr. Arkel," said Hilda, as they walked down the village. "Have you had any good news?"

"The best of news. But before I tell it, let me ask you why you always call me Mr. Arkel?"

"It is your name, isn't it?"

"Yes, but surely you might call me Gerald; it would be equally correct, and ever so much nicer."

"I don't know if it would be quite correct," replied the cautious Hilda; "still, as you make such a point of it, I don't mind—if I can remember. Well—Gerald—and what is this joyful news?"

"Uncle Barton has decided to make me his heir!"

Hilda stopped. Although she had more than half suspected to hear it, now that the news had come she felt something like a shock. But the sensation was by no means unpleasant. On the contrary it brought with it a welcome sense of relief, for now no longer need she keep this young gentleman at arm's length. She could accept him with a clear conscience, and unless her powers of foresight were very much at fault, it would be as his affianced wife that she would return from their walk.

"I am very glad," she said. "You have my most heartfelt congratulations. Has Mr. Barton actually made his will?"

"Not yet; but he intends to make it this week. I shall start the new year, thank God, with my mind at peace."

"Very much so, I should think. I suppose it won't be long now before we have to congratulate you on another happy event—I am glad for Miss Crane's sake; she has had such a very bad time."

"Miss Crane! What on earth do you mean?"

"Simply that as Mrs. Gerald Arkel, Miriam Crane will at last say good-bye to the rough and tumble of life, of which up to now she seems to have had a good deal."

"Hilda! How can you talk like that? You know what my feeling is for Miss Crane. I respect her and I like her sincerely, but I have given her no cause to think anything else. Hilda, you know it isn't true—you don't really mean it. You know that for me there is no other woman in the world but you! You must have guessed it long ago."

"Guessed it? Dear me, no; how should I? I quite thought you were devoted to Miss Crane and she to you. Besides, you know it's very wrong of you to—to care for me. I am sure Mr. Barton would disapprove most highly if he knew."

"What has he got to do with it?"

"A very great deal, I imagine, seeing that if he likes he can revoke his will any day, and leave you without a penny."

"Uncle Barton wouldn't be such, a beast!"

"I'm not so sure about that. He has considerable capacity for being a beast. And you know how he dislikes me. But if you really do care, Gerald——"

"Oh, Hilda, you know I do—you are everything to me. Tell me that you care for me a little—that you will be my wife."

"Are you quite, quite sure you mean what you are saying—that you really——"

"A thousand times yes; I love you with my whole soul."

"And you are quite willing to take the risk?"

"Anything, everything—so long as I have you!"

"Then I will confess—I do care for you, Gerald."

She dropped her eyes, the very essence of humility. Her acting was beyond praise, and calculated to deceive a man very much less simple than Gerald Arkel.

"Dearest!" He clasped her in his arms; "and you will be my wife?"

"Don't, Gerald; you mustn't—besides, someone might see!"

"Well, let them—I don't care!"

"But I do." She released herself and sat down on the stile—the same by which Gerald had met Miriam for the first time. "Now do sit down, and do be sensible. You really must not behave like this. If I engage myself to you it must be on certain conditions."

"Make any conditions you like, darling, so long as you say 'yes.'"

"Very well, then, I make two. The first is that you are to keep our engagement an absolute secret until I give you leave to announce it. And the second is—well, the second is, you must be just the same before people."

"Well, naturally—if I agree to the first I must agree to the second. But I confess, dear, I don't like this sort of thing. Besides, I can't see the necessity for it. You aren't ashamed of me I hope?"

"Oh, Gerald, you dear goose—what nonsense! Haven't I told you that Uncle B. will make an awful fuss about it? That of itself should be enough for you. He is quite capable of altering his will."

"And in that case you wouldn't marry me, I suppose?"

"Indeed, yes; but I should hate to think that I had spoilt your chance—that I had been the cause of your losing five thousand a year. You must allow that what I say is common-sense."

"I suppose it is; then I hate common-sense, and I detest this secret business. At least, dear, when we are alone you will——" and Gerald proceeded to demonstrate how it should be when they were alone. But Miss Hilda was not inclined for such endearments. They were, to her mind, a trifle premature. She had her own little game to play, and for the present, at all events, they did not form part of it.

"Hush!" she said, "someone is coming."

He listened; and a light step fell upon the frosty air. It was Miriam. Her face was flushed, and her eyes seemed unusually bright. She was walking very quickly. She saw this Corydon and Daphne on the stile, and was quick to divine, from the expression on Corydon's face, what had been happening. She waved her hand and smiled, and passed on hurriedly. They watched her graceful figure dwindle in the distance, and returned to the discussion of themselves; with the result that Miss Marsh went home, as she had fully intended to do, under tacit engagement to the future Squire of Lesser Thorpe, and well content with her afternoon's work.

"They are engaged," she thought to herself; "I am sure of it: and I am dismissed! My life here is at an end, for I cannot—I will not lend myself any more to Mr. Barton's schemes. I must go back to Jabez, there is no help for it—back to the old life. Oh, how horrible it is!—and how hard! But he must swear to spare poor Jabez—he shall. If he refuses, I must force him to."

She walked on swiftly until she reached the house. The Squire was at home and in his library. She sent in her message, and was received at once. He looked more wrinkled, and if possible, more evil than ever, she thought, as he croaked out a welcome and placed a chair for her. Anxious to get it over, she came to the point at once.

"You are surprised to see me?" she said.

Barton's eyebrows went up at once.

"No, indeed; is it so very strange that you should visit an old man who has tried to show some interest in you? Perhaps you will allow me to say I am delighted!"

"Oh!" Miriam waved her hand. "I think you and I can dispense with compliments, Mr. Barton. I had better say at once that I have come here for a definite reason—to ask you a question."

"By all means; please don't hesitate."

"Well, then, is it true that you want to have Jabez arrested?"

"Let me answer you with another. Who told you I did?"

"The man you call the Shadow."

Barton frowned.

"Did he, indeed? I thought he was more discreet. I must speak to him. Well, and suppose I do wish to have Jabez arrested, what then?"

"I forbid you to!"

He could scarcely believe his ears.

"You forbid me—well, really," he sneered. "So far I cannot congratulate you on the object of your visit. And pray may I ask how do you intend to enforce this prohibition, for I take it you are prepared—or rather, think you are—to enforce it?"

"By exposing you to the parish—to the world. I know Mother Mandarin, sir; therefore I know you. You are an opium smoker—and worse!" she said.

Then she waited.