A Woman's Burden: A Novel

"Oh yes, I comprehend; you are Barton's spy. You know my secret. But why should you want to betray me? We have been friends. I have done you no harm. You've nothing to gain by it. Why round on me?"

"I have no wish to, friend."

"That's a lie, and you know it. You have been watching me – tracking me here, there, and everywhere, like the dirty spy you are!"

"So you take me for a Judas? Have I asked you for money?"

"No!"

"Then take my warning, friend, and turn me not into an enemy – take further warning from me too, and go. You have the money now. And there is danger, I can tell you – danger for you here!"

"Danger – yes, there is danger, thanks to you. But understand, Mr. Farren, that neither you nor living man ever takes Jabez Crane alive. Oh, I know you for what you are, you fawning Judas. Look out for yourself. If you do your devil's work, and I have to shuffle off, it will not be alone. I have made it all secure. I've not forgotten to execute my last will and testament, and all I have to leave I've left to you. Do you know what kind of legacy it is, Mr. Farren? I'll tell you – the legacy of death! When the end comes to me it will mean your arrest."

"Arrest, friend? For what should they arrest me?"

"For the murder of George Barton. You were followed on that Christmas night, Mr. Farren. You were admitted by that old man into his library; and when you strangled him there at his desk, you were not quite alone, although you thought you were. When I killed it was in self defence. You are a cold-blooded murderer!"

"Fool – fool – fool; three thousand times a fool! to turn on me your friend. I know whence came all this. It is ordained that I should be persecuted throughout my life. But heed now what I say, for I know all. It was the youth Shorty told you this. My hands are innocent of blood, friend. The youth Shorty is your enemy. He is the Judas – not me! He is devoured by lust for gold; this very day he has denounced you to the police. What I say is truth, friend – the time is short for you. Last night in yonder corner he heard all. He knew a deal before, for Shorty has been expert long in crime. You thought he slept. He never sleeps so heavily but that he can hear the chink of gold, be it ever so far away. Last night he heard it. And this day is he gone to grasp it. Your time is short, friend."

With a gasp Jabez raised his hand to his forehead. For the moment he was completely dazed. He could hardly believe his ears; and yet there came upon him the conviction that this man was speaking the truth. Yes; it must be true. He was hemmed in all round. That boy —

"Where is he?" he cried. "Where is he? Let me put hands on him, and – "

"Stop, friend – that way lies the end of all things for you. Go while there is time. I came here after you had left last night. The boy and his grandmother were then in greedy contemplation of the price upon your head. To-day it would be theirs – to-day it may be theirs! Go, I say, while there is time."

A fearful gust of wind shook the house. Jabez shied like a frightened horse. There were voices below. His ears were so sharpened he could hear them through the wind. There was he, a rat in a trap. The whole position revealed itself to him in an instant. In silence he clasped warmly the outstretched hand of Farren. It was life or death for him now he knew. Hardly touching the steps he slid down by the railing to the courtyard below. Voices were all around him. He could see two men groping their way. The night was thick and dark. There was a shout, and a figure he well knew threw itself upon him. It was Mother Mandarin. He struggled to get free.

"No, dearie, no; you must stay now with your old aunty who loves you. Shorty and the nice gentleman in blue have something pretty to say to you."

"Let go, you hag, or I'll – " With a wrench and a kick he freed himself, and made a dash for the river. It had been his friend before – it would be his friend again.

Two constables were close upon him. The people, attracted by the noise, were gathering in a crowd. The end of the lane was blocked. There remained only the wharf end free. He could hear Shorty's voice above the rest.

"'E's orf; 'e's orf! 'E carn't git out that way. 'Urry up there, copper!"

Then a policeman's whistle was blown three times. The rain was falling in torrents, and the wind was almost tropical in force. Down towards the wharf tore Jabez, Shorty close behind him. The police were never in the running. As he reached the stream, and saw its surging surface sweeping seaward, for a moment his nerve failed him. Could he hope to live in that seething caldron?

There was no choice – he must risk it.

"'Ere 'e is – 'ere 'e is!" yelled Shorty. "No you don't – not that way!"

With a shout he threw himself on Jabez and clung to him like a limpet. There was a wild struggle.

"'Elp, 'elp!" roared the boy.

Cautiously the police crept along the crazy old wharf, which was straining every timber in the gale. The two men struggled on – the one for gold, the other for dear life and liberty. There was a cry of terror and a hoarse roar of rage. Then a thud, and after that a splash, and the inarticulate sounds of two human creatures locked in each other's arms – gone to their death together.

And the voice of baulked humanity was hissed down by the roar of the storm.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE END OF GERALD ARKEL

Wholly unaware of the fate which had overtaken her brother, Miriam was sorely puzzled how to act on the letter she had received from him the previous evening. If anything happened to him, he had said, it would be through Farren, and she was, therefore, in such event, to give notice to the police immediately that Farren himself was guilty of Mr. Barton's murder, and call upon Shorty to prove it. She would know where to find them both.

The letter had made her horribly uneasy; she had had but little sleep all night, thinking about it. She could only comfort herself with the thought that as no further news had come by the morning post the probability was that Jabez had got clear away.

While she was thus thinking the Major made his appearance. He had never been to see her at that hour of the morning before, and she could not repress an exclamation of surprise on greeting him. Directly she saw his face she knew that something was wrong.

"Miriam, I came at once – I thought you would rather, I hated the idea of your being alone – "

"My God, what is it? What has happened? I know nothing. Tell me."

"You know nothing? Have you not seen the paper?"

"No; what?" she snatched it up from the side-table where it was lying still unfolded.

"Jabez! – he is dead."

"Jabez! Dead? Poor Jabez! he said he would not be taken alive."

"Well, he was true to his word, and something more. He took Shorty with him."

"Took Shorty with him? Major, how horrible! Don't tell me he killed him!"

The Major took the paper from her and read the whole account aloud. She sat there deathly pale and listened.

"Poor, poor Jabez," she repeated when he had finished, "may God forgive him!"

Then she started, as there came back to her mind the letter she had received from him the night before. It was in her pocket now.

"But, Major," she said, producing it, "I got this from the poor boy last night; it is inexplicable now!"

The Major read.

"I don't know that it is inexplicable," he said, "but of course it is impossible to act upon it."

"Why?"

"For two reasons. First because the boy Shorty is drowned, and consequently his evidence could not be forthcoming, even if it were worth anything, which it probably wasn't; and secondly, Miriam, because, terrible as this is, for you to attempt to clear your brother would only be to make it worse for ourselves. Let it die; let him and the whole affair remain in oblivion. As it is it will soon be forgotten."

"You see, Major, I was right; poor Jabez did not kill Mr. Barton."

He did not reply. He could not bear to hurt her; but even in the face of what had happened he found it difficult to remove the suspicions which had for long past occupied his mind.

"Miriam, take my word for it, we shall never know the truth. Personally speaking, my one desire is to keep the whole matter in abeyance. Now that Jabez is dead I am the more able to do that. The fact of his absolute guilt or innocence of my uncle's death need not weigh with me. As for this man Farren, there is no need for me to charge him. If, in the ordinary course of things, his prosecution comes about, I suppose of necessity we shall both be brought into it. But failing that, I feel very unwilling to stir the thing. The atmosphere of it has become repellent to me. Guilty, or not guilty, he may go scot free so far as I am concerned. I think you had better destroy that letter."

"Yes; you are right. It is best so."

At that moment the "cook-general" entered with a telegram. Resignedly Miriam opened it.

"I am here ill. Will you come to me? Gerald. Griffin Hotel,"

she read. The place of despatch was Dover. She handed it to the Major.

"Will you come with me?" she asked.

"You really mean to go?"

"What would you have me do? He is my husband. He is very ill – dying, if my instinct tells me truth."

He walked over towards her writing bureau and picked up a railway guide.

"Perhaps you are right," he said. "There is a train at twelve-fifteen. We have time to catch it if you get ready at once."

Without a word she left the room. She guessed how it was. Gerald had taken the journey when he was not in a fit state to travel, and on arrival at Dover had been obliged to take to bed.

This was exactly what had happened. Even in the comparatively short space of time which had elapsed since he had left her, the life he had lead had been more than enough to set up the disease to which he had always been predisposed. In the face of all his doctor's orders he had insisted upon coming to England as soon as ever he had regained sufficient strength to enable him to get about. And the result was as they had predicted. He had caught a severe chill which, on arrival at Dover, had forced him to succumb. Within forty-eight hours he was in the throes of an attack of double pneumonia.

When she saw him first she hardly recognised him. All the youth seemed to have gone from him. Around the mouth, where had always lurked the sunniest of smiles, were now nothing but the heaviest of lines. His cheeks were sunken and his hands like claws. The hectic flush of fever was on his face.

He reached out to greet her as she entered the room, and a faint expression of pleasure parted his parched lips.

"Miriam – forgive!"

She laid her cool hand on his brow.

"I am here, dear, to show that I forgive."

"Till the end?" His eyes sought hers imploringly.

"Till you are quite well," she said.

"Till the end," he repeated sadly. His eyes closed and he dozed off again, his hand clasped in hers that he might keep her by him. For ten minutes she sat thus. Then, seeing that he slept soundly, she quietly rose to go to her room. As she left she called the nurse aside. She wished to see the doctor when he came. He was expected early in the afternoon.

When she saw him – he was a young man and fully sensible to the charms of a pretty woman – she had no difficulty in getting her own way; it was that she might undertake at least a portion of the nursing. And so for days and weeks she came to that melancholy bedside, and tended him with all the endless patience and unswerving devotion which were so much a part of her nature. And his attitude toward her was that of a child to mother rather than that of husband to wife. So long as she was beside him he was at rest. And from her all sense of wrong, of anger, and contempt had passed away, and had given place to a great pity in her heart.

"I am afraid we must be prepared for the end in a very few hours now, Mrs. Arkel," the doctor said to her. Gerald had had a more than usually restless night.

"Is there nothing to be done? – no one we could get from London?"

"Nothing. He is beyond science – beyond drugs. An attack of this kind is invariably fatal to men of his constitution and habit. He has lasted longer that I thought. It is only right you should be prepared for the end."

Still Miriam kept a smiling face always to him. Wherever she went he followed her with his eyes; when he could he clasped her hand in his as if to save him from the deep abyss on the brink of which he knew so well he was. He seemed always to wish to speak to her, and in between his short snatches of sleep he would murmur all the time:

"You said I would die, Miriam, when the money came to me – if only I had held by you – but I neglected you – I left you – oh, Miriam, how could I leave you – Hilda never loved me – I'm afraid the estate is dipped, dear – Dundas'll soon put that right – why didn't he come to see me? – might have come to a poor dying chap – "

"He did come, dear; he is here now. Would you like to see him?"

"No – I want you – only you. Don't let anyone else in, Miriam. Just our two selves. You forgive my leaving you, dear? Ah, yes, you were always good – read to me, Miriam – I never was a good chap – but there's some of the Bible you can read to me."

Then softly she read to him from the New Testament all the loving promises of Christ, and the pitiful tenderness of the gospel.

"Just turned thirty, and to die! – I'm not sorry though – God won't be hard on me will He, Miriam? – it was in my blood – !"

"God will take you to Himself, Gerald dear; He is all merciful."

"Ah, well, I am the work of His hands – clay in the hands of the Almighty potter. I have cracked in the furnace of prosperity. Hilda never loved me! Never – never! I gave up all for her. How good you are, Miriam? You will marry Dundas, won't you? and live in the old place – good chap Dundas. He'll soon get things to rights – and poor Gerald will be forgotten – !"

"Never by me, dear."

"Hilda will – Hilda never loved me – never – never – "

That was ever the burden of his cry. Hilda had left him to die alone – had taken all and had given nothing in return. For twelve hours Miriam never left his side, and when the end came she was there to close his dying eyes.

Towards dawn he died. Worn with watching she still held his hand in hers, and soothed him until she saw the change in him which no one could mistake. She rang the bell and sent for the doctor.

The dying man opened his eyes and looked at her and smiled.

"Miriam – Hilda! – ah, poor Hilda – I was bad – good-bye, Miriam – Hilda! – Hilda!"

Hers was the name last on his lips. But Miriam did not think of that. She knelt by his death-bed and prayed.

CHAPTER XIV.

A QUEER STORY QUEERLY TOLD

"Gentleman below named Farren to see you, sir!"

Never in his life, it is safe to say, was Major Dundas more surprised than when his orderly thus announced the presence in Brampton barracks of the person last credited with the despatch from this world of the late Mr. Barton.

"Farren?" he repeated. "Sure? What's he like?"

"He wears a long cloak and a soft felt 'at, sir."

"Show him up, then – and look here, keep your eye on him!"

"Yes, sir."

"If it's the same man he's got the cheek of Old Nick himself," muttered the Major; "what the deuce can he want with me? Seems my fate to be lugged into this business."

The Major was in mufti. On his left arm a broad band of black cloth was the outward and visible sign of mourning for his recently deceased cousin. He had undertaken for Miriam all the details of the funeral – the conveyance of the body to Lesser Thorpe and the interring of it in the family vault. And this he had done with all due respect and solemnity. But in his heart he was obliged to confess that the events of the past few weeks had caused him in every way the greatest possible sensation of relief. In the first place Miriam's brother was no longer in this world to pester her or anyone else, and he had been the sort of man from whom there could be no feeling of riddance on this side of the grave. For Gerald he was sorry – he pitied him just so much as one pities any man who is the victim of his own mad folly. But his death could be counted a loss to no one. On the contrary, it was bound to bring with it a distinct feeling of relief, because the Major was no hypocrite, and he never attempted to disguise from himself that the one object of his life now was to make Miriam his wife – and had indeed been so for long past. Her absurd scruples on the subject of divorce he had felt no sympathy with – the most he had been able to do was to respect them. She having returned to the flat, he had seen very little – all too little of her recently. But she had not been alone, for the good heart of Mrs. Parsley had gone out to her in her trouble, with the result that the vicar's wife had taken up her abode at Rosary Mansions during those first weeks of her widowhood. And so were matters progressing as comfortably as the Major could desire when the announcement of this man Farren's presence came as a cold blast upon him.

He put aside the paper he was working at and waited. His welcome was not a cordial one. But at this his visitor was wholly unmoved. He sat down uninvited and looked calmly at his host. Indeed, he forced Dundas to open the ball.

"Well, Mr. Farren, what do you want with me?"

"Can you not surmise that, friend, without my telling?"

"Damn it, sir, don't call me your friend, or you'll find I'm a precious unpleasant one."

"It is a mere figure of speech, friend. The world is cold – there is no friendship – no love. I come not for love but for money!"

"What – confound you, man, what do you mean?"

"The meaning is simple, Major Dundas. I am no extorter. I come to plead your sympathy – to plead it not, I trust, in vain, when you have heard my story, for there are many things about which I alone know the truth. I alone know who killed your uncle!"

"Well, that you certainly should from all accounts. But upon my soul I marvel at your brazen impudence in coming here to tell me so – and I suppose to excuse yourself. Doesn't it strike you that I have been unusually forbearing in taking no part against you!"

"I am no slayer of men, friend. I did not slay your uncle! I come to tell you who did."

"You'll have to do more than tell me, I fancy, before I believe you."

"First let me state for what it is I sue. It is small, friend, what I ask – sufficient only to restore me to the land whence I come; a mere matter of a hundred pounds."

"I —I am to give you a hundred pounds!"

"'Twill rid you of me for ever, friend – 'twill rid you of all mention of the past. It is not a large amount."

The Major scrutinised him closely for a moment. He began to think the man was queer. But there was something about him which compelled attention. In the first place he bore the stamp of breeding – in the second he piqued curiosity. The Major came to the conclusion that whatever he was, he was no ruffian.

"Go on," he said, "let me hear your story. But look sharp about it."

He fixed his dreamy eyes upon the Major for quite a minute before he began.

"Years ago, friend, you had an aunt, Flora Barton. You will have heard of her. I loved her. She was to me the sweetest soul on earth. No dolphin in Galatea's train more blithe and gay than I, who thought to call her mine. But, alas! the goods of this world I had not, though she was blest with them, and more. Your uncle George, whose death we now deplore, swore she should not be mine. He exhorted me to withdraw. But I loved truly and deeply, and by my love I was being consumed beyond all heed of lucre; so that his exhortations were in vain – in vain, friend, in vain. And as he saw that this was so, he changed, and was to me as a true friend. And I rejoiced within me then, and was filled with joy. Ah, friend, what days were those! What happiness was mine. But all too soon the glory of my day was clouded and I fell. Yes, fell to crime. Like Orestes, I had appealed to Pythias, and Pythias had spurned me. I knew not where to go for money, for I had gambled, and I owed a goodly sum. And so I did that which has cursed my life – I wrote another's name – in the language of these days, good sir, I forged. I forged! I forged! I forged the name of George Barton! No sooner had I done the fatal deed than I saw what it meant, and regretted it a thousand times. But I could not give her up. Together we took wing and fled. He followed, and my freedom was vouchsafed to me on one condition – that I gave up my love. Alas, what could I do? And so we parted, my love and I – she to the home whence she had come, there to join her life in time with one Arkel, the father of the lad who but a few short weeks ago died – I to the far-away land chosen for my exile. But she, the flower of flowers, still remembered our love. She avenged our parting; for she wrecked the life of him who had parted us. She came between him and his love. She ruined him – devastated his life so that he was stricken with disease of the brain, and suffered some of the tortures which I too have suffered."

"But much of this is ancient history to me," interrupted the Major. "Get on to the gist of the thing."

"May I not tell the story of my life in my own way? To Australia then I went, and there for a score of years I stayed. And as with time the wound in my heart healed I married, and children were born to me. Then death came, and my wife was taken from me, and I put the past behind me and returned to this land. But in that whence I had come I had found a way to Paradise – a way to drown the past and revel in the present. I had learned to love the poppy. It became the emblem of my later life – the anodyne of every sorrow. I sought it here, for life without opium was no longer possible. I found it at the hands of one Mother Mandarin – "

"What, you too, then, know that old hag!"

"Beneath her roof I have dreamed the sweetest dreams, beside her – a very Jezebel – I dwelt for long in Paradise. But now I am in Hell. They chase me constantly, relentlessly. But so far They have not caught me. Horror! when they do! Your uncle, too, loved his opium. We met there, and I came to understand him more. Twin sister to his love for opium was his love for crime. He had a passion for its mysteries, and lacked only the courage of a past master. He probed in the depths – together we probed in the depths – he paying me. I was a seeker of criminals for him. It was my work to hunt them out and bring them to him as to one who was an appreciator. For the fulfilling of my task he paid me three hundred pounds a year. He used to say he longed to kill – to be a spiller of human blood."

"Man – you're mad!"

"Small wonder if I were – but I am not. These things that I tell you are true, friend. Your uncle was the criminal's comrade. He sheltered him and paid large sums of money to his kind. I was his tool in this as all through life. At Lesser Thorpe I used to visit him. I was there that Christmas night when Nemesis o'ertook him, and he met with death at the hand of one of those whom he so sought. No soul knew I was there. But I knew all – of Miriam Crane – of Jabez Crane – of Gerald Arkel, aye, and of yourself. For I had been set my task and had fulfilled it, and the secret of Miriam Crane's past life was in my keeping and in my master's. I knew her brother for a murderer – he had killed a sergeant in your regiment."

"I know – I know all about that – go on."

"Softly, friend. As he had held me for so many years so did Barton hold Miriam Crane – in his power – in the hollow of his hand. So did he hold Jabez Crane, who too loved the drug. We met at Mother Mandarin's. And now I approach what you would know. The grandson of the woman Mandarin was a thief – an expert criminal. He heard speak of Lesser Thorpe, and Barton, and Jabez, and his sister. And he took himself down there to find what he could find. He made excuse of going at Jabez' bidding to warn his sister he would come. His name was Shorty. He was the genius of evil. He was the accomplice of Jabez in many crimes."

"I know they tried to rob my uncle one night on Waterloo Bridge," put in the Major, who, in spite of himself, was becoming excited. The man's narrative, strange as it was, was beginning to convince him.

"I watched this sinful youth, for I knew his lust for gold. On Christmas night I took me to the Manor House to warn George Barton of that which I knew threatened him. But, as I learned, all too late, Shorty followed me. He concealed himself behind a buttress near the library window and heard our converse there. And when I left he entered and hid himself away, for I left and entered always by the window on the terrace, so that no soul should know."