THE STILL FORM IN THE HOUSE.
In a quarter of an hour Mrs. Jenner returned. She looked at the empty
table, at the heaped up fuel in the grate, and finally her gaze of
loathing and of scorn fell upon the figure by the fire.
"Still the same selfish brute," she said, resuming her seat and her
work. "My child and I are almost starving, almost without a fire; yet
you devour our small portion and burn our sticks. And why not? What do
our pains matter to you, so long as you are comfortable?"
"I have had more discomfort than you," grumbled her husband, avoiding
her contemptuous eyes. "Had you been in prison----"
"I would never have come near those whom I had disgraced," she finished
swiftly, and went on with her stitching.
The culprit writhed.
"Lizzie," he said, "do not be too hard on me. I have sinned, but I have
been punished. You might forgive me now."
"Never!" said the wife, curtly, and the expression of her eyes told him
that she fully meant what she said.
"How hard women can be."
"Women," remarked Mrs. Jenner, shifting the work on her knee, "are
what men make them. You behaved to me like the brute that you are; you
cannot blame me, then, if I treat you according to your nature. I live
for our child--to make amends for what you have done. Therefore, I have
an object in life. Had I not, I would gladly die; and I would gain
death--a shameful death--by killing you."
The terrible intensity of her gaze made the guilty wretch shiver. "I
will make it up to you," he said, feebly.
"Not you. You will go on just the same--that is if I will let you--and
that I don't intend to do."
"I shall have money soon--plenty of money."
"What! Are you going to steal again? I want none of your ill-gotten
gains. This house is poor, but it is honest. I earn the food my child
and I eat, or I beg it; but stealing? No, I leave that to you. Why have
you come here?"
"I thought we might come together again and live a new life."
Mrs. Jenner threw aside her work and sprang up. "I would rather die,"
she said, in a voice of intense hatred. "You treated me like a dog; you
struck me; you starved me; you were unfaithful to me. I would rather
die."
"It was the drink," Jenner pleaded. "I was all right when I was sober."
"And were you ever sober?" demanded the woman, bitterly. "Not you. In
spite of all my care you lay in the mire and wallowed like the pig you
are."
"This is a nice welcome," grumbled the man, beginning to lose his
temper.
"What did you expect? Tears and kisses, and the killing of the fatted
calf? No, my man; I have been a fool too long. I am no fool now. You
have hunted me down; how, I know not. But you don't stay here. You go.
And, this time you go--for ever."
"My rights as a husband and a father----"
"A criminal has no rights," interrupted his wife. "Think of the past,"
she went on in a loud, hard voice. "Think of it, and then wonder at
your audacity in coming here to face me--me whom you have ruined."
"I don't want to think of the past--and I won't. Leave it alone. It's
dead and done with."
"Yes, but the consequences remain. Look at this house--your work. See
my withered looks--your work. Think of the child and his mysterious
illness--your work. You forget all that you have done. I do not; and I
intend to refresh your memory."
Jenner turned sullen. There was no chance of escaping from this, save
by going out again into the storm, and he was much too comfortable
where he was. So of the two evils he chose the lesser; and even in this
his selfish regard for his own comfort shewed itself. "Go on, then," he
growled, sullenly.
The woman returned to her seat, and averting her eyes she began to
speak in a low, monotonous voice, rising ever and growing more excited
as she went through the story of shame and sorrow.
"Let me begin at the beginning, when I was governess to Mr. Cass's
little girl; then I was happy and respected. I was pretty, too, and
admired. Mr. Cass was a merchant in the city, trading in Spanish
wines----"
"What's the use of telling me all this?" broke in Jenner, impatiently.
"It is all state. I was a clerk in Cass's office; I met you at his
house when I was there on business, and I married you----"
"Yes, you married me," she cried, fiercely. "The more fool I for being
taken by your good looks and your plausible tongue. For my sake it was
that Mr. Cass raised you to a higher position and gave you a larger
salary. We lived in Bloomsbury, and there, ten years ago, Gilbert was
born; but not until you had broken my heart and ruined my life."
"Come now, I was kind to you when I was sober."
"And were you ever sober? No; you poor, weak fool. Because you had a
good voice and musical talents you were led away by pleasure, and for
months before Gilbert was born you behaved towards me in a way no woman
could forgive. I was high-spirited, and I resented your conduct--your
dissipation and your unfaithfulness."
"You were always on your high horse, if that is what you mean."
"I had every reason to be on my high horse, you brute. Remember the
birth of Gilbert--how I suffered--how you were drunk the whole time.
And when I got better I found that Mr. Cass had dismissed you for
appropriating money."
Jenner sneered. "Cass made a great fuss about nothing."
"You know as well as I do what Mr. Cass is. His mother was Spanish, and
he had a fiery temper. He had treated you well, and you repaid him by
taking what belonged to him. He dismissed you, but for my sake, because
I had been his child's governess, he did not prosecute you."
"Ah! I always thought you and Mr. Cass were great friends."
"That was your own foul mind," cried the woman, contemptuously. "Mr.
Cass was an honourable man. If it had been his partner, Marshall, now,
then perhaps--yes."
"I know all about Marshall, thank you, Lizzie," he said, chuckling, and
his eyes wandered to the brown horse on the table.
"Thinking of your association with him, I suppose?" she sneered. "He
took you up simply on account of your voice, and then dropped you when
he found out what a drunkard you were."
"Yes, he did," said Jenner, between his teeth. "And I swore to be
revenged on him; and some day I will. If you care to listen, I'll
tell----"
"I wish to hear nothing," she interrupted. "Mr. Marshall is not a man I
admire--a dissipated rake, that's what he is. Still, he is Mr. Cass's
partner, and for the sake of Mr. Cass I wish to hear nothing against
him. Besides, he is going to marry Miss Cass."
"What--Inez Cass-the sister of my old master?" cried Jenner, looking up.
"Yes. Do you know of any reason why he should not?"
"No," said the man, slowly; "but I wish I had known that two hours ago."
"Why two hours?"
"Oh, you don't want to hear anything against Marshall, so I won't tell."
His wife glanced contemptuously at him. "I suppose you mean blackmail,"
she said. "Blackmail Miss Cass and Mr. Marshall, if you like, and
go back to gaol if it pleases you. I have done with you and your
wickedness."
"We'll see about that," he cried.
"Don't interrupt me, please," his wife said, with an imperative wave of
her hand. "I want to go on with my story."
"I don't want to hear any more."
"But you shall hear to the end. Listen, Mr. Cass dismissed you for
dishonesty, and you took to the stage on the strength of your voice.
You know the life you led me. I forgave you over and over again for
the child's sake. But it was all of no use. Then at last drink spoilt
your voice, and you could get no engagements and Mr. Marshall, although
you did not deserve it, got you a situation in that moneylender's
office--I forget the name--the----"
"Old Julian Roper."
"Yes, Julian Roper. You got the situation four years ago, and for a
time things went well; then you broke out again and stole money from
your new employer. He was not so lenient as Mr. Cass, and he had you
put in gaol for three years."
"Well; I'm out now."
"You are," said his wife, and there was intense hatred in her voice.
"Out to see how I have sunk. After your imprisonment your creditors
sold up the house and furniture in Bedford-park; I was turned out on
the streets with my child. Mr. Cass got me a place as governess; then
it came out that I was the wife of a convict, and I lost the situation.
I was driven from one engagement to another. Finally I came down here
to ask charity from Mr. Cass. He would have done much for me, but for
his sister. Inez is one of your cold, cruel women who kick the fallen.
She blamed me for being your wife, and she set her brother against me.
All I could get was this tumble-down hovel, where I live rent free. I
earn my bread by sewing for the people in the village two miles on.
Sometimes Miss Cass insults me by sending me broken victuals--you have
just eaten some--and I am so poor that I accept the scraps. Such is my
life, but I would rather live it than go with you."
"I don't want you to go with me," said the man, rising. "I want to make
you happy by giving you money."
"Have you any? And, if so, where did you get it?"
"I have none just yet, but I soon shall have. At the present moment I
am the possessor of two coppers"--he produced them. "But in a week I
shall have hundreds."
"And then you will go to gaol again," said his wife. "No, thank you,
I don't want to have anything to do with you. I have suffered quite
enough at your hands. How could I live with you when the child hates
you so?"
"That's all your fault!"
"Not altogether, as I said before. His hatred of you is pre-natal; but
I have fostered that hatred until--well, you saw how he received you
to-night."
"You are pitiless," he said, hoarsely.
"I am what you have made me. Do you think I would allow my child to
love you who have treated his mother so ill? He will never look upon
you save with loathing and hate. I would die for the boy; it is the
strongest passion of my nature, this love for him. Do you think I would
share that love with you? No; Gilbert hates you--he always will--and as
I said before, I have done my utmost to foster his hate. Oh, I thought
I was sate from you here. Who told you of my hiding-place?"
"Marshall," said Jenner, sulkily.
"Ah you have seen him. And did he speak to you--a gaol-bird?"
"Yes, he did. I made him speak to me."
His wife looked curiously at him and significantly. "It is as I
thought," she said. "You know something about him, and you have come
down to blackmail him or Miss Cass. Well, go and do it, and get back
into gaol if you can. I should be glad to see you in prison again. As
it is, out you go--now!"
"I have no money--no shelter."
"I will give you five shillings," she said. "With that you can go to
the village inn--it is only two miles away."
Jenner took out his red pocket-book and laid it on the table near the
window. "I have a pencil and paper in this," he said. "What you lend me
I will give you an I.O.U. for. I don't want your money."
"I decline," said his wife, turning from the open window, out of which
she had been leaning. "Once the money passes into your hands it becomes
too vile for me to touch again. Wait here, and I will get you the five
shillings."
He sprang forward, almost beside himself, and seized her wrist. "You
wretch--I'll give you a thrashing for this."
Mrs. Jenner shook off his hand, new to the fireplace and snatched up
the poker. "You lay a finger on me, and I'll kill you," she cried,
wildly. "You foul beast--your very touch is poison. I am not the woman
I was to put up with your brutality. Stand back, you gaol-bird."
He backed towards the open window, and began to whimper. "Don't be such
a virago," he said. "I don't want to touch you. If you will give me the
money I will go away. But you have lost the chance of a fortune," he
boasted, shaking the red pocket-book. "I can get hundreds--hundreds."
"In the usual way," she said, and laid down the poker. "Then you will
be locked up again. I hope you will."
"Can I not take leave of the child?"
"No, unless you want him to try and kill you again. Besides, he is in a
trance; he will waken as suddenly as he fell into it. But I hope, for
your sake, that you will be out of the house before he recovers his
senses."
"Do you think--"
"I don't think--I know. All his life Gilbert will hate you. He is
highly neurotic, and when he gets besides himself he will do things as
mad as would an hysterical woman. He is not to be trusted--no more am
I--so beware of us both, and place the sea between yourself and us."
"A very good idea," he said, coolly. "I'll emigrate."
"Do. Go to Sydney--which was formerly Botany Bay. That ought to suit
you," she taunted. "Stop there," she snatched up the poker again, "or I
will not answer for myself."
Her husband laid down the buck-handled knife and placed it on the table
beside the pocket-book. He had taken it up with an oath when his wife
goaded him with her tongue. "Get the five, shillings," he said, sulkily.
"It is upstairs." Still carrying the poker, Mrs. Jenner moved towards
the inner door. "I can tell you so much, for you will never find my
hiding-place. Wait here."
When she had gone her husband remained by the table with his hand on
the red pocket-book. His eyes sought the brown horse. "I must take you
with me, too," he muttered. "I shall never see her or the child again.
It is better so; I hope she won't be long." And he waited in sulky
silence.
Suddenly there was the cry of a human being in pain. The light was
extinguished, and the mists closed thicker round the ruined building;
it might be to hide the sight within the room. Could the wails only
have spoken they would have shouted "Murder!" with most miraculous
voice. But the age of miracles being past, the walls were dumb, and
there was no clamour to greet the horror of this deed done in darkness.
But the mists wrapped themselves round the place of death, and a
profound silence shut down on the desolate country.
It was broken at last by the sound of light footsteps. Along the
disused road a woman carrying a child in her arms tore along at a
furious rate. She did not know where she was going; she had no goal.
All that she desired was to get away from the thing which lay in the
darkness of that poor room. Horror was behind her; danger before. And
she ran on, on through the mists and the gloom, pursued by the Furies.
Like hounds on the track, they drove her along the lonely roads until
the mists swallowed her up; and these, growing ever more dense, blotted
out the woman, blotted out the country, blotted out the Turnpike House.
But what they could not blot out was that silent room where a dead man
lay. Better had they done so; better had they obliterated that evidence
of evil from the face of the earth. But what had been done in the
darkness had yet to be shewn in the light; and then--but the woman fled
on wearied feet, fled, ever fled through the gloom, and the friendly
mists covered her escape.
And so did the ruined Turnpike-House become possessed of its legend.
For many a long year the horror of it was discussed beside winter
fires. The place was haunted, and the ghost had walked first upon that
very night, when the woman, bearing the child, had fled away into the
darkness.