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A WOMAN'S BURDEN
A NOVEL
BY FERGUS HUME
_Author of "The Mystery of a Hansom Cab," "The Expedition of Captain
Flick," "The Mystery of Landy Court," "The Lone Inn," etc._
THIRD EDITION
LONDON
JARROLD & SONS, 10 & 11, WARWICK LANE, E.C.
[_All Rights Reserved_]
CONTENTS.
PROLOGUE.
I. A QUEER ADVENTURE
II. A STRANGE ARRANGEMENT
PART I.
I. MRS. DACRE DARROW
II. A RED RAG TO A BULL
III. POVERTY HALL
IV. MR. BARTON'S VISITOR
V. BEHIND THE SCENES
VI. MRS. DARROW'S BOMBSHELL
VII. IN THE WOODS
VIII. SHORTY
IX. THE SHADOW
X. THE SQUIRE'S SECRET
XI. UNMASKED
XII. MIRIAM KEEPS AN APPOINTMENT
XIII. MRS. DARROW BECOMES REFRACTORY
XIV. ON CHRISTMAS NIGHT
XV. A NINE DAYS' WONDER
XVI. A LITTLE FEMININE DIPLOMACY
XVII. A ROMAN FATHER
XVIII. THE REWARD OF MIRIAM
PART II.
I. 5A, ROSARY MANSIONS
II. JABEZ REDIVIVUS
III. MRS. PARSLEY'S PROTEGE
IV. DICKY'S DISCOVERY
V. JUST IN TIME
VI. SOME MUTUAL COMPLIMENTS AND A CONFESSION
VII. MRS. DARROW SYMPATHISES
VIII. MRS. PARSLEY SEES A GHOST
IX. MORE TROUBLE
X. THE MAJOR'S POINT OF VIEW
XI. IN THE DEPTHS
XII. JABEZ SEEKS AN OLD FRIEND
XIII. THE END OF GERALD ARKEL
XIV. A QUEER STORY QUEERLY TOLD
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE.
CHAPTER I.
A QUEER ADVENTURE.
It was midnight--midnight on Waterloo Bridge. A plague was over the
city--the concentrated vomit of a million and more chimneys wrapped all
in an Egyptian darkness.
The miracle of Moses could not have produced a deeper gloom--an
atmosphere more impenetrable. It clung to the skin, it even pressed
against the eyeballs. It might in truth have been that very outer
darkness which we are taught is reserved for those amongst us who are
sinners.
Big Ben and his brethren of the steeples struck a muffled twelve,
seeming to insist upon their strokes the more as if they knew their
dials were hidden from all sight. The very gas lamps entered into
rivalry, some looming out mere splotches of dirty yellow light, while
here and there one more modern than its fellows managed successfully to
penetrate the gloom. The bridge leapt across the river from fog-bank to
fog-bank, like the bridge in Mira's vision, and if the chill mist lifted
a trifle toward the centre, it was but a matter of a few feet. And above
it all presumably there shone the stars and moon in their spacious
firmament, they and their kindly influence shut out, it might be for
ever, by the relentless pall.
And in the darkness on the bridge, there crawled and lurked and squatted
the noisome creatures of the night. They could hear the sullen lapping
of the unseen river against the piles, as it swept full tide from the
sea. To their ears, sharpened by hunger and misery, the waters were all
articulate, inviting them to exchange their stony resting-place for its
softer bed below. And they pondered greatly at the invitation. Were it
not better to accept it, and let their half-starved bodies drift seaward
with the morning ebb? Nothing, they thought, and truly, could be worse
than their present plight. Were it not better to end existence now and
for all time? Yet so does the mind of man shrink from the
unknown--revolt against the almighty plunge from light to darkness, that
of all those hungry miserable creatures, not one got further than the
pondering--not one was there who would brave the momentary wrench which
should part him from this earthly wretchedness, and give him peace,
oblivion even, and that because he did not know, and dared not solve the
problem.
So the waters surged on ruthlessly through the arches into the heart of
the land, and the fog grew thicker, colder, and more clammy over the
city.
Yet humdrum respectability had its representative here withal; and that
in the person of an elderly, genteel, moneyed, and apparently
unexceptionable gentleman, who should surely rather have been tucked
away between blankets, than abroad at such a time and on such a night.
For ragged poverty, bedless and foodless, to camp on these stone
benches, and seek oblivion there, was in the ordinary course of
existence as it runs its way in the daily and nightly round of the great
city. Its victims have ample time for reflection, retrospective or
prospective--a ruined past, or a wholly problematic future. Workhouse or
prison, suicide or starvation--such is their food for thought, with but
little or no choice between the evils. But for an irreproachable
gentleman of years, who had every sort of comfort at his call, to be
pacing about the Surrey side was, in the existing circumstances, truly
remarkable.
He appeared to have lost his way, which of itself was natural enough
considering all things. He stopped every now and then, and paused,
obviously in doubt which way to turn. As he stood deliberating, a small
figure emerged, as it were, from nowhere--a very ragged imp--and huskily
demanded,
"Wot the blazes 'e was arter?"
Then the gentleman addressed the small figure:
"What bridge is this?" he asked, through the muffler which was tight
around his neck.
"It's wuth a tanner, any way, m'lord," answered the boy--such a ragged,
stunted, evil-looking boy, true product of the London mud.
Respectability felt instinctively that it was face to face with
Iniquity, and that, too, in no very choice neighbourhood, and in a thick
fog to boot. Respectability therefore took counsel for a moment, and in
the end produced a coin.
Iniquity snatched it, bit it, and spat upon it--why this latter it is
difficult to say--through all of which tests the coin seemingly emerged
triumphant. It was pocketed, and the sought-for information was hoarsely
supplied.
"It's Wat'loo Bridge, m'lord."
Then he vanished into the fog like a dismissed spirit.
The elderly gentleman groped his way on, ever keeping touch of the stone
balustrade. Suddenly he started at the sound of a shrill whistle. He
quickened his step, for he knew not what such a call might portend, and
he had no fancy for being the means of supplying the breakfast-table
next morning with sensational matter.
Yet as he moved quickly over the sticky pavement, there came upon him
the feeling that he was being followed. What if the boy were a
pilot-fish, and had returned to direct the shark towards his prey, and
the shark were close at his heels now? The thought was disquieting, and
took strong hold of him. He looked round for a policeman, forgetful in
his apprehension of the fog. At last he took to his heels. Such a thing
it was safe to say he had not done for years, and those years had had
their say, as was quickly demonstrated, for he got no further than the
centre of the bridge. There a murky halo of light was some small
comfort. He paused. What was it he heard? Hurried footsteps surely! His
blood seemed more than ever to chill, and he could feel his heart
thumping against his ribs. It struck him that this sort of thing was
very bad for him. He clutched at his umbrella for want of any stouter
weapon. Almost as he did so, a man lunged from out the darkness, and
grasped him by the throat.
That grasp meant murder, and he knew it. A hundred trivialities flitted
through his mind, as he had always been told they did in face of death.
He managed to look round, though choking and gasping as he was, he could
not cry for help. And now it came, as all else had come, apparently from
nowhere--unaccountably.
A woman rushed up and flung herself on the arm that was strangling him.
As in a dream he heard what she said.
"No, Jabez. No--let him go, let him go!"
"Miriam!"
The hand relaxed its grip, and its victim fell on the pavement.
"You here? Get out of it, can't you?"
"No, I will not. Leave the man alone I tell you. Would you murder him?"
"Yes--for your sake. Aren't you starving--aren't we both starving? Curse
him. I'll have his watch anyhow. Ah, would you!" (There was evidence of
some slight show of resistance on the part of Respectability, who was
now gathering together his scattered senses.) "Do that and I'll squeeze
the life out of you!"
A flutter of skirts and a rush. Then the sound of the woman's voice--a
refined voice--raised as in desperation.
"Jabez, Jabez! I'm on the parapet, Jabez, and I swear if you do not
leave him I will throw myself into the river!"
"Miriam, come down I say, come down."
"Only if you leave him!"
"Damn him then; let him go to the devil!"
With this he kicked the worthy citizen, who retaliated by suddenly
regaining power of speech, and calling loudly for aid.
Then the pilot-fish came in sight again.
"Nab his ticker!" he yelled.
"No, no; let him go!"
The woman leapt down, and held them both at bay.
"Go," she cried. "Go--the police!"
At which Respectability breathed a heartfelt "Amen."
"Slit 'is bloomin' whistle," said the small boy, who was as
uncompromising as he was impolite. He made off followed by the shark.
The worthy member of society, assisted by the woman, scrambled to his
feet. Then the gloom suddenly became illumined by the rays from a
lantern--an unmistakably official lantern.
"Hullo, wot's all this?"
"Constable!" gasped the rescued one, "constable, I have been violently
assaulted, and robbed of----"
"No, not robbed," interrupted the woman called Miriam, pointing to his
chain.
"Oh, it's _your_ little game, is it?" said the one having authority,
bringing his light to bear upon her. "Let's 'ave a look at you--a bad
lot 'less I'm much mistaken. Better give 'er in charge, sir."
"No, no, my man, on the contrary, I am very much indebted to this good
lady!"
"Lady, lady! Oh, yes, she's a real lady, she is, an' no mistake."
"At all events, officer, to her intervention I owe my life, so it will
be well if you refrain from alluding to her in that way."
The woman ignored the policeman, and turned to the man she had saved.
"I must leave you now," she said calmly. "The constable will no doubt
see you safely home--for a consideration."
X103 scowled. He did not like things put thus brutally. He was a trifle
subdued too by the elderly gentleman's attitude, which despite his
deplorable plight had not been devoid of pomposity, not to say dignity.
He felt he was a little bit out of his beat. It was quite right that he
should see the gentleman safely on his way home--it was more than
probable, too, that he would be offered a suitable reward for so doing.
It would not be for him to refuse such reward, no matter what form it
might take. So mused X103. He still continued to direct his bull's-eye
toward the woman. He could see her face clearly, so could the elderly
gentleman, who, he had been quick to notice, wore a fur coat. It was a
queer affair. The woman winced under his scrutiny.
"Red 'air, black eyes!" muttered the constable. "I'll swear she's a bad
'un."
The elderly gentleman did not again rebuke him. Even in such
circumstances he was not one to hear what was not meant for his hearing.
He thought the woman's face was a remarkable one, emaciated, pallid, and
hunted in expression though it was. Those dark eyes seemed doubly large
by contrast with the sunken cheeks--sunken for sure, by the ravages of
direst want. The locks of auburn hair, which fell on either side of that
low white forehead, could not hide the many lines of care and misery
with which it was imprinted. She was gaunt and wasted too; her hands
were as bird's claws, and she leaned heavily, almost lifelessly, against
the stonework of the bridge. Starvation, outward and inward, was there
in all its hideousness, having driven beauty far afield, and left the
bare suggestion of what had been, as if to accentuate the more the
horrible completeness of its work. Starvation was there in that
uncertain, hesitating manner--starvation in the very shawl clutched
strenuously with one hand to her bosom--starvation, which, having worn
the body, strove now to break the spirit.
But the spirit was strong in the woman, and while she was mute, she was
still defiant. She met the gaze of the policeman now, and though she met
it in silence, her eyes declared convincingly--and that to one whose
daily way was choked with crime--that she knew not evil. The elderly
gentleman understood it all.
"Constable," he said, "you will conduct this young lady"--he emphasised
the word--"to the end of your beat. There you can hand her over to your
comrade, and so on in turn until we reach the Pitt Hotel in Craven
Street."
The man saluted.
But the woman spoke.
"I cannot go with you, sir," she said feebly, "for I must return at
once."
"Return?--where to? Not to that man?--that Jabez!"
"To Jabez," she answered defiantly.
"But--but you will faint on the way--you are starved. At least allow me
to do something for you--you, who have done so much for me. You will,
you must take something to eat. I am afraid there is no cab to be found
in this fog. Try and walk, Miss Miriam----"
She offered no further resistance, but drew her shawl more closely round
her, and took the proffered arm of the man. X103 looked on somewhat
grimly. It would be incorrect to say he was not nettled--he was
distinctly, for by this arrangement he need not look for anything
substantial. But X103 had not been in the force these many years without
learning something of philosophy. So he vented his indignation and sense
of general injury by putting to utter rout certain shadowy forms that
had gathered round the halo of his lantern in the space of the last five
minutes. They thought, no doubt, he was unnecessarily abrupt in his
methods, but they dispersed without trouble, if a trifle reluctantly.
When the two had reached the far end of the bridge, constable X103 could
not resist one parting shaft.
"She's a bad 'un, sir, take my word for it. I should send her off, sir,
if I wos you. She's bound to get you into trouble."
"It strikes me you will get yourself into trouble, my friend, if you
don't hold your tongue. Ah, here is the man on the next beat. It is he,
isn't it?"
"Yes, sir. He'll see you into the Strand, sir."
"Very well then, here you are. Good night. Come, Miriam."
Saying which the respectable elderly gentleman passed a coin to X103,
and proceeded to button-hole his fellow. They vanished into the
thickness, and virtue rewarded turned his bull's-eye on to the palm of
his hand.
"Ten bob in gold! I'm blowed! He's a good 'un after all, that old rib.
Seemed to know her name, and use it pat enough. H'm!"
And in that last grunt there was a whole world of possibility.
CHAPTER II.
A STRANGE ARRANGEMENT.
When, conceivably out of gratitude and pure philanthropy, this
respectable elderly gentleman took this apparently disreputable, and, by
no means elderly female, under his wing, and in the early morning hours
appeared at the door of a sedate and wholly decorous hostelry, with a
demand for a night's lodging for them both, he ran a very great risk of
being misunderstood. They had been passed on from policeman to policeman
with every care, though the pilotage dues were by no means
inconsiderable. And, strange to say, they were admitted without parley.
Now Miriam had expected a vastly different reception. She was in no way
oblivious to the appearance she presented, and was naturally inclined to
exaggerate, rather than otherwise, its effect, notwithstanding the
irreproachable bearing of her cavalier. The fact that she was received
without demur by the landlady, made it, in her mind, only the more
remarkable. She had a fair idea of the tendencies of her sex. But
evidently the gentleman was known here, such knowledge being--it was
equally evident--beyond question, for Mrs. Perks, to judge by the look
of her, was not one to grant the benefit of any doubt. Her effect upon
blue litmus paper would assuredly have been most striking and
instantaneous. In spite of everything Miriam fell to thinking. But she
was too weary and famished to cogitate for long. She decided to accept
the circumstances as they were.
"Sir," said Mrs. Perks, addressing the elderly gentleman in the
shrillest of voices, "if you only knew what I've suffered this blessed
night--but that you never will. Oh, the awful 'orrors and ghastly
visions I've 'ad of your 'avin' your throat cut from ear to ear, no
less. Bein' a widder, and 'avin' no manly 'eart to lean on since Perks
went below--that is 'is body I should say, for, as is well-known to you,
Mr. Bartons, 'is soul soared straight upwards--I feel these things the
more. Thank God you're 'ere, Mr. Bartons, safe and sound, and not 'acked
about as I seed you in my mind's eye. 'Eaven be praised, I say, for it's
long-sufferin' to us all!"
Then Mrs. Perks looked fixedly at Miriam, and stiffened herself into a
very pillar of disapprobation. Then again she addressed Mr. Barton.
"And now, sir, p'raps you'll explain this."
"This," being, without doubt, indicative of Miriam, who, overcome as she
was, had been unable to resist the grateful ease of a lounging chair
close at hand.
So it was not going to be such plain sailing after all. The landlady
had, it seemed, no intention of foregoing her more purely feminine
prerogative. For a moment Miriam had it in her mind to make a clean bolt
of it even then. But her deliverer stepped forward. She saw him now, as
he stood in the light, for the first time clearly. A shrivelled-up
diminished countenance it was she thought. He was quite bald, too, and
his mouth was hard--almost ascetic. His looks belied him surely, for he
had been all kindness and solicitude for her in her plight. Divested of
his fur coat, his evening dress accentuated the leanness of his figure,
as it does accentuate either one tendency or the other. He was quite
short--hardly as tall as she herself. She wondered why he should so have
troubled himself about her. To judge from his face, gratitude for what
she had done for him would not go for much. Could it be that he had some
ulterior motive? Hardly--unless--unless; but her weary brain refused to
follow up the train of thought it had conceived.
As it turned out Mr. Barton made short work of the landlady and her
required "explanation." Turning after her sharply, he crushed her
volubility utterly by the adoption of a method nothing if not Socratian.
"Tell me, Mrs. Perks," he said, "how long have you known me?"
"Lawks a mercy, Mr. Bartons, sir, what a question! Why, maid, and wife,
and widder, 'aven't I known you these forty years?"
"Quite so. And during that time have you discovered me to have any
strong inclination towards your sex?"
"You 'ates 'em, Mr. Bartons, sir--'ates 'em, I know you does, and small
blame to you. It ain't much as I thinks of 'em myself--it's mostly
'ussies they are."
Then again Mrs. Perks' eyes rested on the unhappy Miriam. She was too
attractive altogether, despite her pitiful state, to please the good
widow.
"That being so then, Mrs. Perks, you must allow me to say, 'don't be a
fool!' Had I not had you in my mind as a thoroughly reliable and
sensible woman, I should not have brought this young lady here."
Mrs. Perks snorted. It was not quite so sonorous a snort as that with
which the policeman had accompanied his repetition of the word "lady,"
but it meant exactly the same thing. There was a world of contempt in
it. Mr. Barton continued:
"But I feel sure, Mrs. Perks, I have not been mistaken in my estimate of
your sound common-sense. Let me tell you that this _lady_ has preserved
my life--yes, Mrs. Perks, my life, and my purse. There are, I may say,
other reasons for my bringing her here, but that I think should suffice
for you. She has saved my life, Mrs. Perks. You will be so good
therefore as to send something to eat, and a bottle of wine here, and to
prepare the young lady's room."
"Oh, Mr. Bartons, so you _was_ in danger! I know'd it. I felt sure of
it." She pressed the candlestick she carried so close to her that for a
moment her curl papers were in imminent danger of conflagration. "Didn't
I see a windin' sheet in the wick o' the candle? didn't I 'ear the
'owlin' of a dog? Yes, Mr. Bartons, I did, and wot's more, when I tossed
a coin to see if it was true, it came up 'eads, which, as is well-known,
means death."
"Well, I am really very sorry to be the cause of dispersing such
overwhelming and convincing phenomena, Mrs. Perks; but, as you see, I'm
alive, and what's more I am exceedingly hungry. Now run along, there's a
good soul, and let us have something to eat."
With a final wave of her candlestick, Mrs. Perks retreated, muttering,
"If you was a kinder-'earted sort, Mr. Bartons, I could understand it;
but you ain't. It's well-known as a flint's putty to you, and I'm
puzzled at your goin's on, I am. Kindness--no, don't tell me; it ain't
no kindness. She ain't got no weddin'-ring neither. But food and drink
they wants anyhow, so food and drink they must 'ave, I suppose."
Mr. Barton poked the remnant of the fire. There was an unpleasant
expression in his eye, as he looked at the exhausted woman before him.
Mrs. Perks was unusually trying to-night. Miriam was leaning back now.
Her eyes were closed and her head drooped. She was an intensely pitiable
object. But there was no pity in Mr. Barton's expression as he looked at
her--no glimmer of it. He was scrutinising her searchingly, cruelly. His
gaze was something more than intense. She woke with a start.
"Don't speak," he said, as he saw her lips part. "Not a word--you are
much too weak to talk. After you have had something, then I'll talk to
you."
She obeyed. She felt as if all power of resistance of mind or body were
leaving her. He looked at her critically again. How wasted she was! The
cheeks were completely sunken. The lips were blue rather than red. Her
whole expression was one of weariness. Yet withal it was a beautiful
face--it had been of surpassing beauty. Intellectual, too, and refined
in every line. And Barton had studied many faces in his life--and he saw
more in this one than was apparent to the casual observer. He rubbed his
hands in satisfaction at the result of his inspection. Indeed, he could
not repress an audible expression of it--a kind of fiendish chuckle.
It roused Miriam again. She opened her eyes with something like fear in
them. A feeling had come over her of intense apprehension. She felt,
indeed, as though she were in the clutches of some enemy--an enemy not
of herself alone, but an enemy of mankind--of humanity. That such a one
could be before her in the shape and person of Mr. Richard Barton--this
respectable, middle-aged gentleman--was impossible. The mere idea was
preposterous. It was no doubt a symptom of her ill-nourished condition.
Yet later on she remembered what she had felt at that moment.
Then appeared Mrs. Perks, bearing the supper-tray herself. She placed it
on the table under the flaring gas-lamp, and was about to commence her
chatter, when Barton interrupted her.
"You can return in an hour, Mrs. Perks."
"Ho, indeed, and when am I to 'ave my natural rest, Mr. Bartons, I
should like to know, seein' as 'ow in an hour it'll be 'alf-past two?
But I'll go, sir, though I must say as I can't 'old with such goin's on
in my 'ouse."
"Your house----!"
"Well, if it ain't mine it ought to be, seein' as I work that 'ard that
I'm just skin and bone!"
"Now understand me, Mrs. Perks, if you don't take yourself off without
another word, you will not be even an inmate of this house to-morrow!"
The woman turned as pale as her sallow complexion would admit. She
opened her lips to speak, but with a great effort refrained. She seemed
to be within measurable distance of fainting. The man's expression as he
fixed his eyes upon her had been horrible. She felt deadly sick. In the
passage she paused, recovering herself somewhat, and shook her fist at
the closed door. Then she got herself a glass of brandy--a thing she
rarely did.
"That woman was born on my estate in Hampshire," explained Barton,
drawing a chair to the table for Miriam. "You'd hardly think it perhaps,
but she began as scullery-maid to my mother, and ended as housekeeper to
me. I brought her to London, and placed her here in this house, which I
may tell you is my own property. You understand now how I was able to
bring you here. An old gentleman and an unknown woman! What decent hotel
would have taken in the pair of us! He, he! I know my own knowing."
But Miriam made no protest. She ate and drank ravenously. Mr. Barton
sipped his wine and watched her. Occasionally he gave utterance to the
peculiar chuckle which had wakened her before. The same uncanny feeling
came again upon her. She could not shake it off.
"I wish now I had left you to Jabez," she said suddenly.
"Indeed, why?--that is the sort of speech which I should not make if I
were you, more especially whilst you are consuming meat and drink of
mine. Why do you wish such a thing?"
"Because I think you are very wicked."
"Wicked--how? Surely I have fed you. I have ordered for you a
comfortable bed, and, what's more, if you answer satisfactorily the
questions I am going to put to you, I intend to procure for you a
situation--how then am I wicked?"
"I don't know--but I feel that you are. You remind me of a rat, and I
loathe rats! I can see that woman who has gone feels as I do."
"Perhaps. Still she obeys me."
Miriam rose and took up her shawl.
"I am going," she said curtly.
"Indeed. I think you will also obey me, Miriam. Sit down I say."
He pointed to a chair. She strove not to meet his eye, but his gaze
compelled her. Their eyes met, and, for a moment, were in desperate
conflict. Then the woman sat down. She was in a cold perspiration, and
was trembling too.
"That's right--I thought you would. Go back to Jabez would you?--well,
we shall see."
"I thank you for what you have given me, Mr. Barton; but I feel under no
obligation to you, since I saved your life. The obligation, if any, is
yours. But we will cry quits, if you please."
"Not at all--as you say, it is my turn now. Let the benefits come from
me, and the--well, the gratitude from you."
"Mr. Barton, understand I wish nothing from you. Allow me to go."
"Where, back to Jabez--the man who murders strangers because you starve?
No, my good young lady. It is for me to save your Jabez from the gallows
by retaining you--that is if----By the way, what is your full name?" he
asked abruptly.
His eyes were full upon her again. She felt herself unable to shake off
their horrid fascination; all power of resistance seemed to leave her.
"My name is Miriam Crane," she said faintly.
"And what are you?"
"The daughter of a sea captain."
"H'm--respectable enough on the face of it. And how do you come to be in
this plight?"
"When my mother died, my father left me in a seaport town in charge of a
friend of his, having paid my board for a year. He was lost at sea, and
I was turned out of doors by his friend. I came to London thinking to
get some engagement as a governess."
"Oh, you are well educated then?"
"Sufficiently so to teach children. But without influence or references
I could get nothing. My small stock of money soon went. I pawned
everything I had, even my clothes. I even tried to make a living by
selling flowers, but I could not. Everywhere I went, in everything I
did, I was unlucky. I sank and sank until----"
"Until right down at the bottom I suppose you met this Jabez of yours.
He is your lover?"
"He does love me," blazed forth Miriam, "but I am an honest woman."
"Naturally," Barton chuckled, "otherwise with your beauty you certainly
would not be starving. Why are you so honest?"
"I believe in God," her eyes sought his searchingly. "You don't," she
said.
"Perhaps not--nevertheless, I am honest too."
"That depends what you call honest," retorted Miriam. "You have plenty
of money, no doubt, so you can't very well help behaving so as to keep
your freedom. But for that----"
She hesitated, but gave him quite clearly to understand her meaning.
"'Perhaps' again," said Barton. "You mean to say that I have not
sufficiently strong incentive to be anything else--that if I had, that
if I were a poor man for instance, I should probably land in prison."
"I am quite sure you would."
"Dear me, you seem to have made up your mind about me very
definitely--it hasn't taken you long either."
"I judge by your face. As I read it, it is a page of devil-print!"
Barton rubbed his hands. He seemed more tickled than anything else.
Certainly he was in no wise offended.
"I believe I have found a real pearl in the gutter," he chuckled. Then
he turned to her,
"Tell me now, why did you save me from your Jabez?"
"I did not know you then--perhaps if I had, your body would now be lying
in the river."
"And my soul--what about that?"
"You should know--if you are a man and not an animal."
"You are mistaken, young lady--you think me a libertine, no doubt----"
"Oh, nothing of the kind--you are too hard even for that. If I had any
doubt about it, I should not be here with you now."
"Well, well, let us hope that after a little longer acquaintance your
opinion of me will improve. For the present I wish to befriend you all I
can--that at least should be a point in my favour."
"But why--why, I ask, should you wish to befriend me? What is your
object?"
"That you shall know when the times comes. Let us resume your very
interesting story."
"You have heard it. I told you I met Jabez, and that he loves me. I
suspected when he went out to-night that he was desperate--that he might
steal, murder even, if by so doing he could obtain food for me--that is
why I followed him, to save him, and, as it happened, I did save him,
and you too."
"And the boy who acted a jackal to your lion--who is he?"
"Shorty--oh, he is a wicked little creature, who ought by rights to be
in a reformatory."
"Indeed. Now please attend to me, Miss Crane. I am no philanthropist,
nor am I a fool, and you yourself seem willing to acquit me of any
amatory intentions. You will easily believe then that it is from no
feeling of sentiment that I have brought you here to-night. One strong
dose of that kind of thing has lasted me through life. I suffered badly
at the hands of your sex once, but once only. I am never likely to
suffer again. Nevertheless, I confess that if it had not been for your
beauty, I should have left you there on the bridge."
"I am not beautiful," contradicted Miriam.
"No?--well, you must allow me to be judge of that. I repeat, my
intentions are perfectly prosaic. I am no Don Juan of gutter-girls. I
see in you exactly such a person as I need for the carrying through of a
scheme I have in hand."
Miriam rose.
"I refuse to have anything to do with it," she said emphatically.
"Had you not better learn what it is first?"
"No. I am sure it is vile."
She made towards the door.
But his eyes caught hers, and she had to yield. What power had this man
over her? It was horrible. She could make no effort of body or will
against him. And he stood there grinning, as she thought the devil
himself might grin at the capture of a spotless soul. She sank back
weakly in a chair.
"You seem exhausted," said he. "I'll ring for Mrs. Perks. You must go to
bed at once. We'll finish our little talk to-morrow. For the moment I
will ask you only one more question. Who is Jabez?"
"I refuse to tell you."
"Tell me, who is Jabez, I say," he repeated, keeping his eyes upon her
steadily.
And she told him. But when Mrs. Perks came in, she was lying in a dead
faint.
PART I.
A WOMAN'S BURDEN.
CHAPTER I.
MRS. DACRE DARROW.
Mrs. Dacre Darrow was a much misunderstood woman--at least she said so
frequently. Her husband, dead now some five years, had never been able
to comprehend her sentimental nature; her uncle, Richard Barton, hard
old cynic that he was, did not appreciate her tender heart; and the
world at large could not, or would not, understand her. And so Mrs.
Darrow posed as a martyr in her day and generation. The late Mr. Dacre
Darrow had been a barrister and a failure. He had left her with no
income and one child to rear. In this dilemma she had sought the Manor
House at Lesser Thorpe, and had proposed to keep house for her Uncle
Barton in return for her maintenance. Uncle Barton considered her
proposition, and ended by installing both mother and son with three
hundred a year in a small and quaint cottage on the outskirts of the
park. This was too much altogether for Mrs. Darrow. Could a woman bear
such brutal treatment silently? She thought not; nor, in fact, did she.
On the contrary she abused Uncle Barton daily and hourly. When not thus
occupied, she was as a rule busy in endeavouring to get money out of
him, though this latter was, as she expressed it, heartbreaking work. It
was rarely possible to extract from him anything beyond her stated
income. Small wonder, then, that Mrs. Darrow regarded Uncle Barton as a
brute and herself as a martyr.
"Just think, dear," she wailed to her friend, Hilda Marsh, "he has five
thousand a year and that large empty house, yet he lets me live in this
pokey cottage. Three hundred a year! It is hardly enough to buy one's
clothes."
Hilda, occupying her favourite position before a mirror, made no reply.
As the daughter of a poor doctor, and one of a large family, she
considered Mrs. Darrow very well off. She could not sympathise with her
in her constant grumbling. But she was wise in her generation, was
Hilda, and did not argue with the widow, firstly because Mrs. Darrow
never argued fairly, but dogmatised and invariably lost her temper; and
secondly, because Hilda had more to lose than to gain from quarrelling
with her. She was a pretty, vain, selfish girl, and calculating to boot.
Mrs. Darrow's social influence in the parish was useful to her, so she
trimmed her sails accordingly. At the present moment she was in the
little drawing-room for afternoon tea. She patted a rebellious little
curl into shape as in some sort of excuse for not replying to Mrs.
Darrow's latest complaint against Uncle Barton. The widow continued to
protest against the way in which she was being treated; and Hilda
continued, so far as was possible, to avoid contention, to admire her
own pretty face in the glass, until tea was brought in. Then, and then
only, did Mrs. Darrow, ever fond of her comforts and blest with the best
of good appetites, brisk up. But true to her indolent disposition, she
asked Hilda to make the tea.
"You do it so well, dear," she said coaxingly; "I taught you, didn't I?"
"Yes, Julia, of course you taught me, that is why I can make it to your
satisfaction," said Hilda, sitting down to the bamboo table.
She called Mrs. Darrow Julia at the widow's express request, for--in
Mrs. Darrow's opinion--such familiarity tended to diminish the
difference in their ages. How she arrived at this conclusion was known
only to Mrs. Darrow, who never condescended to explain her reasons for
either speech or action. It was so, because it was so, and there was an
end of it. And invariably the adoption of so uncompromising an attitude
was successful. By its means she managed to emerge triumphant from her
fiercest altercations. By alternately shifting her ground and refusing
to give any reasons, she always reduced her opponent to a moral pulp. In
effect, her tactics were undeniable.
Hilda's attractions were of that order which suited her present
occupation. She looked well at a tea-table. She wore white, touched here
and there with the palest of blue, and her hands moved ever so deftly
among the egg-shell china cups and saucers, with their sprawling dragons
of green and red. She was essentially the Dresden china type herself. A
dainty figure, a transparent complexion, dark blue eyes, and hair the
colour of ripe corn: such were the outward and visible attributes of
Hilda Marsh. She looked like an angel, and was frequently taken for
one--more especially by men. Her beauty was that of a peach, and, like a
peach, she possessed a very hard kernel. Not even Mr. Barton had a more
obdurate heart. However, she succeeded in hiding this from all save her
own family, and they, being anxious for Hilda to make a good match, were
so kind as to remain silent on the subject. Moreover, Hilda--her angelic
qualities being reserved wholly for the public, and not at all
discernible by the domestic hearth--was, in the eyes of her family, a
personage to be got rid of. That seemed clear, since she was a great
grief at home. Hers was a case in which the face is most certainly not a
correct index to the mind.
"Ah!" sighed Mrs. Darrow, soothed somewhat now with a strong cup of tea
and a particularly indigestible muffin, "if I wasn't the best-tempered
woman in the world how I should complain of my hard lot!"
"What is the matter now, Julia?"
"Matter! oh, nothing worse than usual. Only that Uncle Barton has
engaged a governess for Dicky, and I have had no choice in the matter.
Oh, it's nothing." Mrs. Darrow stirred her tea violently. "Of course,
I'm a mere cipher in my own house."
"Mr. Barton pays for the governess," suggested Hilda.
"And why shouldn't he? It's his duty to educate Dicky, and give the poor
boy a chance in the world. My life is over, Hilda, and I live only for
my boy."
This was one of Mrs. Darrow's stock pieces of sentiment, and she
produced it with surprisingly dramatic effect on every occasion. It
sounded well, and cost nothing, for she never troubled about Dicky, save
when he was necessary to a tableau on public days, and her reputation of
being a devoted mother was to be enhanced thereby. Although her husband
had been dead five years, she still mourned him in black silk, amply
trimmed with crape, and was careful to use nothing but the most
aggressively black-edged paper. Even her handkerchiefs mourned in a deep
border, and her cap of delicate white cambric called loudly on the world
to witness what a model widow she was. In addition to these mute
evidences of eternal sorrow, Mrs. Darrow gave tongue to her woes
vigorously. She really did not know, she said, how she bore it. Indeed,
if it were not for her dear child she would wish to die. No woman had
ever suffered what she had suffered--and much more to the same effect,
all of which was very genteel and laudable, and meant to be correctly
indicative of her noble state of mind.
"Uncle Barton is coming to tell me about the new governess, Hilda; I
expect him every minute."
Hilda rose quickly.
"In that case, dear, I had better go. Mr. Barton has no love for me."
"He has no love for anyone. I never knew so selfish and stingy a
creature. Don't go. I want you to stay and talk to me. Perhaps Gerald
may come too."
"Mr. Arkel's coming is nothing to me," replied Hilda, tossing her pretty
head.
"Really! I thought you liked him!"
"So I do; but then you see I like many people--Major Dundas for
instance."
"John!" Mrs. Darrow became reflective. "Oh, yes; John is very nice, but
not nearly so good looking as Gerald. Besides, Gerald is Uncle Barton's
heir!"
"That may or may not be; we don't know. But this I do know," said Hilda
pettishly, "that should either of Uncle Barton's nephews become engaged
to me, that one will not be the heir."
"I don't see why not?"
"Mr. Barton doesn't like me, that's why. Perhaps he'll even go the
length of marrying the new governess to Major Dundas or Mr. Arkel to
spite me." Then, after a pause, "What kind of woman is she?"
Mrs. Darrow threw out her hands with a wail.
"My dear, how should I know? I am quite in the dark. I have been told
absolutely nothing about the woman. But if she is not a thoroughly
satisfactory person, I'll have her out of this very soon, I can tell
you. I'm not going to be imposed upon in my own house by any spy."
"What is her name?"
"Miriam Crane. It sounds Jewish. I hate Jews."
"Is she pretty?"
"He doesn't say. But knowing how Uncle Barton hates our sex, I quite
expect he has chosen some raw-boned, prim, board-school monster, just to
spite me. I am sure she's horrid. Her name sounds horrid."
"Then she shan't teach me!"
The interruption came from behind the window curtain, and Hilda laughed
gaily.
"Hiding in there, Dicky? Come and have a piece of cake."
"You horrid child," cried his mother, as the pale-faced Dicky emerged
from his retreat. "What a turn you gave me! Why can't you sit on a chair
like a Christian instead of poking in window corners? What have you been
doing?"
"Reading 'Robinson Crusoe.'"
"You should be at your lessons; really, I never knew so idle a child.
You're breaking my heart with your horrid ways, you know you are! I'm
sure I'm the most afflicted woman in the world. If I didn't bear up I
don't know what would become of you!"
Dicky, well used to his mother's wailing, took no notice whatever, but
under the wing of Hilda devoted himself to the demolition of cake to a
most alarming extent. He was a delicate, nervous child, wan and peevish;
far too tall and old-fashioned for his age. Under judicious management
as to diet, work, play, and exercise, he would have developed into a
charming little fellow; but Mrs. Darrow, with her ill-disciplined mind,
was the worst possible parent to be charged with the up-bringing of such
a child. She overwhelmed him with caresses one moment, declaring that he
was her all, boxed his ears the next, and lamented that she was burdened
with him; so that Dicky came as near hating his mother as a child of ten
well could, and Mrs. Darrow, instinctively feeling this, bewailed his
lack of affection and sought to scold him into loving her. If ever Uncle
Barton did a wise thing in his life, it was when he engaged a governess
for the neglected boy, though of course everything depended upon the
personality of the governess. So far Mrs. Darrow was in the dark, and
out of sheer contradiction to Uncle Barton was prepared to make herself
highly unpleasant to the new-comer, and nobody could be more
disagreeable than Mrs. Dacre Darrow, as the parish of Lesser Thorpe knew
to its cost. She was a past-mistress in the arts of scandal-mongering,
nagging, and back-biting. The strength for a right-down hatred was not
in her.
"If my new governess isn't pretty, like Hilda, I don't want her," said
Dicky, when his mother had wailed herself into a state of momentary
passiveness. "I don't like ugly people."
"Would you like me to teach you, Dicky?" laughed Hilda.
"Oh, yes; we could read 'Robinson Crusoe' together!"
"I'm afraid that's not a lesson book, Dicky."
But Dicky insisted that Defoe was better than any lesson book.
"Lesson books make my head ache," he said; "and I learn a lot of hard
words in 'Robinson Crusoe' without thinking. Why can't lesson books be
nice like that?"
"You little imp," burst out his mother furiously; "the idea of talking
about what you like. You'll be taught by a black woman if I choose; and
I'll burn all those rubbishy story-books."
Thus did Mrs. Darrow, who had read nothing but society journals and
fashion magazines, blend discipline with criticism.
"I never saw such a child," she wailed; "he's not a bit like me. Oh,
Dicky, Dicky, why haven't you your mother's sweet disposition and sweet
temper?"
Before Dicky could reply to this truly overwhelming question, to which
but one answer was expected, a dried-up little man appeared at the
French window opening on to the lawn, and stepped into the room. Hilda
half rose to fly from her arch enemy, but being caught, decided it would
be undignified to retreat. So she resumed her seat and talked in low
tones to Dicky. Mrs. Darrow still lay on her sofa, and welcomed the
stranger in the faintest of low tones, meant to be expressive of great
weakness.
"How are you, Uncle Barton," she said. "I can hardly speak, I am so
ill."
"I know, I know," rasped out the cynic grimly. "I heard you talking to
Dicky, no wonder you can't chatter now."
"I must do my duty to my child," cried Mrs. Darrow with more energy,
"even though my health suffers."
Mr. Barton surveyed the plump recumbent figure with grim humour.
"You feel your parental duties too much, Julia, they will wear you out.
How do you do, Miss Marsh? I see you and Julia have been spoiling your
digestions with strong tea. Muffins too! Oh, Lord, think of your
complexions!"
Hilda laughed, and glanced into a near mirror. Her complexion was her
strong point, and she had no fear of its being criticised even by
disagreeable Mr. Barton.
"I'm afraid my appetite is stronger than my vanity," she said.
"Then you must have the appetite of an ostrich," growled Barton, sitting
down near his niece; "but Julia, poor dear, eats nothing."
"That I don't," murmured Mrs. Darrow. "I peck like a bird."
"What kind of a bird--a canary, or an albatross?"
"Uncle Barton!" cried the outraged Julia in capital letters.
"There, there, it's all right. Anyone can see you eat nothing. You are
all skin and bone. Dicky, come here, sir. Your new governess will be
here in ten minutes."
"In ten minutes!" screeched Mrs. Darrow, bounding from the sofa with
more energy than might have been expected. "She can't--she mustn't. I'm
not ready to receive her. Oh, Uncle Barton!"--the irrepressible feminine
curiosity would out--"what is she like?"
"Very ugly, small, dark-haired, dark-skinned."
"I knew it. I knew you would choose an ugly woman!"
Barton chuckled.
"Only as a foil to yourself, my dear. Now then, Dicky, what is the
matter?"
"I don't like an ugly governess," whimpered Dicky. "Can't Hilda teach
me?"
"I don't know about that, Dick. If beauty is the essential factor in
your teacher, then certainly Miss Marsh is more than qualified. What do
you say, Miss Marsh? Will you undertake this young gentleman's
education?"
Hilda shook her head, and laughed herself into a pretty state of
confusion. It certainly became her.
"I'm not clever enough," said she, wincing under Barton's regard.
"H'm. That's a pity, otherwise you might have had this fifty pounds a
year."
"What?" screamed Mrs. Darrow, "do you intend to give this creature fifty
pounds?"
"Why not? She's worth it."
"Who is she?"
"Dicky's governess--Miss Crane."
"But who is she?--where does she come from?"
"London. You had better make further inquiries of her in person, for
there's the fly driving up to the gate."
Dignity, or rather her exhibition of it, prevented Mrs. Darrow rushing
to the window. She seated herself like a queen on the sofa, and spread
out her sable skirts, so as to receive the ugly governess with the true
keep-your-distance hospitality of the British matron. At the same time
she remonstrated with Uncle Barton for his rash and unnecessary
generosity.
"If you gave her twenty pounds a year it would be more than enough," she
said snappishly. "I could do well with the other thirty."
"No doubt. But you don't teach Dicky, you see."
"I'm his mother."
"So I believe. But you don't want me to pay you for that, I suppose?
Well, here is my Gorgon."
Hilda remained to see the new governess. Like Mrs. Darrow, she was
devoured by curiosity; centred on this occasion solely upon the
new-comer's physical attractions--or lack of them. It was quite possible
of course that this creature might be better looking than Mr. Barton's
eyes could judge. With Mrs. Darrow she continually glanced towards the
door, and Barton chuckled. As his chuckle was invariably a prelude to
something disagreeable, even Mrs. Darrow felt uneasy at the sound.
Outside, in the narrow passage, could be heard voices, and the bumping
of heavy luggage being got in. Then the door opened, and the little
maid-servant announced, "Miss Crane." Immediately afterwards the new
governess entered the room.
"Why, she's pretty!" cried Dicky in surprise.
Barton led Miriam to the throne whereon, bitterly disappointed, Mrs.
Darrow sat in state.
"Julia, this is Miss Miriam Crane. Miss Crane, my niece, Mrs. Dacre
Darrow."
The widow gave her hand and murmured some commonplace; but from that
moment she hated Miriam with all the fervour her petty nature was
capable of. Barton looked at the three women taking stock of each other,
and chuckled again.