you let me know?"
"How could I? I couldn't find you. Where have you been?"
"Oh, back to the Cape--cleared out there two days after you saw me. I
didn't think it was good enough to run any risks."
"Do you still call yourself Maxwell?"
"No--chucked it for another."
"I see," she said sorrowfully, "you are in low water again."
"I swear I'm the most unfortunate man on God's earth," he whined. "I
started square enough out there, and made a tidy pile. You saw for
yourself last time I was pretty flush. Well, as I told you, I left my
pal to look after our claim while I did a scamper round, and what did
the devil do but clear out to America with the whole swag. That cleaned
me out, and I had to start all afresh. But every blessed thing I touched
went wrong, till I got so sick of it that I scraped what I could
together, and here I am. You'll give me a lift-up, Miriam, for the last
time?"
"All my life I have been doing that, Jabez, and each time has been the
last, hasn't it? But it is more difficult for me to help you now; you
see----"
"Oh, I know all about it--that husband of yours has cleared out with
another woman. But I don't see you're so much the worse for that. You've
got your income from the old man! 'Fact, I reckon you've done pretty
well for yourself!"
"I am glad you think so," she said bitterly. "Further than as a kind of
banker, an orange to be squeezed, you will never understand what I am.
Of what my life has been you can have no idea. You are utterly
heartless, brutally callous."
"Oh, stow all that preaching, Miriam, and come to the point."
"That means how much have I got, I suppose? Understand then, Jabez, once
for all, this is the last money I give you, and I give it you on one
condition only--that you never come near me again!"
"Oh, all right, no need to bother about that. How much is it?"
"Thirty pounds is all I have."
"Lord! what do you do with it all?--you never seem to have much about
you. Wonder I do come near you--it's not worth it I'm sure."
His tone had roused her.
"You worthless scoundrel," she said, "to speak to me like that after all
I have done for you. There is not one woman in a thousand but would have
turned her back on you long since--criminal that you are!"
"Should advise you to drop that! If it comes to who's the criminal
there's not much to choose between us anyway. How about thieving,
eh?--who stole old Barton's will? Oh, I know all about _you_, my lady.
Why, Shorty saw you do the whole trick."
"I think not," she answered. She had herself well in hand again now. "I
fancy you'll find it was Mrs. Darrow he saw."
"Not a bit of it. He saw _you_ right enough. That was all kid his yarn
to the Major to squeeze a fiver out of him."
"I have no wish to hear any details of you and your associates'
abominable blackmailing schemes. Anything I have done I am not ashamed
of. At all events you are the last man who has a right to taunt me with
it."
"I don't want to taunt you," he replied, changing his tone. "There's
nothing of the saint about me I know. What we are, we are: we're much of
a muchness, I suppose."
"I should be sorry if it were so," she said. "However, the less said
between you and me the better. We are long past words. Wait here and I
will bring you the money, and I trust you will go to some other country
and remain there. It is not too late even now for you to make at all
events an independence for yourself."
When she had left the room he ran over the position in his mind. She
seemed in no way surprised at, and not to care in the least for, what he
had told her. He was very much afraid that dodge would not work. She
knew the Major, too, and the Major certainly knew him, and altogether he
came to the conclusion that this was a case where a little oil was
likely to be more efficacious than a large amount of force.
"All right," he said, as she returned with the notes. "I'll go, as
you're so mighty anxious to get rid of me. But if I do make another pile
you'll be sorry. And take my advice, Miriam, and don't get trying your
hand at 'light-finger' work, or you mayn't come off so well next time,
and then you mustn't expect any help from me, you know."
"Leave the house, you brute," she cried, losing all control of herself
for the moment, "or I'll send this moment for Major Dundas, and hand you
over to him."
"What do I care for you and your bully?" he retorted, laughing somewhat
uneasily. But he put on his dilapidated hat, nevertheless, and swaggered
out into the hall.
In the street the meaning of her words came back upon him with even
greater force, and with all the speed he was capable of he made for
Mother Mandarin's--the only hole in the vast city where he felt secure.
Left alone Miriam shed a few tears. In truth it seemed she was the very
sport of Fortune. Was it never to end--this torment of her life? She
hungered so for love and peace. All through she had striven to do right,
to benefit in every way those around her, and how had she fared? The
words of Queen Mary came to her mind:--
"Mother of God,
Thou knowest woman never meant so well
Or fared so ill in this disastrous world."
How well they applied to her. It all seemed so dark. There was no sign
of dawn. Yet she did not lose hope. Her faith in God was infinite.
Within a few minutes of her brother's departure Mrs. Parsley called.
There was a thick fog outside, and from time to time the rain managed to
pierce it. Against such elements Mrs. Parsley was well protected by
mackintosh, umbrella, and the thickest boots. Thus arrayed she was not a
comely vision. But underneath that gutta-percha sheeting there beat a
heart of gold--a heart worthy all protection. During the past year her
visits to Miriam had been frequent, for she sympathised with her deeply.
The younger woman had laid her whole life bare to her, even to her
connection with Mother Mandarin and Jabez and old Barton.
Gideon Anab, alias Shorty, was still a sore point with Mrs. Parsley. She
had learned through him a very wholesome lesson--that charity was but a
business after all, and like most other businesses, if left to go its
own way, was apt to go all wrong. Thus convinced she had taken all
further charitable operations under her own immediate supervision, with
the result that for three days out of the week she was obliged to come
to London, and then she was only too glad to make the flat in Kensington
her headquarters.
"How glad I am to see you," said Miriam, taking her unlovely visage
between her two hands and kissing her. "But, my dear Mrs. Parsley, how
pale you look!"
The old lady had thrown off her impermeable chrysalis, and had emerged
therefrom a very sober fritillary.
"Pale?--of course I'm pale. I've seen a ghost I tell you--the ghost of a
man I thought dead years ago."
"Where?"
"Outside--just round the corner here. He seemed to be following some
miserable, red-headed, out-at-elbows creature. They were both walking
fast. But the man I mean--the ghost--is a tall, pale, thin fellow, with
eyes like burning coals. I believe I saw him once at Thorpe, but I was
not sure at the time if it was he. But I'm sure now. He was wearing a
soft hat and a black cloak----"
"The shadow!" exclaimed Miriam, "it must be!"
"Shadow, my dear! Well, shadow or ghost I know him. His name is Farren.
He's the man who ran away with your husband's mother thirty years ago!"
CHAPTER IX.
MORE TROUBLE.
"Farren--Farren!" repeated Miriam thoughtfully, "yes, now I remember the
name. Mr. Barton told me the whole story, how he bribed him to go to
Australia and break off with Gerald's mother, and how in revenge she
made mischief between Mr. Barton and the girl he was engaged to."
"Bribed him?" Mrs. Parsley rubbed her nose thoughtfully--a sure sign
with her that she was puzzled. "I don't know so much about the bribing,
although that was the story Barton told. Flora Barton had five hundred a
year of her own, and Farren was deeply in love with her--no, I fancy it
took something more than bribery to make him leave the woman and exile
himself like that. I'm pretty sure Barton must have known something
about the man's life, and so had him in his power."
"But this Farren, I suppose, was a man of position and reputation in
those days, wasn't he, Mrs. Parsley?"
"My dear, he hadn't a rag of reputation--not a rag. He gambled terribly,
and led a most dissipated life; all he did was just to keep on the safe
side of the law."
"And you think now he hadn't even done that always?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Parsley, "that is my idea; as I have told you, I saw
the man once at Lesser Thorpe, although, not being able to get a good
look at him, I couldn't be sure it was he. Now if it _was_, Barton was
the only man whom he could have come to see in our parish, and you'd
think he'd be glad to keep out of his way."
"That of course I don't know; but that you are right and Mr. Barton
_did_ have some hold over this man, I do know, because he told me so
himself." Whereupon Miriam gave Mrs. Parsley a succinct account of the
use made by Barton of the man he called the "Shadow."
"Humph!" remarked the old lady, seeing the possibilities of the
situation. "So Barton got Farren to hunt down your brother, did he? and
just now Mr. Farren was very busy following a red-haired man who came
from the direction of these Mansions. Putting two and two together, my
dear, I should say you had received a visit from your brother."
Miriam was astonished at her accomplishment in the way of deduction. She
tried not to betray herself.
"How do you make that out?" she asked.
"The man Farren was following had very striking auburn hair--very much
like your own. Come now, it was Jabez, wasn't it?"
"Yes; since you know so much, I may as well admit the truth--it was.
After his recognition a year ago by Major Dundas Jabez returned to the
Cape. There he found that his partner had sold their claim, and had
levanted with the proceeds. The result is he returns here with nothing
in his pocket, and once again throws himself on me."
"Of course--exactly," said Mrs. Parsley grimly. "I know the breed. And
how much did you give him?"
"Thirty pounds--it was all I had. But I made him promise never to
trouble me again. Yes; and he agreed. He's going to America."
"Agreed! My dear, in spite of all your troubles, you are as innocent as
a baby. The only way you'll ever get rid of that man is to tell the
truth and have him put in gaol. Promises! Bah! _His_ promises! He'll not
go to America, not he! He'll spend the thirty pounds and come back for
more, that's what _he'll_ do, and you'll have him like a black dog on
your shoulders all your life, unless----" Mrs. Parsley rubbed her nose.
"Unless what?"
"Well, my dear, to tell you the truth, I'm not exactly clear in my own
mind as to the position. This Farren knows what Jabez has done, since
Barton employed him to find it out. Now that Barton is dead, and Farren
we may safely say is hard up, I rather fancy your thirty pounds'll go in
blackmail. Or else Jabez, to escape the other man's clutches, will make
for the States after all."
"Oh, I only hope he does. It would be awful if, after so long, he were
to be given up to the police--you don't think really that will happen,
Mrs. Parsley, do you?"
"Depends entirely, I should say, on his willingness to be bled. But
anyhow I don't see why you should mind, my dear."
"Oh, Mrs. Parsley, whatever Jabez has done--whatever he is, he is my
brother."
"Humph! There is a limit even to fraternal affection to my thinking.
Jabez is a bad, bad man, and all your goodness won't turn him into a
good one. While he has you to fall back upon he will never do any good
for himself. Leave him to Farren's clutches, my dear, and let the pair
of them kick it out in the mud."
"But if Jabez gets into trouble his real name will become known. Then
think of the disgrace to me."
"Fiddle-de-dee; nobody can disgrace you but your own self. Besides, if
the name of Jabez Crane does appear in the police report, who's going to
connect it with you? There are hundreds of Cranes in the world."
"Mrs. Darrow, Major Dundas."
"What, that Julia creature?" Mrs. Parsley snapped her fingers. "My love,
her opinion is not worth _that_. She has all the instincts but none of
the brains of a really bad woman. As to Major Dundas, what can he know
more than he knows already?"
"He doesn't know everything."
"Well I do," snapped Mrs. Parsley, "and there is nothing for _you_ to be
ashamed of that I can see. If there was, do you think I'd be sitting
here? I approve of all you have done--yes, even to taking that will. I
wish you had burnt it. And yet I don't know----" she added. "No; then
you wouldn't have got rid of that idiot. After all, things are best as
they are. Leave those two to themselves, my dear, and they'll finish
each other sooner or later--sooner rather than later I fancy; though
she'll manage to come out 'on top' as the Americans say--d'you know, I
do like the Americans, dear!"
"But I really believe Hilda loves him--in fact, sometimes I think I was
very wrong not to leave him to her."
"Loves him! Rubbish! It'll be a day with more than twenty-four hours in
it when Hilda loves anyone but herself. Bless me, I believe you've a
hankering after that man still. What you saw in him I never could make
out."
"Sometimes I think he must have fascinated me--that it could not really
be love I felt for him but pity. I saw how it was with him, and thought
that I could save him."
"Save him! Strikes me, Miriam, you've gone through your life looking
upon yourself as a sort of human rocket apparatus. You can't save people
against their wills, my dear; and some of 'em won't be saved. Look at
Shorty--and that Gerald Arkel is a pig if ever there was one. He prefers
his own dunghill--that's vulgar perhaps, my dear, but it's expressive,
and that's the great thing! Anyhow, I do hope you've got over all that
sort of thing now, Miriam, because I have news of the scamp."
"News of Gerald?--Oh, Mrs. Parsley, he is not ill--not dead?"
The old lady snorted.
"Dead. No, my dear, 'naught was never in danger.' He's alive and
sinning. But he's alone! Hilda has left him!"
"Hilda--left--Gerald?"
"Yes; is it so utterly impossible? Come, my dear, I don't deny he's good
looking, but there _are_ other men in the world you know. They've been
going it properly, I can tell you. The Manor House is mortgaged--that I
could have told you three months ago; in fact, now she's spent his money
for him, he has ceased to be so far as she is concerned, and she hasn't
lost much time in nominating his successor either--she's gone off with
an American millionaire. What d'you think of that? They're in Florence,
I believe."
"Poor Gerald," she said slowly. "He has reaped his whirlwind."
"And why not; he sowed it, goodness knows. You don't mean to tell me you
pity him? There!--I do believe I'm right, you--no!--you wouldn't go to
the fellow now?"
"Only if he were ill--if he were dying would I go to him. When he left
me that night in this very room, I told him when I saw him again it
would be on his death-bed. When the end comes I shall be there."
Mrs. Parsley rose and kissed her. She could not but admire deep down in
her soul the unswerving steadfastness of this woman. It touched her more
than anything in life had touched her for years past; for she had a very
tender heart had Mrs. Parsley.
"You are a silly fool, my dear," she said, "a great big silly donkey. We
are both silly donkeys, I believe, when it comes to the point. But after
the way that man's insulted you--well, most women would have liked to
dance a polka on his grave."
"You wouldn't--if he had been _your_ husband."
"P'r'aps not--but although I said I was a donkey, not in my most asinine
moments would I have gone as far as that. Gerald Arkel should never have
been _my_ husband. And if he had, that hussy would never have got
him--that I swear! But you, dear, you've just been soft soap in their
hands; you're so good-natured and gentle and sweet, that I could--but
there, I love you for it all the more."
So saying, Mrs. Parsley expressed her affection in a warm embrace, and
seeing it was hurtful to her friend, changed the subject.
She was never at a loss for a topic. There were all sorts of parochial
and urban schemes to be discussed, among the latter a new home for
strayed street boys, which the good lady had established in one of the
Lambeth lanes. She was now well known in that neighbourhood, and though
she had her people under well nigh despotic rule, was none the less
beloved on that account. Even the recalcitrant Mother Mandarin yielded
to her. As for the street boys, who were her especial care, she had
banged so many of their heads together, that they now no longer swore at
her so much as they swore by her. By sheer persistence and strength to
enforce her commands, she had brought about a cleansing nothing short of
Augean. Her sway was absolute as that of any Caesar--her methods every
whit as drastic and vastly more beneficial.
"Do you know I had rather a shock last week, Miriam?" said Mrs. Parsley,
rubbing her nose.
"Did you; how?"
"Well, that wretched Gideon Anab--no, he shan't be called Gideon Anab
since he has fallen away from grace--that wretched Shorty has gone back
to live with his disreputable old grandmother!"
"You don't say so; and where has he been all this time?"
"Somewhere in Whitechapel, I believe. I know he went off last year with
five pounds of my money. I'm disappointed in that boy, Miriam. I thought
his instincts were good, and that if he had the chance he'd rise. But he
hasn't; he's taken a rise out of me instead!"
"The young vagabond he wants a good flogging."
"No good, my dear. Take my word for it, when they're past me they're
past everything. However, he has promised a lot now, and we're going to
begin over again, Miriam, my dear, for the last time. But I haven't told
you what really gave me the shock. How old do you think the wretch is?"
"Oh, I don't know; about sixteen."
"He's twenty-three! You may well stare. It's perfectly true. Not that he
hasn't wickedness for ninety-nine; still, even now I don't despair of
him. I'll lead him to the stool of repentance yet, if I have to lead him
by the ear."
"I rather think that's about the only way you'll ever lead him in that
particular direction," said Miriam drily.
Mrs. Parsley rubbed her nose with more than her usual vigour. Miriam
waited, taking it as an infallible sign that there was more to come. The
old lady looked troubled and embarrassed.
"Of course," she began, "the boy's an awful liar; still----" she
hesitated.
"Oh, do go on, please."
"Yes; I think you ought to know. Well, Shorty, amongst other things, has
had a fit--don't be alarmed, dear, on his account, he's all right--the
devil looks after his own--a fit of repentance, or what stands for such
with him. Anyway, he's been confessing certain facts which are rather
serious for your brother Jabez. It appears he saw him hanging round the
Manor House on that Christmas night--in fact, he saw him in the library
with Barton."
"I don't believe it," cried Miriam vehemently. "Why, I had that letter
from him from London----"
"Exactly, my dear; but you saw him afterwards at Southampton remember.
The fact is, Shorty hints pretty plainly that Jabez killed Mr. Barton!
and although it's terribly painful to me to say, all things considered,
it does look very like it. You know, dear, it can be no surprise to us
to learn that he is capable of murder."
"No; I know. What can I say--it may be so; yes, it may be so. But, dear
Mrs. Parsley, I don't believe it is, I really don't. I saw him in
Southampton it is true, but--oh, I don't know what to say. What shall I
do?"
"Do? There's nothing for you to do. Only if Jabez is wise he'll clear
out, that's all. You see, dear, if this is the truth, and he know it, we
can't condone it. He must be got away. That's his only chance. In an
affair of this kind his past life would handicap him greatly, you
mustn't forget that."
"Would to God that I could."
"Well, well, you must keep calm, Miriam dear; it was best I should tell
you. We'll do nothing hastily. We'll see Major Dundas first. Only you
see my position. If this boy persists in what he says, he'll have to be
taken to the police--there's no help for it."
"_No_--I see." She seemed completely stunned by this fresh blow.
Mrs. Parsley rose to go.
"Now, Miriam dear, just turn things quietly over in your own mind--I
must go before it gets any later, I've lots of things to do, and I want
very much to catch the five o'clock. There's nothing to worry about for
the moment. Only we must act rightly and circumspectly, that's all. You
know, dear, I would not be the one to bring more trouble upon you. I
want to lighten what exists. Now don't be silly, there's a dear girl."
Then she kissed her and hurried away.
From the window Miriam watched her slopping through the rain with her
vigorous stride and her skirts half way up to her knees. She thought
what a good creature she was--almost the only friend she had in the
world; almost, because there was one other, whom she felt she could
trust with her life. He would surely help her now, as he had always been
ready to help her in the past.
Sick at heart she returned to her chair by the fire, and meditated on
this new trouble which threatened her. And the more she thought the more
bewildered she seemed to become. A knock at the door roused her. Would
that girl ever learn to answer the bell within five minutes of its being
rung? At last her mind was put at rest, for the Major, looking very much
himself, was shown into the room.
"I've come to see if you'll take pity on me, Mrs. Arkel," he said, "so
far as to give me a morsel of dinner. I've taken what the Scotch call a
'scunner' at my club."
"Of course I will, though I fear it will be little more than a morsel,"
replied Miriam. "Put your hat and coat in the hall--I'm so glad you've
come."
This was sweet music to the Major's ears. But he noticed she seemed
nervous and not quite herself.
"Nothing wrong, I hope," he said.
"Yes, indeed; very little's right," sighed Miriam, "but you mustn't
tempt me to begin pouring my troubles into your ears directly you enter
the door."
"Your troubles are mine, Mir----"
"Oh, I know how good you are; that's why I hate to worry you."
"Now, come along, sit down and tell me all about it."
"No; not till after dinner. It will keep; but just that you may know why
I look worried, I may tell you that Jabez has been here again this
afternoon."
"Oh! the same old errand I suppose?"
"Yes; he wanted money. I gave him what I could."
"Well, that ended the matter, didn't it? My dear Mrs. Arkel, I do wish
you'd let me deal with this scamp of a brother of yours. You see, I know
all about him, and he wouldn't----"
"All? I'm afraid not even you know _all_ about him?"
"Yes," said Dundas emphatically. "All; even to the fact that he is at
this moment wanted on a charge of murder!"
CHAPTER X.
THE MAJOR'S POINT OF VIEW.
Although for long Miriam had felt convinced that Major Dundas knew
considerably more about her brother's life than he had any intention of
acquainting her with, the force with which he drove home those last
words completely terrorised her. Coming as they did immediately on the
top of what Mrs. Parsley had told her, they, to her mind, conveyed only
one meaning--that her brother was known now as the murderer of Mr.
Barton, and as such would assuredly have to pay the penalty of his
crime. She could not conceal the alarm she felt, and as she leaned back
in her chair pale to the lips, her throat seemed almost to close, and
her heart to stop with nervous dread. With quick indrawn breath she
waited for his next words. They were words of comfort.
"Mrs. Arkel," he said, "I fear I have alarmed you. Believe me, you can
trust in me. What I have just told you I knew a year ago. If I did not
have your brother arrested then you need not fear that I shall do so
now. He is safe from me--for your sake."
She was puzzled. It could not have been then to the murder of Mr. Barton
he had referred after all. He could not have known about that a year
ago. He must have meant that other--that terrible crime which had so
overshadowed her life during all these years, and of the consequences of
which to Jabez she had lived in daily dread. She took for granted that
it was so.
"I know--I know," she said, "and I can never thank you for your
forbearance. But, indeed, the charge against my unfortunate brother was
not one of murder--it was manslaughter."
Dundas paused before replying.
"I am afraid," he said, a trifle drily, "that you will find the verdict
of the coroner's jury leaves no room for misunderstanding on that point;
still, there is of course the chance that after all this time--it is six
years ago you remember--I may be mistaken."
"Do you know all the facts of the case, Major?"
"Surely. The affair made a great stir in my regiment at the time. You
see your brother had shown very soon after enlisting that he was a man
of ungovernable temper, and no amount of discipline seemed to have any
effect upon him. He was punished again and again for his
insubordination. At last after punishment more than usually severe he
deserted, and for a long time, in spite of the most careful search, he
eluded capture. When in the end they did find him it was in London, and
he was arrested by four men and a sergeant. He surrendered so quietly
that the sergeant foolishly omitted to handcuff him. The hour was late
and the street ill-lighted. He attempted escape. The sergeant snatched a
bayonet from the musket of one of the men, and as he did so Crane closed
with him and stabbed him to the heart, and then managed to get clean
away. The whole affair, I suppose, was the work of a few seconds. They
chased him as far as the river, and he was seen to throw himself in.
Then they appear to have abandoned him, and he has not since been heard
of. I think these are the facts exactly, are they not, Mrs. Arkel?"
"From one point of view, yes; but Jabez has always declared that the
sergeant tried to stab _him_, and that he snatched the bayonet from him
in self-defence only. In the struggle that ensued the sergeant was
stabbed, true, but the act was defensive on Jabez' part, not aggressive.
That I really believe is the truth, in which case of course it would be
manslaughter and not murder."
"Your brother naturally makes out the best possible case for himself.
But the evidence of the men went to prove conclusively that the act was
deliberate. At all events he funked trial, and the coroner's verdict was
one of wilful murder."
"Yes, I know he did. It was marvellous how he escaped, and afterwards he
was afraid to give himself up. How he managed, good swimmer as he was,
to keep himself afloat in that surging stream, was always inexplicable
to him himself--sheer force of despair, I suppose. However, he did
manage it, and eventually found shelter at Mother Mandarin's."
"Who is this Mother Mandarin?"
"She is an old woman who keeps an opium den in Lambeth. Her name came to
her through her having been an orange-seller at one time. Jabez had
among other vices contracted that of opium smoking, and he was a good
customer of hers. Consequently when he rushed in soaking wet that night,
and told her he was in danger, she took him in and concealed him. For
months he remained there, not even the immediate neighbours knowing of
his presence."
"No--it was assumed he was drowned. The district was supposed to have
been thoroughly searched, and absolutely no trace of him was found. I
myself was of the same opinion until that day I saw him here."
"How did you recognise him?"
"By the colour of his eyes and hair, and more particularly by the scar
on his forehead. For a while I could not place him, though I was
positive I knew the man. Then suddenly it flashed across me, and the
identity of his name with yours struck me. You remember how startled you
were? I concluded of course from the name that he must be some
connection, but it never dawned upon me he was your brother. I can
hardly describe to you what I felt when you told me."
"Can you imagine what it was to me to have to tell you?"
"I know--don't think of it now. It has all been very terrible--very
horrible. And the worst of it is I fear there is more to come!"
She paled again, and looked up quickly.
"Is there something you are keeping from me? If so it would be kinder to
tell me. I can bear anything now I think."
The Major appeared nervous and ill at ease.
"Well, Mrs. Arkel, I feel in one way I ought to, and yet the subject is
so very painful for both of us----"
"For both of us?"
"Surely you know how I feel----"
"Yes, yes; but tell me what you have in your mind."
"Well, then, I am very much inclined to think that your brother killed
my uncle."
Miriam remained perfectly calm. She had fully expected this; but she
felt secure from what he had said, that for her sake he would take no
action.
"What reasons have you for thinking that?"
"Perhaps it is safer to call them suspicions. I have really no direct
evidence, only I feel that between you and me, even on this terrible
topic, absolute frankness is best. I admit that for long past I have not
been able to dissociate in my mind the fact of your brother having been
in Lesser Thorpe on Christmas Eve, and having been heard to threaten my
uncle, from the fact of the old man having been murdered the following
night. You may say it was pure coincidence--that it is mere conjecture
on my part, based on the most fallible of circumstantial evidence; but I
tell you candidly that if it had not been for you, I should have sifted
that thing to the bottom long ago. As it was I preferred to leave it in
the hands of the police."
"What you say is perfectly true, and I, too, would rather we spoke quite
freely on the subject, horrible as it is. I tell you that from the
bottom of my heart I don't believe that Jabez is guilty of this crime.
But there is another thing I must also tell you. Mrs. Parsley told me
before she left to-day that the boy Shorty has recently made certain
confessions in connection with Mr. Barton's murder, amongst them that he
saw Jabez in the library that night--in fact, he accuses Jabez directly
of the murder."
"And even in the face of that you believe him innocent? My dear Mrs.
Arkel, I confess I cannot. It requires only the least bit of evidence to
confirm my suspicions. But I am glad you told me this, for it is
serious."
"You won't allow it to alter you? For my sake you won't----"
"For your sake I would do almost anything. I say almost, because there
is just one thing I cannot do."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, don't you see my position? If this evidence gets to the police it
will mean immediate action on the part of some of the smartest
detectives in London--in fact, everywhere additional particulars of your
brother and this crime will be sent. Within a month he may be caught and
within another month have to stand his trial! What happens then? Why, in
all probability it will transpire, or out of sheer spite at me--for he
bears me no love I can tell you--he will say how we met at your house,
and how I, knowing well who he was, failed to give notice to the
authorities, as I should have done for your sake. Think then of the
position I am in--in fact, of the position we both are in!"
"My God!" she cried, "that must not be. You must run no risks. You must
not consider me. Oh, if anything were to happen to you through
this!--through me! If necessary you must act at once--you must give him
up before this fresh charge comes."
"First of all I think we had better inquire a little more closely into
the value of this boy's evidence. He is an unscrupulous young liar, as I
have already proved. Then we will act accordingly. Meanwhile, there is
not the least need for you to alarm yourself. You can safely leave the
whole affair in my hands. But there is something else I would like you
to tell me if you will--that is, how, in the first instance, you came
into contact with my uncle. I know partly it was through a governess
agency, but somehow--I--I have often thought there was something
more--something that you would tell me of your own accord perhaps some
day?"
"Yes," she answered simply, "you are right, there is. And I had fully
intended to tell you. Your friendship deserves----"
"Friendship, Miriam?"
"Let us call it that--it is best so. But before I can tell you exactly
how I came to meet with Mr. Barton, I must tell you of my life before
that time. It will not be pleasant hearing for you. It is terrible to
me, even now, to go back to it, for it was a time of darkness and of
deprivation, of absolute want, and of the most acute suffering, physical
and mental."
He looked at her with a whole world of pity in his eyes.
"Don't, if it pains you so," he said.
"Yes, it is but right you should know," she replied simply. "I will
begin at the beginning, and you shall judge of me for yourself. My
father was, as I think I once told you, a sailor. For many years he was
in command of a ship trading between London and China. We lived at Deal
then, in our own house, with my mother, who was a most sweet and gentle
woman, and devoted to us. But, alas, when I was only fifteen years of
age she died, and I was left in charge of everything. Jabez was five
years older than I, and for some time had occupied the position of clerk
at a local bank. Even then he was violent tempered, and thoroughly idle,
and given to affecting the lowest of company. My mother had adored him,
as mothers always adore the scamp of the family. Yet she had not been
wholly blind to the weakness of his nature. Indeed, she knew well that
he would never withstand the temptations of the world, and on her
death-bed she made me promise never to forsake him."
"And I'm sure you've kept that promise," said Dundas.
"God knows at what cost," said Miriam. "It is no use my making light of
the burden I then took up. It was a heavy one, and the bearing of it
took all the brightness out of my youth. When my father came back he
engaged a housekeeper, and sent me back to school where I remained three
years. Jabez still lived at home, but he did not get on well with the
housekeeper. She was not a nice woman--in fact, she made up her mind she
would marry my father, and I am sorry to say she succeeded. I returned
from school to find myself a stranger in my own home. My father was a
kindly man, but weak as water, and perfectly unable to deal with a woman
like his wife. Jabez and she quarrelled constantly, and although I tried
my best to keep peace I invariably got the worst of it, as peace-makers
usually do."
"True--true," said Dundas, thinking of sundry family quarrels begun and
continued by Mrs. Darrow, "I know that from my own experience."
"With such a home you can easily guess how Jabez went from bad to worse.
He took to staying out at night, to drink, to gamble, and to idle away
his time. Then one day he took some of the bank funds and made off with
them. My father was at home at the time, and by repaying the money
immediately managed to hush it up, but he swore never again to receive
Jabez or to regard him as his son. After a while I heard from him from
London. He was without money, and unknown to anyone I sent him what I
could. The next thing I heard was that he had enlisted. You know his
life and doings during that period.
"Just then my father started off on what proved to be his last voyage,
for he and all his crew were lost in a cyclone in the Chinese seas. No
sooner did we receive the terrible news than my stepmother turned me out
of the house."
"But, my dear Mrs. Arkel, how was such a thing possible?"
"My father left everything to her--house, money, lands, everything. I
was not so much as mentioned in his will. My stepmother told me plainly
she had always hated me. For very shame she could not turn me out
penniless, so she gave me fifty pounds. I took it, indeed, what else
could I do? Besides the money was rightfully mine. But that was not the
worst. Jabez' misfortune happened about that time. I saw the whole thing
in the papers, and I was in despair. Still what could I do? I was
helpless. Next I heard from him that he was penniless, and in hiding,
and asking me for money to enable him to leave England. I had fifty
pounds; so I sent him half. I had to keep the rest until I got a
situation as nursery governess. While I was in this place I heard of my
stepmother's marriage to a young sailor, then I knew that my father's
money was lost for ever."
"How could your father make such a will?"
"He was weak, and this woman got the better of him. Besides, he believed
naturally that she would look after me. It was shortly after hearing
about the marriage that I again met Jabez. He had not left England but
had spent the money. He found out my address from my stepmother, to whom
he had written. She knew what he was, and she was always ready to do me
an ill turn. At all events the result was he came to see me one day
while I was in the Park with the children. Vice and poverty had set
their marks on him, and he looked horrible. The children were frightened
and complained when they came home, and I was dismissed."
"But did you not explain that he was your brother?"
"I did. And the explanation made matters worse. The lady with whom I was
said that she could not retain in her services anyone having a brother
so disreputable. She took the trouble even to drive to the Institute and
tell them about it. Consequently I could not get another situation. In
despair, as my money was running low, I went to see Jabez at the address
he had given me at Lambeth."
"Ah, there you were wrong--you should have kept clear of him at all
costs."
"What else could I do?" said Miriam plaintively. "I was alone, and
Jabez--bad as he was--was my brother, my sole living relative. I went to
see him, to beg him to try and get some honest work under an assumed
name. He was at Mother Mandarin's"--she shuddered--"and for the first
time I saw that awful den--it was like a glimpse of hell. Jabez would
not go out and work, he was afraid of being recognised and arrested he
said. So I shared what I had with him--I, oh----" Miriam covered her
face with her hands. "How can I tell you the horrible life of those
eighteen months!--the sufferings, the penury! I tried to get work--I
walked into every registry office in London to hire myself out as a
servant--but all in vain--my appearance was against me. They did not
think my appearance was suitable. Everywhere I went it was the same
thing. I applied at Nursing Institutes, at hospitals, but the
authorities refused to take me without certificates of competency and
respectability. My clothes got shabby--I could not buy more. Major
Dundas, if you only knew what I suffered, what I did to keep the bread
in the mouths of myself and Jabez!"
"The hound!" cried Dundas furiously, "and he wouldn't work!"
"He was afraid of arrest. I sang in the chorus at a music-hall--I sang
in the streets--I sold flowers--I--I--I begged on one occasion. Rung by
rung I fell lower and lower. But I was still true to myself--I was still
honest--I believed that one day God would end my martyrdom. It ended on
the night I met Mr. Barton."
"Where?"
"On Waterloo Bridge at midnight. We had been starving for days, and
Jabez was seized with a fit of compunction. He went out with the boy
Shorty to get food by fair means or by foul. He was desperate. I knew
that he would stop at nothing that night, indeed I heard him say as much
to Shorty. So I followed them. Mr. Barton came over the bridge. He had
evidently lost his way in the fog. He stopped, asking Shorty to direct
him. The boy, taking in his fur coat at a glance, saw at once that he
was worth robbing. He called to Jabez, and the two of them set upon him,
and half strangled him in the attempt to take his watch. I tried to stop
them but it was no use. Jabez persisted. Then I climbed on to the
parapet of the bridge, and threatened to throw myself into the river if
he did not at once release Mr. Barton. He hesitated, and at that moment
I heard the policeman coming. Jabez and Shorty took to their heels, and
I helped Mr. Barton to his feet.
"The old man was considerably knocked about, but he was able to walk
slowly to his hotel, where he insisted on my accompanying him, and on
doing something for me to show his gratitude. Starving as I was I
accepted his help only too gladly. It was the Pitt Hotel in Craven
Street he took me to.
"After that he caused inquiries to be made about me, I believe, and the
end of it was he took me down to Lesser Thorpe as governess to Dicky.
The rest you know."
"Good God!" cried Dundas, much agitated, "how you must have suffered!"
"Indeed I have; but in all my suffering I never lost my faith in God.
Tell me, Major, you do not shrink from me now that you know?"
Trembling with emotion he took her hand.
"Miriam," he said, "what you have told me has only confirmed the belief
I had in you. You are a martyr, a saint."
"Poor saint, I fear," she said faintly.
"Dearest," said the Major gravely, "in my eyes you are the noblest and
best of women."
She looked into his eyes. And as she did so she felt that all her
suffering had not been in vain.
CHAPTER XI.
IN THE DEPTHS.
It was characteristic of John Dundas that after hearing Miriam's story
he was more than ever bent upon making her his wife. In so far as the
chief traits of their respective dispositions were concerned, there was
a good deal of similarity between the Major and Mrs. Parsley. Both were
"big" in their way of looking at the more serious issues of life; both
were inclined to ignore the smaller ones; both were generous, steadfast,
and strong. Consequently, the free confession of what her past had been,
which Miriam had made to each of them in turn, was attended with much
the same result in either case--a strengthening rather than otherwise of
their belief in and of their love for her.
And it must be confessed that there are many men who, while believing
themselves to be ever so deeply in love with the woman of their choice,
would still hesitate at marrying her in the face of the almost certain
arrest and conviction of her brother for double murder. But not so this
worthy soldier. His only qualm was lest she should on that account
refuse to marry him when she was free to do so. And that time seemed
very near at hand. News had come from Gerald in Paris.
"I am very ill," he wrote, "in fact, they tell me I cannot last long."
It was a pitiful letter. He begged his wife to forgive him; he had
sinned, and sinned deeply against her he knew. Hilda had left him, and
he craved that his wife should be with him when he died. As soon as
there was the slightest chance of his being able to bear the journey, he
was coming to London. Would she receive him? Would she forgive? Would
she stay beside him and soothe his last hours?
With such a woman as Miriam there was but one answer to this plea. The
tears fell fast as she read.
There was only one thing of more importance to her now. Since it had
been made clear to her that the safety of Jabez meant not the safety of
Jabez alone, but the safety of John Dundas--meant indeed the upholding
of his good name, she had made up her mind to act. If Jabez could be got
right away before any official intimation could be given of this new
charge against him, she felt convinced of his ability to evade capture.
She determined that this must be her work. And it must be done too at
once, before he should have opportunity of getting rid of much of the
money she had given him.
She knew where to find him. The den of Mother Mandarin was no new ground
to her, though she loathed the idea of going there. Strange that the
night she chose for her errand should be just such a night as that on
which she had met Mr. Barton. The fog was dense, almost as dense as it
had been that night, and a thick drizzle was beginning to squeeze its
way through it as she left the respectable portico of Rosary Mansions
for the abode of vice and profligacy which sheltered her brother. In
half an hour she was at Westminster Bridge. As she crossed over, the
clock tower rang out nine.
Leaving the main thoroughfare she plunged into the network of lanes and
alleys which thread the mass of miserable dwellings lying within a
stone's-throw of the river. How familiar were those ways to her even
now! How vividly she recalled the days of penury and misery when
footsore and in despair she had trodden the stony pavements there! Every
corner loomed up a landmark in her mind!
The unclean figures brushing past her in the darkness in no way scared
her now. With a light and rapid step she turned down a lane which sloped
to the river, and out on to a ruined wharf green with slime, red with
dust. A sharp turn at the bottom of the lane brought her into a small
court, now a mere vessel for the fog. Here the houses were all askew.
Within them the ragged dwellers snarled and wrangled with each other for
all the world like jackals over a carcase. Two or three struggling gas
lights managed to pierce the murky air. They served to save her from
stumbling. Cautiously she groped her way toward an emaciated-looking
building of three stories, its roof so pointed and so narrow as to admit
of but one window on each floor. And even these were innocent of glass.
They were stuffed with rags.
As she climbed the stairs a hubbub of laughter and of shouting met her
ears. Foul as had been the atmosphere without it was more foul within.
She had to grasp the filthy iron railing, for she felt an oppression at
her chest. As she ascended the sounds died away. At last, panting, she
reached the top storey. The door faced her. It was heavy and rudely
bound with iron. Three times she knocked lightly. It swung open
immediately. Mother Mandarin was in her den--or rather in her eyrie.
The place was still the same. She remembered it well--the square room,
with its whitewashed walls, discoloured and scrawled over with vile
words and viler caricatures; the great open brick fireplace in which,
always smouldered a handful of fire; the filthy mattresses laid out at
the far end, on which the customers were wont to sprawl and sleep; and
pervading all, the mephitic atmosphere illumined dimly by the swinging
petrol-lamp set in a bracket over the fireplace. A Lascar and a Chinaman
were lying there like corpses, narcotised by the drug, and dreaming God
knows what dreams of paradise. Close to them lay a European,
sallow-faced and ragged, and restless for his pipe, which was in course
of preparation by the lady of the house. She crouched on the floor near
a lamp, twisting and stirring the brown confection with a knitting
needle, over a clear flame. As it frizzled and spat, she held a
long-stemmed pipe for its reception. Though thus engrossed, she raised
her grizzled head as Miriam entered.
The boy who had opened the door, sank back into the corner behind it,
and rolled himself into a ball like a doormouse. Mother Mandarin rasped
out her welcome.
"Eh, lovey, dovey, deary, and is it you, swelley? Oh, I know'd so well
you'd come. Didn't I dream of 'awks kerryin' stones last night, an' if
that ain't you with money for your poor ole aunty, she ain't the poor
thing as wants it. Come, pretty ducky, chuck us the blunt!"
A small worm of a woman this, with a wrinkled face like a baboon, and
eyes piercing as gimlets, and a mass of white hair like spun silk. She
wore a dress of old green stuff, threadbare now, patched and
discoloured. A dingy red shawl was drawn tightly over her red spare
shoulders and across her chest--a woman full of evil, saturated with
vice, and exhaling it so powerfully as to repel.
Miriam could not repress a shiver, but she addressed herself at once to
the business she had in hand, being only too anxious to have done with
it and get away.
"I have come for Jabez," she said. "Where is he?"
"Lor' bless you, lovey dearie, he's jes' stepped out for a dram. He'll
be back in no time. Wot's it you wants, sweet sweety?"
"Are they awake?" asked Miriam, indicating the apparently insensate
forms on the mattresses.
"One of 'em is, lovey, he 'asn't had 'is yet. But he's noo to the pipes,
yer see, ducky, and it won't take long to get him orf. Here, dearie,
this is as strong as strong."
The man, who had thrown an indifferent glance at Miriam, clutched the
pipe and lay back on the bed to indulge in it.
"He'll be off directly, pretty dovey," droned Mother Mandarin, loosening
his collar; "he's noo to it."
One of the Lascars emitted a horrible sound and rolled over.
"'E's a dreamin', yuss! I knows they're 'untin' you, pore 'eathen. Don't
you let 'em catch you, dearie!"
"What are you talking about?" inquired Miriam, looking at the motionless
figures.
Mother Mandarin stoked the fire.
"'Bout them, dovey; I don't know what you calls 'em. When you takes the
stuff they comes a 'untin' you. I've met 'em myself in the galleries--no
faces, or 'ands, or nothin'; but they ketches you!"
It was all quite unintelligible to Miriam. She noticed the young lad
curled up in the corner.
"Who is that?" she asked.
"That, why don't you know 'im? that's Shorty, dearie, m' grandson. The
good lady's bin a tryin' to 'elp 'im, but 'e won't be 'elped. Wot's the
good o' sarm-singin' when you're 'ungry? 'Ark!" She raised her head and
sniffed the wind like a disturbed stag. "It's Jabez' foot, that is!"
Jabez it was. He rolled into the room a good deal the worse for liquor.
Recognising his sister he hailed her boisterously.
"You here, old girl? Why, what's in the wind now?"
"There ain't no blunt, any'ow," whined Mother Mandarin; "it's a right
down shame as a pore thing like me 'asn't 'eaps of it, 'eaps of
it!--poun's an' pence. One as 'ard to git as t'other." A snarl came from
one of the sleepers. "Oh, they've ketched you, 'ave they? Why don't yer
run now?--there's the road by the 'eath, and the gall'ry in the
palace--take which way yer like, but run, or they'll ketch yer!" So did
she drone on like some witch evoking a spell.
"Jabez!" Miriam drew him to the other end of the room, and made him sit
down. "I have come to warn you. You are in great danger. You must get
away at once."
The words sobered the man as nothing else would have done. His face
blanched, and his red moustache and beard stood out in horrible relief.
"Danger!" He glanced at the sleepers, at Shorty snoring heavily in his
corner, and at Mother Mandarin rocking, rocking, and muttering endlessly
before the fire. "We are safe here," said Jabez, "but speak low. What is
the danger--that infernal Dundas?"
"Major Dundas knows everything--not only your first crime----"
"First crime! Why, what the devil d'you mean? I only committed one!"
"Oh, Jabez, do be honest with me. Tell me the truth. Surely by this time
you can trust me. Is it true that you murdered Mr. Barton?"
"It's a lie--upon my soul, Miriam, I did not lay a finger on the old
man--I wasn't even near the house. On Christmas Day I was in London."
"But I saw you at Southampton afterwards. Don't deceive me, Jabez;
everything depends upon your telling me the truth. How came you in
Southampton?"
"I told you before. But at the time of the murder I was in London. I can
prove it!"
"I believe you, Jabez; but you must not prove it; you dare not!"
"By Jove, that's true; I see what you mean. I'll be nabbed for the other
affair if I do. But whose game is this, Miriam?--who says I killed old
Barton?"
She cast a glance at the bundle in the corner, and brought her lips to
Jabez' ear.
"Shorty says he saw you! Hush! don't waken him. You must get away as
quick as ever you can. It's your only chance."
He clenched his fists.
"I'm inclined to slip a knife into the young devil as he lies there," he
said. "Saw me, did he? Let me stir him up a bit----"
"Jabez, for God's sake don't. You must run no risks. A word now from
anyone casting suspicion upon you and the other affair will all come
out."
"He knows nothing of the other affair," retorted Jabez, inclined to
argument.
"How can you be so mad. What does that matter when the police know? So
does Farren; he's been watching you, do you know that?"
"Farren, Farren?--who the deuce is Farren? Some detective bloke, eh?"
"Farren is a spy," replied Miriam bitterly. "He was the man employed by
Mr. Barton. He discovered your name, and that I was your sister. He
knows everything about you, _everything_, Jabez. That was how Mr. Barton
had such power over me. I was forced to obey him for your sake."
"Well, that wasn't very hard work I reckon," replied the man with an
impatient scowl. "So this Farren chap's been watching me, has he? How
did you know that?"
"Mrs. Parsley saw him following you after you left me at the flat the
other day."
"What!" exclaimed Jabez--"a tall dark chap, wearing a cloak and a soft
hat--nasty-looking devil?"
"Yes; that's the man. You know him?"
"Know him? Of course I know him. Why, he's always coming round here for
a pipe and a yarn. He's particularly chummy with me too. He told me his
name was Garson."
"Did he speak to you that afternoon?"
"Yes; said it was a rum chance we met. The beggar must have followed me.
But why? He knows where to find me when he wants me."
"Has he ever threatened you, or tried to get money from you?"
"Tried to get money from me? The chap's not born, my dear, who'd try
such a fool's game as that. Whatever put that into your head."
"Oh, I don't know, Jabez; he's hard up and disreputable, and knowing as
he does how you killed--"
"Hush! Confound you." He looked round apprehensively. "Don't speak so
loud. Look here, Miriam, strikes me you're right. What with Dundas, and
the old lady, and this young devil here, I'm in a tight place. I'd
better skip while I can. But I tell you straight, if this Farren, or
anyone else for that matter, tries coming it nasty with me, I'll do for
'em and then for myself. So you know. I'm not going to be taken alive.
Now go on, tell me more about this beggar. Are you sure he knows as much
as you fancy he does?"
"Quite sure, Jabez. He knows, at all events, that there's a price upon
your head for murder." Then rapidly she told him how Farren had come to
be in such a position towards Barton, and how he had always done the
Squire's dirty work.
Jabez listened attentively, and chuckled to himself.
"Oh, that was the reason, was it? Now I see it all."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing. Listen to me, Miriam. I know how to deal with Farren and
Shorty. Let them interfere with me, and they'll be precious sorry they
did, I can tell you. Now then, if I'm to get away, I must have some more
cash. I've spent some of that you gave me."
"I expected that," said Miriam, slipping her hand in her pocket. "Jabez,
can't you stop drinking even when your life is in danger?"
"Oh, hold your tongue, and don't begin preaching now. How much have you
got here?" he said, weighing her purse.
"Twenty pounds--a ten-pound note and gold. It is every farthing I have."
Mother Mandarin's ears caught the clink of the gold, and she crawled
towards them.
"Lovey, dovey, give aunty the blunt; she wants 'eaps of it--'eaps of
it!"
Jabez took the money from the purse and put it in his pocket. As the
woman clamoured on he swore at her. She yelled at him and threatened.
With an oath he picked her up and pitched her like a bale of goods on to
an unoccupied mattress.
"Get outside, Miriam," he said, "sharp; I'll follow."
Only too anxious to escape from the repulsive scene Miriam hurried down
the stairs. Jabez quickly followed, banging the door with such force as
to shake the crazy house.
Then bolt upright sat Shorty with a twinkle in his eye.
"So that's it, is it?" he mumbled. "Murder, eh? S'elp me, I'll get some
dibs out o' this, or my bloomin' name ain't Shorty!"
CHAPTER XII.
JABEZ SEEKS AN OLD FRIEND.
With the best part of fifty pounds in his pocket, Jabez Crane took
counsel with himself as to which portion of the civilised or uncivilised
world he should next honour with his presence. That there was all-round
prejudice against his remaining in London seemed, from what his sister
had said, tolerably certain. And, in truth, he confessed to himself that
even Lambeth had its limitations as a place of residence.
And so, on the following morning, he set out for the office of the
Beaver line of steamers, which, as is well known, ply between the ports
of Liverpool and Montreal, with the intention of booking a steerage
passage in the next boat leaving for that port, and with a vague notion
of gradually making his way thence into the heart of the gold-bearing
country, about which the more fabulous tales had percolated recently,
even to the remote habitation of Mother Mandarin.
His berth secured, Jabez turned his steps towards the Strand, He had not
walked far when the thought struck him that he was in a position to
afford a penny 'bus. Putting his thought into action he mounted one. At
the bottom of Fleet Street he saw something that caused him considerable
surprise. There, sitting inside the same omnibus, reflected in a more
than usually shiny plate-glass window, was the familiar form of Shorty.
Shorty too, then, had been able to afford a penny ride! Strange! It was
the second time he had come upon him unexpectedly that morning. At
Temple Bar, where he alighted, there was no longer doubt in Jabez' mind.
Shorty was following him--had been following him ever since he left
Lambeth. Turning suddenly on his heel he made straight for the youth,
and seized him by the collar.
"'Ere," whined the quondam Gideon Anab, struggling to get free, "lemme
go, carn't yer; I'll kick yer shins to bits if yer don't.
"You young gaol-bird," said Jabez, holding him all the tighter, "what
d'ye mean by coming after me like this?"
"I want to tell yer something if ye'll only stop!"
"And must you follow me half over London to tell me something--you--out
with it, what is it?"
"It's about Garson; 'e's arter yer!"
"After me? What d'you mean?"
"Step round 'ere into this 'ere back street and I'll tell yer. But
yer'll 'ave to give us a quid!"
They moved down into Essex Street. Jabez felt half inclined to yield.
But he thought better of it.
"Look here, young man, I should have thought you'd ha' known better than
to try your beastly hanky panky business on with me. You'll just tell me
anything you know, and I'll reward you afterwards according to what I
think it's worth; d'you see?"
"Well, you'll say it's worth a tidy bit I reckon. I'll tell yer this
much now; that Garson cove's only 'untin' yer to git 'em off 'is own
track!"
"What d'you mean?"
"I mean as I seed quite enough down at that there Thorpe place to string
'im up if I liked to blab. But look 'ere, pal, you've got to treat me
square on this job. You be at the shop to-night--there's too many
coppers round about 'ere for my likin'. There's one of 'em got 'is eye
on me already."
"Right you are--at Mother Mandarin's to-night. What time?"
"Oh, somewhere about eight, pal," and with a whistle, indicative of
approaching danger, Mr. Shorty made his way towards the Embankment.
Jabez was both astounded and relieved. At last he began to see Mr.
Farren's game. It was running the war into the enemy's camp with a
vengeance. But he'd be one too many for him this time. Still, even so,
he felt far from secure. He had not seen Farren all the morning, and
there was always the possibility he might already have betrayed him. He
had more than half a mind to leave Euston by the late night mail. He
could do so and still be at Mother Mandarin's at eight.
Meanwhile Shorty made his way along the Embankment at a rate for him
prodigious, and in less than half an hour from the time of his parting
with Jabez had reached his destination--Great Scotland Yard.
Jabez, having completed sundry minor purchases for his voyage, rewarded
himself by dropping into a public-house and drinking (to himself again)
_bon voyage_. That done, he called for his pipe and another bowl,
accompanied on this occasion by pens, ink, and paper. He was feeling
very nervous about Farren, and had made up his mind that any betrayal by
that mysterious gentleman should not go unpunished, even though he, the
betrayed, were not there to punish him. With such retribution in view,
he ran off a letter to Miriam, the contents of which would be all
sufficient to secure unto Mr. Farren the chastisement he would so richly
deserve. For the whiling away of the remainder of the afternoon he had
to fall back on such attraction as his host was able to offer in the
shape of Scotch Whisky.
That such was sufficiently powerful seems proven by the fact that the
clock was striking seven, and Jabez was with difficulty restrained from
striking the clock, when he picked up his parcels and made for "home."
His progress was of necessity somewhat leisurely, and by the time he
arrived there most of his "indecision" had passed off. Mother Mandarin
was out; and the room was empty save for one man in a long cloak, who
sat before the fire warming his hands.
"You?" cried Jabez, as he recognised his friend Garson, alias Farren,
and as he very much feared, alias Judas. "You here?"
"And why should I not be?" replied the man coolly. "Is it not my custom
to smoke a pipe on occasions?"
"I mean, are you alone?"
"I am always alone," replied Farren in the most melancholy voice.
Jabez closed the door, and taking up a stool sat down near to the man.
The glimmering lamp overhead cast its flickering light over both of
them. Outside the wind was howling, and shook the crazy window frames.
As he looked at his companion, Jabez felt a sense of satisfaction in
that he had despatched that note to Miriam--the man was so sinister
looking. For a time there was silence between them. At last Farren
spoke.
"What has become of our good hostess?" he asked. "I hunger for my pipe.
Glorious comfort! What should we poor devils be without it? At least, we
have always that--our Paradise if fleeting can be reached for the
asking."
Jabez was taking no notice of what he said. He seemed indeed not to
hear. His thoughts were concentrated upon himself and his probable fate
at the hands of the man opposite to him, had it not been for the timely
warning of his sister. At last he had to give voice to them.
"Look here, Mr.--Mr. Farren----"
He looked up quickly at the mention of his name.
"Who told you that?" he asked slowly.
"My sister, Miriam----"
"Miriam Crane, or I should say Mrs. Gerald Arkel? So she told you, did
she? And how did she come to know?"
"Her friend, Mrs. Parsley, wife of the Vicar of Lesser Thorpe, saw you
with me in West Kensington the other day."
"Mrs. Parsley!--how well I remember her. And so she remembered me? To
her I owe my resurrection?--an energetic old lady, Mrs. Parsley, if I
recollect rightly. Dear me, how long ago it all seems!"
"You admit you _are_ Farren?"
"Assuredly so--to _you_. I would admit anything--to _you_. You are to me
a cypher, Mr. Jabez Crane; a plaything, if I so wish--for I hold you
here--here, in the hollow of my hand. Do you begin to comprehend?"
"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."
"But how, man?--how could he get into the library while you and my uncle
were there without your seeing him?"
"In this way. Your uncle, deep in converse with me, came to the end of
the terrace. He was wont to walk out there. It was then the lad got in.
When your uncle, unsuspecting of evil, returned, he returned alone and
to his desk. I took my way down the steps into the village whence I had
come. Before I had left him I had warned him that with Shorty in the
village he knew not the hour he might be robbed. And he meant to act
next day upon my warning. Then the boy came from his hiding-place and
demanded money. Had I returned with your uncle the lad would have
remained there till I left. Your uncle did not heed his demands, but
cried for help. That cry it was that killed him. The lad threw himself
upon him to silence him. He clutched at that old throat and clutched too
hard. When he clutched no more your uncle was dead! Here, friend, is the
verification of what I have told you."
He produced a dirty sheet of paper from his pocket. On it were written
but three lines. But they were all sufficient to condemn the man who put
his name to them.
"But the creature surely could not write," objected the Major.
"Mine is the writing, friend; his the signature. 'Twas Miriam Crane
taught him to write that. Show it to her."
"But how did you get this confession out of him?--it's difficult to
believe----"
"It was difficult to obtain, friend. No one but myself could have
procured it. Myself alone did that boy fear. I had broken his nerve. In
drink one night, not many weeks ago, he came to me, forgetting himself
so far as to threaten me and demand of me money, accusing me of having
killed your uncle. At once I knew then it was he who had killed him. I
had suspected him for long. He told me he was there and had seen me in
the library. But I was not to be thus threatened by this youth. We were
alone. It was night. I locked the door and taxed him with the crime. He
would not confess. But I knew the lad; I alone knew Shorty and the only
way with him. In the grate there burned a fire, and by the hearth a
poker stood--'twas easy made red-hot, and----"
"Good God, man, don't describe to me your loathsome horrors. Have done
with your story and go."
"Well, that was how, friend, I came by this confession. I told him while
he lived I would not use it for his undoing. In truth I could not, since
my own past is not clean. But now that he is dead he cannot suffer in
this world for his crimes. I alone am left. Your uncle ruined me,
friend. I hated him. All my life I hated him. He sapped my soul; he was
a vampire. I ask you now to help me to end my days in such peace as is
left to me. I am without money. I wish to leave this country and return
to the land of my exile. The Mark of the Beast is on me, and I am
getting old. My end will come soon now, and I shall join your uncle, and
Jabez Crane, and Shorty, and all our other kindred souls in Hell; down
there, deep down in Hell. Already I have tasted of its fires--but they
have not caught me yet; They chase me all the time, but They----"
The Major stopped him.
"If I give you money," he said, "I give it you in this way: fifty pounds
and your passage to Australia. Never again set foot in this country. I
may be wrong; but I believe your story, and I would wipe out once for
all the memory of it. I am sorry for you, Farren. Give me some address,
and what I have promised you shall follow. But remember if I catch you
in this country that's the end of you."
"Thanks be to you," he said. Then he scribbled a few words on a piece of
paper, and took up his hat and cloak and vanished.
EPILOGUE.
John Dundas was as good as his word, and within a fortnight of his visit
to Brampton the unhappy Farren was on board an Oriental liner bound for
Melbourne.
As the Major read his name in the passenger list, he breathed a sigh of
relief. For with him disappeared all record of the past. He felt
convinced the creature--queer in the head as he undoubtedly was--had
told him nothing but the truth. His life story was indeed a pitiful one,
and the Major would not but admit that there was something of
retributory justice about the fate which had overtaken his old uncle.
For that he had met his death by Shorty's hand there was not a doubt.
Miriam had been shown the signature appended to those three lines of
confession--confession absolute and unqualified--and she had recognised
it instantly.
There remained no doubt in the Major's mind. As he had told Miriam, the
whole affair was horribly repellent to him. The remotest connection with
such men as Jabez, Shorty, and Farren ran counter to every instinct he
possessed. He alone among his contaminated stock recoiled from the
merest contact with the morbid. Gerald, in his bouts of alcoholism, had
always shown that he was attracted in that direction. Even when most
himself that side of him had been plainly apparent to any keen observer.
And so the Major thanked his stars that things were as they were. His
hundred pounds had been well spent, indeed if it had purchased in the
future complete immunity from all reference to the terrible past. So far
as Farren was concerned he felt perfectly safe. It was not difficult to
foretell his end. It would be speedy. And the Major knew enough of
Melbourne even to localise it with some degree of accuracy. That fair
city of the south possesses in its heart the foulest opium dens outside
of China. It would be in one of them--in that foetid artery named
Little Bourke Street--that Farren would die; and with him would
disappear the last of what the Major was wont to refer to in his own
mind always as the Lambeth gang.
From time to time he caught a glimpse of Miriam; anything from an hour
to two hours constituting merely a glimpse in the eyes of the Major.
Each time he told himself she was more beautiful than before; and for
the first time in his life a year seemed to contain at least twenty-four
calendar months; and all the rifle practice or tactical manoeuvres in
the world were of no avail to shorten it. Slowly, wearily, it dragged
itself along, with now and then a spurt on such days as could furnish
him with reasonable excuse for a run up to town--town being bounded on
the east by Addison Road and on the west by Hammersmith.
In Mrs. Parsley, had he only known it, he possessed the strongest of
allies. If he had needed anyone to plead his cause, he could not have
chosen a better.
"My dear, I am just waiting for the day that shall see you Mistress of
the Manor House. Won't that be a knock-me-down-staggerer for _her_?"
Such was Mrs. Parsley's leit-motive now, the "her" having, it is
scarcely necessary to say, reference to Mrs. Darrow.
"But, my dear Mrs. Parsley," Miriam would remonstrate, "he hasn't----"
"Oh, don't tell me he _hasn't_ if he hasn't, you've only to hold up your
little finger for him to _have_. Why any fool can see he just worships
the ground you tread on--not that I ever believe altogether in that sort
of thing myself; but my experience of them is they're all the same. It's
either that or nothing. Take my word for it, my dear, unless a man's
abject, he's not in love, and unless he's in love, he'll never make a
good husband. Now the Major is in love--he is abject, horribly abject.
And of all the men I've known he's the most promising as a husband. I do
believe he is a thoroughly good fellow."
"I know, I know, my dear Mrs. Parsley; there is no better fellow in the
world. But you seem to take it quite as--well, what shall I say?--quite
as necessary to my existence that I should have a husband. Does it not
occur to you that I might like a little freedom--that my first
experience of matrimony has not been altogether encouraging?"
"Freedom! Encouraging?--rubbish! What does a woman want with freedom,
except to get into captivity again? As for encouragement, no one ought
to require much encouragement to grab a good thing when they see it.
John Dundas, matrimonially speaking, is a good thing, and if it weren't
for the Reverend Augustine, I tell you candidly I'd soon show you I mean
what I say!"
"Oh, my dear friend, this love, this love!" sighed Miriam, "this keep
the world a-whirling!--well, I suppose you're right. You know it is not
that I underrate Major Dundas' good qualities. I do not. I know he is a
good man, and I like him and respect him more than I can say;
but--but----"
"But--but--there you go! you're thinking about that wretched past of
yours again. Well, tell him, tell him everything; he'll think none the
less of you for that!"
"Indeed I have; he knows everything of my wretched past. It is not
that----"
"Well, what is it then?"
"Oh, I don't know--let us leave it. It will settle itself I expect if
it's meant to be settled. Meanwhile, we're quite happy, you and I,
aren't we?"
"Oh yes, we're very happy, Miriam, with our work. That reminds me that
old Chinese Mandarin creature's dead at last."
"Really? Poor old thing! When did she die?"
"Yesterday morning. The place is becoming quite respectable now--a
veritable land of promise. And that reminds me again I have to go down
there in the morning to finish up one or two things, and in the
afternoon, dear, you know I am going back to Thorpe. Augustine's got a
cold, and you know what Augustine is with a cold!"
"Poor Mr. Parsley--he is very good. I sometimes think I should like to
change places with you, and go down and look after him while you're
looking after Lambeth," said Miriam, just to see how she would take it.
"Indeed, my dear, you'll do nothing of the kind. You'd spoil him
altogether, that's what you'd do. I understand Augustine and he
understands me. He'd break out in all sorts of fresh places with any
other treatment than what I give him. Besides, he likes to be alone--he
always says I'm the only woman he could stand. Not that he means it, you
know--he doesn't. He thinks all women a nuisance, except when he's
ill--then he's glad enough to have 'em, I can tell you. Now, dear, I
must really go. I shall have tea at the Stores. Who's that at the door I
wonder?--let me get out of sight. Good-bye, Miriam dear."
She kissed her and hurried off. They were in the dining-room. Miriam
remained where she was, awaiting the announcement of her visitor whoever
it might prove to be.
The name brought in to her was that of "Mrs. Latham."
"Mrs. Latham?" she repeated to herself. "I don't know any Mrs. Latham."
She went into the little drawing-room. Her visitor was closely veiled
and in the deepest black. She looked at her.
"You don't know me, Miriam?"
"Hilda! Is it you? Mrs. Latham!--but---"
"Yes, Miriam, I am Mrs. Latham. But my husband is dead. He died only a
month ago!"
"It is only a year since Gerald died."
"Poor Gerald--did he forgive me for leaving him?"
"He never forgot--I cannot say whether he forgave. Your name was last on
his lips--not mine!"
"My name? And you were so good to him? Miriam, will _you_ forgive?"
"I--yes, I forgive. It was him you wronged more than me, for I could
guide my life--he couldn't. He was weak, helpless--little more than a
child. And you led him further astray, Hilda. And yet he loved you as he
never loved me, even at the end."
"Oh, Miriam, you don't know what I've suffered. I am not so wholly to
blame as you think. You don't know what my life was--from the merest
child I was neglected. I was never taught to care save for myself. I was
pampered, spoiled, allowed to run utterly wild. My only teaching was to
put a value on myself--to see to it that I secured the biggest prize in
marriage. You cannot afterwards undo the evil done by an up-bringing
such as mine. And my instincts were never for good, Miriam. I secured
through John Dundas all that I craved, riches, position, ease, gaiety.
And when I lost them, remember, I lost what was to me all. Gerald loved
me I know; yes, and I loved him as much as it was in me to love any man.
I could not resist the temptation that assailed me. But I was prepared
to do my duty by him, Miriam. I would have gone on loving him. I would
have been with him at the end--"
"Why, then, did you leave him?"
"Because he forced me to. He drank so horribly. He was like a madman
most of the time. He gambled recklessly--more than once he struck me. I
stayed by him as long as I could, and then one night he treated me so
cruelly I had to leave him. I was afraid for my life. I had already met
Mr. Latham. He fell in love with me, and he urged me all the time to
leave Gerald. But I would not have left him, I swear to you, if he had
not treated me so violently. Mr. Latham was rich I know, and Gerald then
had little money left. But it was not that that took me. I was in daily,
hourly terror of him. Oh, Miriam, you cannot imagine how he was. That
night I tell you of, I left him. I went with Mr. Latham to Italy, and
there we were married. He was more than good to me, far better I know
than I deserved. I was prepared to make amends for my past life, and at
least to be a good wife to him. But fate determined, I suppose, that I
should suffer, for he died--died when we had been married only a few
months. And now I am alone, and oh, so wretched, Miriam, so terribly
unhappy."
She burst into tears.
"Hilda, don't--I, too, am alone. Believe me, I forgive you if it is my
forgiveness you would have. You have been wrong; but I was wrong, I
think, in the beginning, too--towards Gerald. I ought to have left
things to take their chance. But what I did, I did to save him. For that
I was punished. God knows what I have suffered. But, come now, even
though you are alone, you have your father and mother----"
"My father and mother! Don't name them to me. I hate them. To them I owe
the whole failure of my life. They had no right to bring children into
the world, and allow them to grow up weeds. I wish never to see either
of them again. No, I am going back to Italy. I shall find some niche to
fill there I suppose. But I could not stay here. All I wanted was to
know that you forgave me. You have been so good, Miriam, and if you
forgive me, I can bear the rest. And, Miriam----"
"Yes, Hilda."
"You will marry John Dundas? Don't be angry with me, but if you are
happy, I should feel my life was easier. John is good, Miriam, he is one
of the best of men--I never deserved him. You do. Let me feel that you
won't--that the past won't stand in your way. He deserves to be happy."
"He has been very good to me, Hilda, very kind. I know what you must
feel. Let us both try and forget."
"Say again that you forgive me, Miriam."
"Freely, Hilda. I forgive."
"Good bye. You will write and tell me--any news?"
"I will write, Hilda; good-bye."
As she left the room Miriam could bear up no longer. She threw herself
on the sofa, and cried as if her heart would break.
* * * * *
Six months later, in the lovely summer weather, Dundas and Miriam were
wandering through the gardens of the Manor House together--man and wife.
In the little church over yonder, fraught to Miriam with so many
memories, they had been married by the Reverend Augustine, now four
months ago. And even Mrs. Darrow, open enemy though she declared
herself, had not contrived to spoil their peace. Dicky, it is true, had
been permitted to attend the wedding of his Miss Crane, but Mrs. Darrow
herself had remained adamant, and stayed at home to nurse her rage and
show her great displeasure.
And with the glorious peace and rest which had now come into her life,
Miriam felt at last her night was over--the heavy shades had lifted, and
the dawn was brightening to a golden noon. Her faith in God was
justified to her even in this world.
Her husband turned, and asked her what he never tired of asking:
"Are you happy, Miriam?"
"Happy, dear? So happy!--happier than I have ever been or ever thought
to be!"
Selections from Jarrold & Sons' List.
JOCELYN ERROLL.
BY CURTIS YORKE,
_Author of "That Little Girl," "A Romance of Modern London," "The Wild
Ruthvens," etc., etc._
FOURTH EDITION.
SOME PRESS OPINIONS.
Daily Chronicle--
"Will be read with interest. Pauline Etheredge is skilfully
touched in. Fatal sirens are so universally presented to us in
novels as totally devoid of humour as they are full of charm,
that we welcome this deviation from the beaten track."
Literature--
"A powerful book, as are all Curtis Yorke's novels."
Newcastle Daily Chronicle--
"The best novel we have had from her pen. The talented author
tells her story well, and with considerable power, and cleverly
maintains the reader's interest to the end."
Glasgow Herald--
"Charmingly written."
Dundee Advertiser--
"Clever and fascinating, as is everything by this writer."
Literary World--
"Decidedly pleasant reading, and calculated to further the
author's reputation as a bright and entertaining novelist."
* * * * *
A Famous Polish Novel.
ANIMA VILIS.
A TALE OF THE GREAT SIBERIAN STEPPE.
BY MARYA RODZIEWICZ.
TRANSLATED FROM THE POLISH BY COUNT S. C. DE SOISSONS.
WITH A FINE PHOTOGRAVURE PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR.
SECOND EDITION.
A FOREWORD ON "ANIMA VILIS."
"Anima Vilis" is a novel dealing with life in Siberia as it really is,
not as we have hitherto imagined it, a land of knouts, inhuman Russian
officials, and sundry other horrors. In his preface, Count de Soissons
says--
"Desiring to destroy the false ideas concerning the Russian Empire that
have become so deeply rooted in the minds of most persons, we decided
that the best way to accomplish our purpose would be by a novel based on
life in Siberia, and this novel was written by Miss Marya Rodziewicz, a
noted Polish writer. It is well known that there is not much sympathy
between the Russians and Poles. But, at the same time, there is an
honesty of purpose in those serious and earnest Polish writers, which,
notwithstanding the wrongs their country has suffered at the hands of
the Russians, would prevent their stooping to falsify facts. Thus Miss
M. Rodziewicz's views of life in Siberia are more worthy of credence
than the scribblings of those writers who, for the sake of creating a
sensation, and its usual accompaniment, the desire of making money,
relate blood-curdling stories of the barbarism of Russia."
SOME PRESS OPINIONS.
Leeds Mercury--
"An engrossing book. The story is a powerful one, and,
breathing as it does the true life of the Siberian, is
profoundly interesting."
Daily News--
"The book is well worth reading. Her descriptions are
wonderfully suggestive."
Daily Telegraph--
"Deeply interesting."
New Age--
"Told with piercing vividness, 'Anima Vilis' is so good and so
finely done, that we sincerely hope to read more stories by so
talented an author."
Review of the Week--
"Has the simplicity and directness typical of Slavonic
literature. Its freshness and originality should stimulate
translators to further explorations in literary Poland."
Literature--
"It has both power and charm."
* * * * *
CYRANO DE BERGERAC.
_A fascinating and powerful romance of this interesting personality._
CAPTAIN SATAN:
ADVENTURES OF CYRANO DE BERGERAC.
From the French of LOUIS GALLET.
_With special Photogravure Portrait of CYRANO DE BERGERAC._
SECOND EDITION.
"Captain Satan" forms a _romance d'aventure_ of the Dumasesque school,
having the famous Cyrano de Bergerac for hero, and giving a vivid
picture of the redoubtable hero, swashbuckler, poet, and philosopher.
The book has attained widespread popularity in France. There is a most
enthralling and extremely powerful plot, while one exciting episode
succeeds another in a fashion that holds the reader's attention
fascinated to the last page. The character of Cyrano, forming as it does
a central figure around which everything turns, adds additional
attractiveness to this unquestionably notable romance, since general
interest in his remarkable personality has been so largely re-awakened
by M. Coquelin's and Mr. Charles Wyndham's superb presentations of the
character of M. Rostand's famous play, the book will appeal to a still
wider section of the reading public.
SOME PRESS OPINIONS.
Daily Chronicle--
"The author has the lightness of touch and sweep of imagination
which impart a real thrilling vitality to the romantic novel."
Daily Telegraph--
"A delightful book. The romance that Gallet has woven around
his hero is one of the masterpieces of French literature. So
vividly delineated are the _dramatis persona_, so interesting
and enthralling are the incidents in the development of the
tale, that it is impossible to skip one page, or lay down the
volume until the last words are read."
Daily News--
"The story is always in movement, and stirring incidents follow
each other in inexhaustible succession."
The Star--
"A brisk, slashing, galloping, gallant affair. Both the time
and the manner are wittily hit off."
Dublin Express--
"An excellent romance, well constructed and well told."
Pall Mall Gazette--
"The plot is original, and of most lively interest. The reader
being agitated by most active doubts and fears to the very last
chapter."
Morning Leader--
"A most exciting and stirring romance."
* * * * *
IN TIGHT PLACES.
BY MAJOR ARTHUR GRIFFITHS,
_Author of "Forbidden by Law," etc., etc._
FOURTH EDITION.
SOME PRESS OPINIONS.
Daily Telegraph--
"Entertaining and readable, partaking more of the nature of
stories of adventure than of the conventional detective kind,
but in each case containing a genuine mystery and an ingenious
elucidation of the same."
Pall Mall Gazette--
"A lively and varied series of cosmopolitan crime, with plenty
of mixed adventure and sensation. Such stories always
fascinate, and Major Arthur Griffiths knows well how to tell
them."
Gentlewoman--
"Exciting and well sustained, by no means the ordinary class of
detective story, but takes one all over the world and
introduces an abundance of adventure."
Glasgow Herald--
"Carries the reader forward with unflagging zest."
Aberdeen Free Press--
"An engaging book of private detective stories by this
well-known writer, he writes brightly and retains the reader's
attention throughout."
Daily News--
"An exciting story."
St. James' Gazette--
"They are good reading."
_Fergus Hume's Novels._
_The Mystery of a Hansom Cab._
_The Lone Inn._
_The Mystery of Landy Court._
_The Expedition of Captain Flick._
_The Tombstone Treasure._
_A Woman's Burden._
THE "GREENBACK" SERIES OF POPULAR 3/6 NOVELS.
BY AUTHORS OF THE DAY.
1. LOUIS DRAYCOTT. By Mrs. Leith Adams. 2nd Edition.
2. GEOFFREY STIRLING. By Mrs. Leith Adams. 5th Edition.
3. BONNIE KATE. By Mrs. Leith Adams. 2nd Edition.
4. A NEW OTHELLO. By Hon. Iza Duffus Hardy. 2nd Ed.
5. THE MAID OF LONDON BRIDGE. By S. Gibney. 3rd Ed.
6. EVELINE WELLWOOD. By Major Norris Paul. 3rd Ed.
7. OLD LATTIMER'S LEGACY. By J. S. Fletcher. 2nd Ed.
8. THAT LITTLE GIRL. By Curtis Yorke. 10th Edition.
9. DUDLEY. By Curtis Yorke. 8th Edition.
10. THE WILD RUTHVENS. By Curtis Yorke. 11th Edition.
11. THE BROWN PORTMANTEAU, and other Stories. By Curtis Yorke.
2nd Edition.
12. HUSH! By Curtis Yorke. 4th Edition.
13. ONCE! By Curtis Yorke. 3rd Edition.
14. A ROMANCE OF MODERN LONDON. By Curtis Yorke. 4th Edition.
15. HIS HEART TO WIN. By Curtis Yorke. 4th Edition.
16. DARRELL CHEVASNEY. By Curtis Yorke. 3rd Edition.
17. BETWEEN THE SILENCES. By Curtis Yorke. 2nd Ed.
18. THE PEYTON ROMANCE. By Mrs. Leith Adams. 3rd Ed.
19. THE GOLDEN MILESTONE. By Scott Graham. 3rd Ed.
20. A RECORD OF DISCORDS. By Curtis Yorke. 3rd Edition.
21. "CHERRY RIPE!" By Helen Mathers. 8th Edition.
22. STORY OF A SIN. By Helen Mathers. 5th Edition.
23. EYRE'S ACQUITTAL. (Sequel.) By Helen Mathers. 4th Ed.
24. JOCK O' HAZELGREEN. By Helen Mathers. 4th Ed.
25. MY LADY GREEN SLEEVES. By Helen Mathers. 6th Ed.
26. FOUND OUT. By Helen Mathers. 103rd Thousand.
27. THE MEDLICOTTS. By Curtis Yorke. 3rd Edition.
28. THE HEART OF A MYSTERY. By T. W. Speight.
29. MAN PROPOSES. By Mrs. A. Phillips. 2nd Edition.
30. THE LAST OF THE HADDONS. By Mrs. E. Newman.
31. ALLANSON'S LITTLE WOMAN. By Eastwood Kidson.
32. LINDSAY'S GIRL. By Mrs. Herbert Martin. 2nd Edition.
33. WRONGLY CONDEMNED. By Mrs. Bagot Harte.
34. THE THIRTEENTH BRYDAIN. By Margaret Moule.
35. THROUGH ANOTHER MAN'S EYES. By Eleanor Holmes.
36. MRS. WYLDE. By Linda Gardiner.
37. A PRINCE OF COMO. By E. M. Davy. 2nd Edition.
38. RUTH FARMER. By Agnes Marchbank.
39. THE LOVELY MALINCOURT. By Helen Mathers. Seventh Thousand,
40. A GARRISON ROMANCE. By Mrs. Leith Adams. 3rd Ed.
41. HARUM SCARUM. By Esme Stuart. 7th Edition.
42. A BOLT FROM THE BLUE. By Scott Graham. 3rd Edition.
43. IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT. By T. W. Speight. 2nd Edition.
44. BY VIRTUE OF HIS OFFICE. By Rowland Grey.
45. BRITOMART. By Mrs. Herbert Martin.
46. MADELON LEMOINE. By Mrs. Leith Adams.
47. THE DESIRE OF THEIR HEARTS. By Margaret Parker.
48. THE LOVE THAT NEVER DIES. By Mrs. H. H. Penrose.
49. FOR THE SAKE OF THE FAMILY. By May Crommelin.
50. BAY RONALD. By May Crommelin.
51. THE PRODIGAL'S BROTHER. By John Mackie.
52. WHOSE DEED? By Hadley Welford.
53. MURDER OR MANSLAUGHTER? By Helen Mathers.
OTHERS IN PREPARATION.