A Woman's Burden: A Novel

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 – "