A Woman's Burden: A Novel

"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 – !"