A Woman's Burden: A Novel

"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 – "