Fergus Hume

by A Woman's Burden (html)

  "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 th
e 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.