A Woman's Burden: A Novel

"I want you to take the Sunday School for a fortnight, Julia – I'm going up to town."

"Oh, the Sunday School gives me a headache," protested Mrs. Darrow, who had no notion of obliging her enemy. "I haven't taught for years."

"Time you began then. Lady Dane has promised to take a class."

"Lady Dane!" Mrs. Darrow, like Tommy Moore, dearly loved a lord, and the prospect of teaching in the same room as an earl's daughter was irresistibly attractive. "Well, I'll do what you wish, Mrs. Parsley. I'm sure I'm the most unselfish woman in the world."

"Then that's all right," sniffed the vicar's wife. "I thought Lady Dane would fix it. If she isn't above it, I don't think you should be."

"I'm always ready to take my share of the parish work," said Julia. Then her curiosity began to assert itself. "What are you going up to town for?"

Mrs. Parsley waxed more amiable, and rubbed the tip of her nose.

"Well, my dear, I don't mind telling you I'm worried a good deal. I'm sorry to say Gideon Anab hasn't turned out quite what I expected. The scamp's been spending the money I gave him for his heathen companions on himself, so I'm just going up to see about it."

"You shouldn't trust such creatures. He was a vile boy that."

"He'll be a sore boy when I get hold of him. I hear he lives at Lambeth, in a horrid slum, with his grandmother. She's called Mother Mandarin. Odd name, isn't it?"

Julia pricked up her ears. She had heard the name before. She remembered distinctly hearing it mentioned by Jabez to Miriam. Even after that space of time her memory wasn't likely to fail her regarding anything detrimental to Mrs. Arkel.

"I think you'll find Miriam can tell you something about that old lady."

"Miriam? What does she know about her?" asked Mrs. Parsley sharply.

"That's more than I can tell you," replied Mrs. Darrow. "I know I heard her mention the name, because it struck me as such a curious one."

"Humph!" said Mrs. Parsley to herself. To Julia she said no more on the subject. She knew how she hated Miriam, and was not therefore reliable in anything she had to say about her. She determined to find out for herself, nevertheless, how much Miriam knew concerning the grandmother of the wicked Gideon Anab.

"What has Gerald Arkel quarrelled with his wife about?" she asked.

"That I can't tell you either," replied Mrs. Darrow, "except that it was something pretty bad."

"Anything to do with Hilda Dundas?"

"Certainly not."

"Well, don't be violent, my dear, don't be violent. I thought there might be something of that sort. Hilda's not the kind of young lady to take a loss of this sort lightly. Gerald was in love with her remember before he married. He has quarrelled with his wife now, and Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do."

"I don't understand you at all," said Mrs. Darrow testily.

"No? Perhaps you will in time, my dear," and the vicar's wife marched out of the room.

It was not long before Mrs. Darrow did understand. For, within a month, it was common talk in Lesser Thorpe that Hilda Dundas had eloped to the Continent with Gerald Arkel.

CHAPTER VIII.

MRS. PARSLEY SEES A GHOST

One afternoon, some twelve months later, Miriam sat sewing in the drawing-room of the little flat at Rosary Mansions. The work she had in hand was a nether garment intended for old Mother Mandarin, whom for long past she had been trying to reform. But Mother Mandarin did not want to be reformed, though she sadly wanted nether garments. The only wants to which she confessed – which indeed she expressed – were gin, tobacco, and what she termed "blunt," this latter being her playful way of referring to the coin of the realm. For years she had inhabited her den in the Lambeth slums, where she was wont to receive all sorts and conditions of men – Lascars, Chinamen, and Europeans of every nationality. At eighty-five she was not inclined for learning any new tricks, and though Miriam – now on outside charity bent, it having of necessity ceased at home – did everything she knew to bring her to a sense of what was right and decent in life, Mother Mandarin was not to be roused to any degree of enthusiasm. Cleanly ways were not her ways, and her ways for the last five-and-eighty years had been good enough for her.

Still Miriam continued to persevere, choosing this neighbourhood for her work because it was known to her, and because more than any other neighbourhood it appeared to her to be crying out in misery for help. It held so many who seemed hopelessly bogged in the mire of the great city, and the thought that she had succeeded in persuading some few of these young men and women to a better life, was the greatest possible solace to her in her own trouble. And so she came to be known in the purlieus of the Archiepiscopal palace almost as well as that venerable building itself.

She felt very lonely at this time. The ingratitude and utter heartlessness of Gerald had come upon her as a blow from which she seemed wholly unable to recover. Since his flight with Hilda she had received no word from him save one short message from Paris to the effect that she was quite at liberty to divorce him if she choose. But against this she held out firmly, although Dundas, who was less rigid in his views, did his best to persuade her to grasp the opportunity. He himself had done so long since, and had of course experienced no difficulty in the doing of it. But Miriam remained firm on the point. And the worthy Major felt this hard to bear, for it closed his mouth effectually, and obliged him to refrain from asking the one question in the world he longed to ask. He could only live in hope that his constancy would tell, and that in the end she would give way. He sought what consolation he could in his profession. He withdrew from all social life, lived quietly on his income, and devoted himself body and soul to his work, striving thereby to drive into abeyance the one great longing of his life. For he loved Miriam Crane as he verily believed man never loved woman in this world before.

From the lawyers to the estate Miriam received her income regularly, and seeing that it had been left her by Barton himself, and in nowise entrenched upon her husband's moneys, she had no compunction in taking it. From Gerald she would have starved rather than accept a penny. She heard of him from time to time, and of the gay life he and Hilda were leading at various pleasure resorts on the Continent. They were, from all accounts, spending money lavishly and wallowing in what to them was the enjoyment of life. They neither of them possessed either heart or conscience to mar their happiness. They gratified every whim, and achieved at length complete satiety of the world, its pleasures – and themselves.

Furious indeed had been Dr. and Mrs. Marsh when they heard of their daughter's elopement, and still more furious when it became known to them that the two were passing under Hilda's maiden name. But righteous and deeply rooted as was their indignation, taking many divers forms in its expression, it did not take the particular form which might have made for a cessation of the income allowed them by the partner of their daughter's lapse from virtue. For in truth it was not so much the lapse from virtue itself which they deplored, as the consequent and inevitable social fall which it entailed. Never for one moment did it strike them that they themselves had been in any way to blame. They had sold her to the highest bidder – indeed they had helped no little in the bidding – and they had received and were still receiving the price. It was she who had played her cards so badly. So they looked at it. But gradually they were forced to realise that so Lesser Thorpe did not look at it: for Lesser Thorpe well knew their present source of income. And ere long the little community showed so very plainly how it felt that, with many regrets, Dr. and Mrs. Marsh decided to seek a cooler climate.

This they eventually found in a small market town on the borders of Wales, where the doctor – he had contrived to save a certain amount of Gerald Arkel's money – purchased a small practice, and commenced to thrive. And as they throve, so, slowly and by degrees, did these good people turn their backs upon their fallen daughter, and more slowly and by smaller degrees upon the man who had brought about her downfall. And henceforth, since they pass out of this story, we may turn our backs on them.

Miriam stitched away at Mother Mandarin's nether garment until a knock came to the door. She started as she heard it, because visitors were few and far between with her now, and so much trouble had come upon her that she was apprehensive of more. She waited to see who it was. Then the door was thrown open, and Jabez was shown in – not the Jabez jaunty and of gay attire whom last she had seen, but the Jabez she had known of old – Jabez come assuredly to ask for alms. Added to his otherwise dejected appearance he seemed to her to be completely broken down in health. Instantly all that great fount of pity in her was touched. She had not seen him since the time when in that same room he had come face to face with Major Dundas, and she had been forced to confess her relationship with him. She waited for him to speak. The words of welcome would not come.

"As usual you prefer my room to my company," he said, with a scowl, throwing himself down on the sofa.

"I am so surprised – I – I haven't seen you for a year or more, you must remember."

"And you would rather I'd made it two I've no doubt."

"I've never given you cause to speak like that," she answered. "I made inquiries about you – I felt anxious. But they did tell me at Mother Mandarin's that they had seen nothing of you. I concluded you must have left the country again."

"So I did. That Major of yours nearly spotted me last time I was here. I thought I'd better skip."

"Yes, he did spot you, as you call it," replied Miriam quietly. "But I persuaded him to leave you alone. I had some difficulty. But when I told him our relationship he consented."

"Damn! if I'd known that I wouldn't have skipped. Why the devil didn't 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 wellOr 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?"