A Woman's Burden Part 44

"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?"

"Yes; is it so utterly impossible? Come, my dear, I don't deny he's good looking, but there _are_ other men in the world you know. They've been going it properly, I can tell you. The Manor House is mortgaged--that I could have told you three months ago; in fact, now she's spent his money for him, he has ceased to be so far as she is concerned, and she hasn't lost much time in nominating his successor either--she's gone off with an American millionaire. What d'you think of that? They're in Florence, I believe."

"Poor Gerald," she said slowly. "He has reaped his whirlwind."

"And why not; he sowed it, goodness knows. You don't mean to tell me you pity him? There!--I do believe I'm right, you--no!--you wouldn't go to the fellow now?"

"Only if he were ill--if he were dying would I go to him. When he left me that night in this very room, I told him when I saw him again it would be on his death-bed. When the end comes I shall be there."

Mrs. Parsley rose and kissed her. She could not but admire deep down in her soul the unswerving steadfastness of this woman. It touched her more than anything in life had touched her for years past; for she had a very tender heart had Mrs. Parsley.

"You are a silly fool, my dear," she said, "a great big silly donkey. We are both silly donkeys, I believe, when it comes to the point. But after the way that man's insulted you--well, most women would have liked to dance a polka on his grave."

"You wouldn't--if he had been _your_ husband."

"P'r'aps not--but although I said I was a donkey, not in my most asinine moments would I have gone as far as that. Gerald Arkel should never have been _my_ husband. And if he had, that hussy would never have got him--that I swear! But you, dear, you've just been soft soap in their hands; you're so good-natured and gentle and sweet, that I could--but there, I love you for it all the more."

So saying, Mrs. Parsley expressed her affection in a warm embrace, and seeing it was hurtful to her friend, changed the subject.

She was never at a loss for a topic. There were all sorts of parochial and urban schemes to be discussed, among the latter a new home for strayed street boys, which the good lady had established in one of the Lambeth lanes. She was now well known in that neighbourhood, and though she had her people under well nigh despotic rule, was none the less beloved on that account. Even the recalcitrant Mother Mandarin yielded to her. As for the street boys, who were her especial care, she had banged so many of their heads together, that they now no longer swore at her so much as they swore by her. By sheer persistence and strength to enforce her commands, she had brought about a cleansing nothing short of Augean. Her sway was absolute as that of any Caesar--her methods every whit as drastic and vastly more beneficial.

"Do you know I had rather a shock last week, Miriam?" said Mrs. Parsley, rubbing her nose.

"Did you; how?"

"Well, that wretched Gideon Anab--no, he shan't be called Gideon Anab since he has fallen away from grace--that wretched Shorty has gone back to live with his disreputable old grandmother!"

"You don't say so; and where has he been all this time?"

"Somewhere in Whitechapel, I believe. I know he went off last year with five pounds of my money. I'm disappointed in that boy, Miriam. I thought his instincts were good, and that if he had the chance he'd rise. But he hasn't; he's taken a rise out of me instead!"

"The young vagabond he wants a good flogging."

"No good, my dear. Take my word for it, when they're past me they're past everything. However, he has promised a lot now, and we're going to begin over again, Miriam, my dear, for the last time. But I haven't told you what really gave me the shock. How old do you think the wretch is?"

"Oh, I don't know; about sixteen."

"He's twenty-three! You may well stare. It's perfectly true. Not that he hasn't wickedness for ninety-nine; still, even now I don't despair of him. I'll lead him to the stool of repentance yet, if I have to lead him by the ear."

"I rather think that's about the only way you'll ever lead him in that particular direction," said Miriam drily.

Mrs. Parsley rubbed her nose with more than her usual vigour. Miriam waited, taking it as an infallible sign that there was more to come. The old lady looked troubled and embarra.s.sed.

"Of course," she began, "the boy's an awful liar; still----" she hesitated.

"Oh, do go on, please."

"Yes; I think you ought to know. Well, Shorty, amongst other things, has had a fit--don't be alarmed, dear, on his account, he's all right--the devil looks after his own--a fit of repentance, or what stands for such with him. Anyway, he's been confessing certain facts which are rather serious for your brother Jabez. It appears he saw him hanging round the Manor House on that Christmas night--in fact, he saw him in the library with Barton."

"I don't believe it," cried Miriam vehemently. "Why, I had that letter from him from London----"

"Exactly, my dear; but you saw him afterwards at Southampton remember.

The fact is, Shorty hints pretty plainly that Jabez killed Mr. Barton!

and although it's terribly painful to me to say, all things considered, it does look very like it. You know, dear, it can be no surprise to us to learn that he is capable of murder."

"No; I know. What can I say--it may be so; yes, it may be so. But, dear Mrs. Parsley, I don't believe it is, I really don't. I saw him in Southampton it is true, but--oh, I don't know what to say. What shall I do?"

"Do? There's nothing for you to do. Only if Jabez is wise he'll clear out, that's all. You see, dear, if this is the truth, and he know it, we can't condone it. He must be got away. That's his only chance. In an affair of this kind his past life would handicap him greatly, you mustn't forget that."

"Would to G.o.d that I could."

"Well, well, you must keep calm, Miriam dear; it was best I should tell you. We'll do nothing hastily. We'll see Major Dundas first. Only you see my position. If this boy persists in what he says, he'll have to be taken to the police--there's no help for it."

"_No_--I see." She seemed completely stunned by this fresh blow.

Mrs. Parsley rose to go.

"Now, Miriam dear, just turn things quietly over in your own mind--I must go before it gets any later, I've lots of things to do, and I want very much to catch the five o'clock. There's nothing to worry about for the moment. Only we must act rightly and circ.u.mspectly, that's all. You know, dear, I would not be the one to bring more trouble upon you. I want to lighten what exists. Now don't be silly, there's a dear girl."

Then she kissed her and hurried away.

From the window Miriam watched her slopping through the rain with her vigorous stride and her skirts half way up to her knees. She thought what a good creature she was--almost the only friend she had in the world; almost, because there was one other, whom she felt she could trust with her life. He would surely help her now, as he had always been ready to help her in the past.

Sick at heart she returned to her chair by the fire, and meditated on this new trouble which threatened her. And the more she thought the more bewildered she seemed to become. A knock at the door roused her. Would that girl ever learn to answer the bell within five minutes of its being rung? At last her mind was put at rest, for the Major, looking very much himself, was shown into the room.

"I've come to see if you'll take pity on me, Mrs. Arkel," he said, "so far as to give me a morsel of dinner. I've taken what the Scotch call a 'scunner' at my club."

"Of course I will, though I fear it will be little more than a morsel,"

replied Miriam. "Put your hat and coat in the hall--I'm so glad you've come."

This was sweet music to the Major's ears. But he noticed she seemed nervous and not quite herself.

"Nothing wrong, I hope," he said.