A Woman's Burden: A Novel. Hume Fergus

from you. Allow me to go."

      "Where, back to Jabez – the man who murders strangers because you starve? No, my good young lady. It is for me to save your Jabez from the gallows by retaining you – that is if – By the way, what is your full name?" he asked abruptly.

      His eyes were full upon her again. She felt herself unable to shake off their horrid fascination; all power of resistance seemed to leave her.

      "My name is Miriam Crane," she said faintly.

      "And what are you?"

      "The daughter of a sea captain."

      "H'm – respectable enough on the face of it. And how do you come to be in this plight?"

      "When my mother died, my father left me in a seaport town in charge of a friend of his, having paid my board for a year. He was lost at sea, and I was turned out of doors by his friend. I came to London thinking to get some engagement as a governess."

      "Oh, you are well educated then?"

      "Sufficiently so to teach children. But without influence or references I could get nothing. My small stock of money soon went. I pawned everything I had, even my clothes. I even tried to make a living by selling flowers, but I could not. Everywhere I went, in everything I did, I was unlucky. I sank and sank until – "

      "Until right down at the bottom I suppose you met this Jabez of yours. He is your lover?"

      "He does love me," blazed forth Miriam, "but I am an honest woman."

      "Naturally," Barton chuckled, "otherwise with your beauty you certainly would not be starving. Why are you so honest?"

      "I believe in God," her eyes sought his searchingly. "You don't," she said.

      "Perhaps not – nevertheless, I am honest too."

      "That depends what you call honest," retorted Miriam. "You have plenty of money, no doubt, so you can't very well help behaving so as to keep your freedom. But for that – "

      She hesitated, but gave him quite clearly to understand her meaning.

      "'Perhaps' again," said Barton. "You mean to say that I have not sufficiently strong incentive to be anything else – that if I had, that if I were a poor man for instance, I should probably land in prison."

      "I am quite sure you would."

      "Dear me, you seem to have made up your mind about me very definitely – it hasn't taken you long either."

      "I judge by your face. As I read it, it is a page of devil-print!"

      Barton rubbed his hands. He seemed more tickled than anything else. Certainly he was in no wise offended.

      "I believe I have found a real pearl in the gutter," he chuckled. Then he turned to her,

      "Tell me now, why did you save me from your Jabez?"

      "I did not know you then – perhaps if I had, your body would now be lying in the river."

      "And my soul – what about that?"

      "You should know – if you are a man and not an animal."

      "You are mistaken, young lady – you think me a libertine, no doubt – "

      "Oh, nothing of the kind – you are too hard even for that. If I had any doubt about it, I should not be here with you now."

      "Well, well, let us hope that after a little longer acquaintance your opinion of me will improve. For the present I wish to befriend you all I can – that at least should be a point in my favour."

      "But why – why, I ask, should you wish to befriend me? What is your object?"

      "That you shall know when the times comes. Let us resume your very interesting story."

      "You have heard it. I told you I met Jabez, and that he loves me. I suspected when he went out to-night that he was desperate – that he might steal, murder even, if by so doing he could obtain food for me – that is why I followed him, to save him, and, as it happened, I did save him, and you too."

      "And the boy who acted a jackal to your lion – who is he?"

      "Shorty – oh, he is a wicked little creature, who ought by rights to be in a reformatory."

      "Indeed. Now please attend to me, Miss Crane. I am no philanthropist, nor am I a fool, and you yourself seem willing to acquit me of any amatory intentions. You will easily believe then that it is from no feeling of sentiment that I have brought you here to-night. One strong dose of that kind of thing has lasted me through life. I suffered badly at the hands of your sex once, but once only. I am never likely to suffer again. Nevertheless, I confess that if it had not been for your beauty, I should have left you there on the bridge."

      "I am not beautiful," contradicted Miriam.

      "No? – well, you must allow me to be judge of that. I repeat, my intentions are perfectly prosaic. I am no Don Juan of gutter-girls. I see in you exactly such a person as I need for the carrying through of a scheme I have in hand."

      Miriam rose.

      "I refuse to have anything to do with it," she said emphatically.

      "Had you not better learn what it is first?"

      "No. I am sure it is vile."

      She made towards the door.

      But his eyes caught hers, and she had to yield. What power had this man over her? It was horrible. She could make no effort of body or will against him. And he stood there grinning, as she thought the devil himself might grin at the capture of a spotless soul. She sank back weakly in a chair.

      "You seem exhausted," said he. "I'll ring for Mrs. Perks. You must go to bed at once. We'll finish our little talk to-morrow. For the moment I will ask you only one more question. Who is Jabez?"

      "I refuse to tell you."

      "Tell me, who is Jabez, I say," he repeated, keeping his eyes upon her steadily.

      And she told him. But when Mrs. Perks came in, she was lying in a dead faint.

      PART I

      CHAPTER I.

      MRS. DACRE DARROW

      Mrs. Dacre Darrow was a much misunderstood woman – at least she said so frequently. Her husband, dead now some five years, had never been able to comprehend her sentimental nature; her uncle, Richard Barton, hard old cynic that he was, did not appreciate her tender heart; and the world at large could not, or would not, understand her. And so Mrs. Darrow posed as a martyr in her day and generation. The late Mr. Dacre Darrow had been a barrister and a failure. He had left her with no income and one child to rear. In this dilemma she had sought the Manor House at Lesser Thorpe, and had proposed to keep house for her Uncle Barton in return for her maintenance. Uncle Barton considered her proposition, and ended by installing both mother and son with three hundred a year in a small and quaint cottage on the outskirts of the park. This was too much altogether for Mrs. Darrow. Could a woman bear such brutal treatment silently? She thought not; nor, in fact, did she. On the contrary she abused Uncle Barton daily and hourly. When not thus occupied, she was as a rule busy in endeavouring to get money out of him, though this latter was, as she expressed it, heartbreaking work. It was rarely possible to extract from him anything beyond her stated income. Small wonder, then, that Mrs. Darrow regarded Uncle Barton as a brute and herself as a martyr.

      "Just think, dear," she wailed to her friend, Hilda Marsh, "he has five thousand a year and that large empty house, yet he lets me live in this pokey cottage. Three hundred a year! It is hardly enough to buy one's clothes."

      Hilda, occupying her favourite position before a mirror, made no reply. As the daughter of a poor doctor, and one of a large family, she considered Mrs. Darrow very well off. She could not sympathise with her in her constant grumbling. But she was wise in her generation, was Hilda, and did not argue with the widow, firstly because Mrs. Darrow never argued fairly, but dogmatised and invariably lost her temper; and secondly, because Hilda had more to lose than to gain from quarrelling with her. She was a pretty, vain, selfish girl, and calculating to boot. Mrs. Darrow's social influence in the parish was useful