A CRUEL WOMAN

"Jus' say your meanin', my pretty queen," said Mrs. Tawsey, as she stood at the sitting-room door, and watched Sylvia reading an ill-written letter. "It's twelve now, and I kin be back by five, arter a long, and enjiable tork with Matilder."

"You certainly must go," replied Sylvia, handing back the letter. "I am sure your sister will be glad to see you, Debby."

Deborah sniffed and scratched her elbow. "Relatives ain't friends in our family," she said, shaking her head, "whatever you may say, my deary-sweet. Father knocked mother int' lunatics arter she'd nagged 'im to drunk an' police-cells. Three brothers I 'ad, and all of 'em that 'andy with their fistises as they couldn't a-bear to live in 'armony without black eyes and swolled bumps all over them. As to Matilder, she an' me never did, what you might call, hit it orf, by reason of 'er not givin' way to me, as she should ha' done, me bein' the youngest and what you might call the baby of the lot. We ain't seen each other fur years, and the meetin' will be cold. She'll not have much forgiveness fur me bein' a bride, when she's but a lone cross-patch, drat her."

"Don't quarrel with her, Debby. She has written you a very nice letter, asking you to go down to Mrs. Krill's house in Kensington, and she really wants to see you before she goes back to Christchurch to-night."

"Well, I'll go," said Deborah, suddenly; "but I don't like leavin' you all by your own very self, my sunflower."

"I'll be all right, Debby. Paul comes at four o'clock, and you'll be back at five."

"Sooner, if me an' Matilder don't hit if orf, or if we hit each other, which, knowin' 'er 'abits, I do expects. But Bart's out till six, and there won't be anyone to look arter them as washes—four of 'em," added Mrs. Tawsey, rubbing her nose, "and as idle as porkpines."

"Mrs. Purr can look after them."

"Look arter gin more like," said Deborah, contemptuously. "She's allays suckin', sly-like, tryin' to purtend as it's water, as if the smell didn't give it away, whatever the color may be. An' here she is, idling as usual. An' may I arsk, Mrs. Purr ma'am," demanded Deborah with great politeness, "wot I pays you fur in the way of ironin'?"

But Mrs. Purr was too excited to reply. She brushed past her indignant mistress and faced Sylvia, waving a dirty piece of paper. "Lor', miss," she almost screamed, "you do say as you want t'know where that limb Tray 'ave got to—"

"Yes—yes," said Sylvia, rising, "he escaped from Mr. Hurd, and we want to find him very much."

"It's a letter from 'im," said Mrs. Purr, thrusting the paper into Sylvia's hand; "tho' 'ow he writes, not 'avin' bin to a board school, I dunno. He's in a ken at Lambith, and ill at that. Want's me t'go an' see 'im. But I can't leave the ironin'."

"Yuss y' can," said Deborah, suddenly; "this erringd is ness'ary, Mrs. Purr ma'am, so jes' put on your bunnet, an' go to Mr. Hurd as 'as 'is orfice at Scotlan' Yard, and take 'im with you."

"Oh! but I couldn't—"

"You go," advised Mrs. Tawsey. "There's five pounds offered for the brat's bein' found."

"Five pun!" gasped Mrs. Purr, trembling. "Lor', and me 'avin' a chanct of gittin' it. I'll go—I'll go. I knows the Yard, 'avin' 'ad summat to do with them dirty perlice in my time. Miss Sylvia—"

"Yes, go, Mrs. Purr, and see Mr. Hurd. He'll give you the five pounds if you take him to Tray." Sylvia handed back the paper. "Tray seems to be ill."

"Ill or well, he sha'n't lose me five pun, if I 'ave to drag 'im to the lock-up m'self," said Mrs. Purr, resolutely. "Where's my bunnet—my shawl—oh lor'—five pun! Them is as good allays gits rewards," and she hurried out, hardly able to walk for excitement.

"There's a nice ole party fur you, Miss Sylvia?"

"Debby," said the girl, thoughtfully. "You take her to the Yard to see Mr. Hurd, and then go to Kensington to speak with your sister."

"Well, I'll go, as importance it is," said Mrs. Tawsey, rubbing her nose harder than ever. "But I 'opes you won't be lone, my poppet-dovey."

"Oh, no," said Sylvia, kissing her, and pushing her towards the door. "I'll look after those four women in the wash-house, and read this new book I have. Then I must get tea ready for Paul, who comes at four. The afternoon will pass quite quickly."

"I'll be back at five if I can, and earlier if Matilder ain't what she oughter be," said Mrs. Tawsey, yielding. "So make yourself 'appy, honey, till you sees me smilin' again."

In another quarter of an hour Mrs. Tawsey, dressed in her bridal gown and bonnet so as to crush Matilda with the sight of her splendor, walked down the garden path attended by Mrs. Purr in a snuffy black shawl, and a kind of cobweb on her head which she called a "bunnet." As Deborah was tall and in white and Mrs. Purr small and in black, they looked a strange pair. Sylvia waved her hand out of the window to Debby, as that faithful creature turned her head for a final look at the young mistress she idolized. The large, rough woman was dog-like in her fidelity.

Sylvia, left alone, proceeded to arrange matters. She went to the wash-house, which was detached from the cottage, and saw that the four women, who worked under Deborah, were busy. She found them all chattering and washing in a cheerful way, so, after a word or two of commendation, she returned to the sitting-room. Here she played a game of patience, arranged the tea-things although it was yet early, and finally settled down to one of Mrs. Henry Wood's interesting novels. She was quite alone and enjoyed the solitude. The wash-house was so far away, at the end of the yard, that the loud voices of the workers could not be heard. The road before Rose Cottage was not a popular thoroughfare, and it was rarely that anyone passed. Out of the window Sylvia could see a line of raw, red-brick villas, and sometimes a spurt of steam, denoting the presence of the railway station. Also, she saw the green fields and the sere hedges with the red berries, giving promise of a hard winter. The day was sunny but cold, and there was a feeling of autumnal dampness in the air. Deborah had lighted a fire before she went, that her mistress might be comfortable, so Sylvia sat down before this and read for an hour, frequently stopping to think of Paul, and wonder if he would come at the appointed hour of four or earlier. What with the warmth, and the reading, and the dreaming, she fell into a kind of doze, from which she was awakened by a sharp and peremptory knock. Wondering if her lover had unexpectedly arrived, though she did not think he would rap in so decided a manner, Sylvia rubbed the sleep out of her pretty eyes and hurried to the door. On the step she came face to face with Miss Maud Krill.

"Do you know me, Miss Norman?" asked Maud, who was smiling and suave, though rather white in the face.

"Yes. You came with your mother to Gwynne Street," replied Sylvia, wondering why she had been honored with a visit.

"Quite so. May I have a few minutes' conversation with you?"

"Certainly." Sylvia saw no reason to deny this request, although she did not like Miss Krill. But it struck her that something might be learned from that young woman relative to the murder, and thought she would have something to tell Paul about when he arrived. "Will you walk in, please," and she threw open the sitting-room door.

"Are you quite alone?" asked Maud, entering, and seating herself in the chair near the fire.

"Quite," answered Sylvia, stiffly, and wondering why the question was asked; "that is, the four washerwomen are in the place at the back. But Mrs. Tawsey went to your house to see her sister."

"She arrived before I left," said Maud, coolly. "I saw them quarrelling in a most friendly way. Where is Mr. Beecot?"

"I expect him later."

"And Bart Tawsey who married your nurse?"

"He is absent on his rounds. May I ask why you question me in this way, Miss Krill?" asked Sylvia, coldly.

"Because I have much to say to you which no one else must hear," was the calm reply. "Dear me, how hot this fire is!" and she moved her chair so that it blocked Sylvia's way to the door. Also, Miss Krill cast a glance at the window. It was not snibbed, and she made a movement as if to go to it; but, restraining herself, she turned her calm, cold face to the girl. "I have much to say to you," she repeated.

"Indeed," replied Sylvia, politely, "I don't think you have treated me so well that you should trouble to converse with me. Will you please to be brief. Mr. Beecot is coming at four, and he will not be at all pleased to see you."

Maud glanced at the clock. "We have an hour," she said coldly; "it is just a few minutes after three. My business will not take long," she added, with an unpleasant smile.

"What is your business?" asked Sylvia, uneasily, for she did not like the smile.

"If you will sit down, I'll tell you."

Miss Norman took a chair near the wall, and as far from her visitor as was possible in so small a room. Maud took from her neck a black silk handkerchief which she wore, evidently as a protection against the cold, and folding it lengthways, laid it across her lap. Then she looked at Sylvia, in a cold, critical way. "You are very pretty, my dear," she said insolently.

"Did you come to tell me that?" asked the girl, firing up at the tone.

"No. I came to tell you that my mother was arrested last night for the murder of our father."

"Oh," Sylvia gasped and lay back on her chair, "she killed him, that cruel woman."

"She did not," cried Maud, passionately, "my mother is perfectly innocent. That blackguard Hurd arrested her wrongfully. I overheard all the conversation he had with her, and know that he told a pack of lies. My mother did not kill our father."

"My father, not yours," said Sylvia, firmly.

"How dare you. Lemuel Krill was my father."

"No," insisted Sylvia. "I don't know who your father was. But from your age, I know that you are not—"

"Leave my age alone," cried the other sharply, and with an uneasy movement of her hands; "we won't discuss that, or the question of my father. We have more interesting things to talk about."

"I won't talk to you at all," said Sylvia, rising.

"Sit down and listen. You shall hear me. I am not going to let my mother suffer for a deed she never committed, nor am I going to let you have the money."

"It is mine."

"It is not, and you shall not get it."

"Paul—Mr. Beecot will assert my rights."

"Will he indeed," said the other, with a glance at the clock; "we'll see about that. There's no time to be lost. I have much to say—"

"Nothing that can interest me."

"Oh, yes. I think you will find our conversation very interesting. I am going to be open with you, for what I tell you will never be told by you to any living soul."

"If I see fit it shall," cried Sylvia in a rage; "how dare you dictate to me."

"Because I am driven into a corner. I wish to save my mother—how it is to be done I don't know. And I wish to stop you getting the five thousand a year. I know how that is to be done," ended Miss Krill, with a cruel smile and a flash of her white, hungry-looking teeth; "you rat of a girl—"

"Leave the room."

"When I please, not before. You listen to me. I'm going to tell you about the murder—"

"Oh," said Sylvia, turning pale, "what do you mean?"

"Listen," said the other, with a taunting laugh, "you'll be white enough before I've done with you. Do you see this," and she laid her finger on her lips; "do you see this scar? Krill did that." Sylvia noticed that she did not speak of Krill as her father this time; "he pinned my lips together when I was a child with that opal serpent."

"I know," replied Sylvia, shuddering, "it was cruel. I heard about it from the detective and—"

"I don't wish for your sympathy. I was a girl of fifteen when that was done, and I will carry the scar to my grave. Child as I was then, I vowed revenge—"

"On your father," said Sylvia, contemptuously.

"Krill is not my father," said Maud, changing front all at once; "he is yours, but not mine. My father is Captain Jessop. I have known this for years. Captain Jessop told me I was his daughter. My mother thought that my father was drowned at sea, and so married Krill, who was a traveller in jewellery. He and my mother rented 'The Red Pig' at Christchurch, and for years they led an unhappy life."

"Oh," gasped Sylvia, "you confess. I'll tell Paul."

"You'll tell no one," retorted the other woman sharply. "Do you think I would speak so openly in order that you might tell all the world with your gabbling tongue? Yes, and I'll speak more openly still before I leave. Lady Rachel Sandal did not commit suicide as my mother said. She was strangled, and by me."

Sylvia clapped her hands to her face with a scream. "By you?"

"Yes. She had a beautiful brooch. I wanted it. I was put to bed by my mother, and kept thinking of the brooch. My mother was down the stairs attending to your drunken father. I stole to Lady Rachel's room and found her asleep. I tried to take the brooch from her breast. She woke and caught at my hand. But I tore away the brooch and before Lady Rachel could scream, I twisted the silk handkerchief she wore, which was already round her throat, tighter. I am strong—I was always strong, even as a girl of fifteen. She was weak from exhaustion, so she soon died. My mother came into the room and saw what I had done. She was terrified, and made me go back to bed. Then she tied Lady Rachel by the silk handkerchief to the bedpost, so that it might be thought she had committed suicide. My mother then came back to me and took the brooch, telling me I might be hanged, if it was found on me. I was afraid, being only a girl, and gave up the brooch. Then Captain Jessop raised the alarm. I and my mother went downstairs, and my mother dropped the brooch on the floor, so that it might be supposed Lady Rachel had lost it there. Captain Jessop ran out. I wanted to give the alarm, and tell the neighbors that Krill had done it—for I knew then he was not my father, and I saw, moreover, how unhappy he made my mother. He caught me," said Maud, with a fierce look, "and bound a handkerchief across my mouth. I got free and screamed. Then he bound me hand and foot, and pinned my lips together with the brooch which he picked off the floor. My mother fought for me, but he knocked her down. Then he fled, and after a long time Jessop came in. He removed the brooch from my mouth and unbound me. I was put to bed, and Jessop revived my mother. Then came the inquest, and it was thought that Lady Rachel had committed suicide. But she did not," cried Maud, exultingly, and with a cruel light in her eyes, "I killed her—I—"

"Oh," moaned Sylvia, backing against the wall with widely open eyes; "don't tell me more—what horrors!"

"Bah, you kitten," sneered Maud, contemptuously, "I have not half done yet. You have yet to hear how I killed Krill."

Sylvia shrieked, and sank back in her chair, staring with horrified eyes at the cruel face before her.

"Yes," cried Maud, exultingly, "I killed him. My mother suspected me, but she never knew for certain. Listen. When Hay told me that Krill was hiding as Norman in Gwynne Street I determined to punish him for his cruelty to me. I did not say this, but I made Hay promise to get me the brooch from Beecot—on no other condition would I marry him. I wanted the brooch to pin Krill's lips together as he had pinned mine, when I was a helpless child. But your fool of a lover would not part with the brooch. Tray, the boy, took it from Beecot's pocket when he met with that accident—"

"How do you know Tray?"

"Because I met him at Pash's office several times when I was up. He ran errands for Pash before he became regularly employed. I saw that Tray was a devil, of whom I could make use. Oh, I know Tray, and I know also Hokar the Indian, who placed the sugar on the counter. He went to the shop to kill your father at my request. I wanted revenge and the money. Hokar was saved from starvation by my good mother. He came of the race of Thugs, if you know anything about them—"

"Oh," moaned Sylvia, covering her face again.

"Ah, you do. So much the better. It will save my explaining, as there is not much time left before your fool arrives. Hokar saw that I loved to hurt living creatures, and he taught me how to strangle cats and dogs and things. No one knew but Hokar that I killed them, and it was thought he ate them. But he didn't. I strangled them because I loved to see them suffer, and because I wished to learn how to strangle in the way the Thugs did."

Sylvia was sick with fear and disgust. "For God's sake, don't tell me any more," she said imploringly.

But she might as well have spoken to a granite rock. "You shall hear everything," said Maud, relentlessly. "I asked Hokar to strangle Krill. He went to the shop, but, when he saw that Krill had only one eye, he could not offer him to the goddess Bhowanee. He came to me at Judson's hotel, after he left the sugar on the counter, and told me the goddess would not accept the offering of a maimed man. I did not know what to do. I went with my mother to Pash's office, when she was arranging to prosecute Krill for bigamy. I met Tray there. He told me he had given the brooch to Pash, and that it was in the inner office. My mother was talking to Pash within and I chatted to Tray outside. I told Tray I wanted to kill Krill, and that if he would help me, I would give him a lot of money. He agreed, for he was a boy such as I was when a girl, fond of seeing things suffer. You can't wonder at it in me," went on Miss Krill, coolly; "my grandmother was hanged for poisoning my grandfather, and I expect I inherit the love of murder from her—"

"I won't listen," cried Sylvia, shuddering.

"Oh, yes, you will. I'll soon be done," went on her persecutor, cruelly. "Well, then, when I found Tray was like myself I determined to get the brooch and hurt Krill—hurt him as he hurt me," she cried vehemently. "Tray told me of the cellar and of the side passage. When my mother and Pash came out of the inner office and went to the door, I ran in and took the brooch. It was hidden under some papers and had escaped my mother's eye. But I searched till I got it. Then I made an appointment with Tray for eleven o'clock at the corner of Gwynne Street. I went back to Judson's hotel, and my mother and I went to the theatre. We had supper and retired to bed. That is, my mother did. We had left the theatre early, as my mother had a headache, and I had plenty of time. Mother fell asleep almost immediately. I went downstairs veiled, and in dark clothes. I slipped past the night porter and met Tray. We went by the side passage to the cellar. Thinking we were customers Krill let us in. Tray locked the door, and I threw myself on Krill. He had not been drinking much or I might not have mastered him. As it was, he was too terrified when he recognized me to struggle. In fact he fainted. With Tray's assistance I bound his hands behind his back, and then we enjoyed ourselves," she rubbed her hands together, looking more like a fiend than a woman.

Sylvia rose and staggered to the door. "No more—no more."

Maud pushed her back into her chair. "Stop where you are, you whimpering fool!" she snarled exultingly, "I have you safe." Then she continued quickly and with another glance at the clock, the long hand of which now pointed to a quarter to four, "with Tray's assistance I carried Krill up to the shop. Tray found an auger and bored a hole in the floor. Then I picked up a coil of copper wire, which was being used in packing things for Krill to make his escape. I took it up. We laid Krill's neck over the hole, and passed the wire round his neck and through the hole. Tray went down and tied a cross stick on the end of the wire, so that he could put his weight on it when we strangled—"

"Oh—great heaven," moaned Sylvia, stopping her ears.

Maud bent over her and pulled her hands away. "You shall hear you little beast," she snarled. "All the time Krill was sensible. He recovered his senses after he was bound. I prolonged his agony as much as possible. When Tray went down to see after the wire, I knelt beside Krill and told him that I knew I was not his daughter, that I intended to strangle him as I had strangled Lady Rachel. He shrieked with horror. That was the cry you heard, you cat, and which brought you downstairs. I never expected that," cried Maud, clapping her hands; "that was a treat for Krill I never intended. I stopped his crying any more for assistance by pinning his mouth together, as he had done mine over twenty years before. Then I sat beside him and taunted him. I heard the policeman pass, and the church clock strike the quarter. Then I heard footsteps, and guessed you were coming. It occurred to me to give you a treat by strangling the man before your eyes, and punish him more severely, since the brooch stopped him calling out—as it stopped me—me," she cried, striking her breast.

"Oh, how could you—how could—"

"You feeble thing," said Maud, contemptuously, and patting the girl's cheek, "you would not have done it I know. But I loved it—I loved it! That was living indeed. I went down to the cellar and fastened the door behind me. Tray was already pressing on the cross stick at the end of the wire, and laughed as he pressed. But I stopped him. I heard you and that woman enter the shop, and heard what you said. I prolonged Krill's agony, and then I pressed the wire down myself for such a time as I thought it would take to squeeze the life out of the beast. Then with Tray I locked the cellar door and left by the side passage. We dodged all the police and got into the Strand. I did not return to the hotel, but walked about with Tray all the night talking with—joy," cried Maud, clapping her hands, "with joy, do you hear. When it was eight I went to Judson's. The porter thought I had been out for an early walk. My mother—"

Here Maud broke off, for Sylvia, who was staring over her shoulder out of the window saw a form she knew well at the gate. "Paul—Paul," she shrieked, "come—come!"

Maud whipped the black silk handkerchief round the girl's neck. "You shall never get that money," she whispered cruelly, "you shall never tell anyone what I have told you. Now I'll show you how Hokar taught me," she jerked the handkerchief tight. But Sylvia got her hand under the cruel bandage and shrieked aloud in despair. At once she heard an answering shriek. It was the voice of Deborah.

Maud darted to the door and locked it. Then she returned and, flinging Sylvia down, tried again to tighten the handkerchief, her face white and fierce and her eyes glittering like a demon's.

"Help—help!" cried Sylvia, and her voice grew weaker. But she struggled and kept her hands between the handkerchief and her throat. Maud tried to drag them away fiercely. Deborah was battering frantically at the door. Paul ran round to the window. It was not locked, and Maud, struggling with Sylvia had no time to close it. With a cry of alarm Paul threw up the window and jumped into the room. At the same moment Deborah, putting her sturdy shoulder to the frail door, burst it open. Beecot flung himself on the woman and dragged her back. But she clung like a leech to Sylvia with the black handkerchief in her grip. Deborah, silent and fierce, grabbed at the handkerchief, and tore it from Maud's grasp. Sylvia, half-strangled, fell back in a faint, white as a corpse, while Paul struggled with the savage and baffled woman.

"You've killed her," shouted Deborah, and laid her strong hands on Maud, "you devil!" She shook her fiercely. "I'll kill you," and she shook her again.

Paul threw himself on his knees beside the insensible form of Sylvia and left Deborah to deal with Maud. That creature was gasping as Mrs. Tawsey swung her to and fro. Then she began to fight, and the two women crashed round the little room, upsetting the furniture. Paul took Sylvia in his arms, and shrank against the wall to protect her.

A new person suddenly appeared. No less a woman than Matilda. When she saw Maud in Deborah's grip she flew at her sister like a tigress and dragged her off. Maud was free for a moment. Seeing her chance she scrambled out of the window, and ran through the garden down the road towards the station. Perhaps she had a vague idea of escape. Deborah, exerting her great strength, threw Matilda aside, and without a cry ran out of the house and after the assassin who had tried to strangle Sylvia. Matilda, true to her salt, ran also, to help Maud Krill, and the two women sped in the wake of the insane creature who was swiftly running in the direction of the station. People began to look round, a crowd gathered like magic, and in a few moments Maud was being chased by quite a mob of people. She ran like a hare. Heaven only knows if she hoped to escape after her failure to kill Sylvia, but she ran on blindly. Into the new street of Jubileetown she sped with the roaring mob at her heels. She darted down a side thoroughfare, but Deborah gained on her silently and with a savage look in her eyes. Several policemen joined in the chase, though no one knew what the flying woman had done. Maud turned suddenly up the slope that led to the station. She gained the door, darted through it, upset the man at the barrier and with clenched fists stood at bay, her back to the rails. Deborah darted forward—Maud gave a wild scream and sprang aside: then she reeled and fell over the platform. The next moment a train came slowing into the station, and immediately the wretched woman was under the cruel wheels. When she was picked up she was dead and almost cut to pieces. Lady Rachel and Lemuel Krill were revenged.

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