MYRA'S FRIENDS.

Lake County Press, Issue 975, 15 August 1901, Page 2

MYRA'S FRIENDS.

By Phcebe Hart, Author of 'A Lovely Treat,' 'The Lost Letter,' etc., etc. Sergeant Burton, detective, dispensed with the ceremony of knocking at the door of the first room "on the third floor of No. 56 Little Carlton street. He walked in quietly without heralding his approach m any manner. The room was poorly furnished. There was a bed in the corner, and the counterpane covered a motionless figure. There was a fire stacked almost to the chimney, and on it was a bronchitis kettle, its long spout sending forth hissing steam; and there was another kettle. A man in nis shirt sleeves was sitting in front of the fire, and was fanning the steam with his hand on to what appeared at first to be a small bundle of flannel lying on his left arm. "That's my man," thought Sergeant Burton. And he already saw himself handing over £2OO into Mrs Burton's keeping, to be put aside with the other savings. He closed the door as quietly as he had opened it, and walked up to the fireplace. He touched the man on the shoulder as he said : "Fenton Kershaw, I arrest you for tne robbery of bank notes, amounting to £IO,OOO, the property of Messrs Curtain and Pegwell, bankers) Fleet street." Fenton Kershaw started and turned to look at his visitor, but he continued fanning the steam on to the bundle of flannel, which disclosed on nearer inspection a little streaked face framed with dark brown hair. " Caught!" he said laconically ; then gave his attention again to the struggling child in his arms. Sergeant Burton moved to the other side of the table to have a better view of what was going on. "Don't be afraid; I shan't cut," said Kershaw. Mr Burton smiled. "I'm not afraid you will." he replied. "I haven't tracked you all this time to let you give me the slip. What's the matter with the young 'un?" "A rare* and bad case of croup and convulsions." "Phew! And the missus? She's oyer there, isn't she?" "Yes." "I knew she was ill, and I thought you'd come to her. Can I do anything for her?" " Nothing, thanks." " Asleep ?" „ " Fas', fas' asleep! as Myra would say. Something in his voice made Burton walk over to the bed. "You don't mean " he began. "Yes, I do. She died this afternoon." Thomas Burton took off his hat, and there was a long silence. Then he came back to the fireplace and sat down. "Very hot here!" he remarked, unbuttoning his thick overcoat... "I have to keep up the temperature." "What are these saucepans of boiling water for in the fender?" "Readv to fill the kettles, and for a bath if needed; and they help to keep the air damp." " Golly ! Something keeps the air damp. You look as if you're in a Turkish bath. How long have you been at this game?" " Five hours. The doctor couldn't get a nurse, and I didn't want to have one, if possible. He guesses there's something wrong. I had to take those things offhe pointed to some iron-grey whiskers and a pair of spectacles on the mantelpiece — " Myra wouldn't come to me unless I did. He "told me nobody could do more for her than what he told" me to do. If she gets over to-night she. may live. He's coming back early in the morning; he doesn't expect to find her alive. You won't take me awav from her till he comes or sends somebody? I couldn't get anybody in this hole of a place to take proper care of her for a minute." Sergeant Burton coughed. "You'll get your two hundred pounds reward just the same," continued Kershaw. "I might have to share it with somebody if I wait long enough." "Well, go and report then." The detective grinned. "Thanks!" he said. , . . "Do you think I'd bolt? Do you think I'd play you false?" "I prefer not to give you the chance, I shan't leave vou 'for a minute." "Well, if you bang with your foot :.n the floor I daresay somebody'll come, late as it is; and be pleased enough to do any errand for you if vou pay all right." "You're very kind," remarked Mr Burton, "very kind. But don't you trouble about me"; I can look after myself. IB wait till the doctor comes or sends a nurse." Then he sat down again. Suddenly he took off his overcoat. " You must be "pretty well done up," he said. " How long is it since you've had anything to eat?" " God knows !" n "Is there anything knocking about? "You'll find "tea and bread in the cupboard." , , "I'll make you a cup of tea ; and be pleased to have one myself. It's a horrible night." . It was true. The wind was rushing at the rain, and was beating it against the window panes. He went to the cupboard and got out the cups and, saucers, and busied himself with making Ae tea. He was startled by an exclamation of terror from Kershaw. Burton turned quickly. The child had jerked its head back "and was perfectly stitf. " Now comes that cough !" groaned Kershaw. He took a pinch of pepper and threw it up her nose till she sneezed, and with his finger he cleared her throat of the stifling phlegm. " If I can only save her! That's better, that's better. "She's all right now. No, no ! No chance. Look at her. Help ! Oh. these convulsions kill me. Get the bath from under the table." Burton could see there was every cause for alarm. Myra was black in the face. In a second he pulled the bath from under the table to the front of the fire, and poured the kettle of boiling water into it. " Tnere's a can of cold water by the window. Quick! Thanks!" " I should think that's about right." " I'll soon see," said Kershaw. " Roll up my sleeve to the shoulder." He knelt down, with Myra still on his left arm, and put his right elbow in the bath. "A little more cold. Ah! that'll do. The doctor told me I was to try the heat like that. Now, little sweetheart, come, come!" He took off the covering of flannel and held the child in the water. '• The doctor wouldn't let her have anything but this piece of flannel over her, so that she should be ready in a moment for the bath. That bottle of vinegar off the table, please." " What's that for?" " To be poured in her hands." "I'll do it," said Thomas Burton. Anil he forced open as gently as possible Mynt's little clenched fists, and sprinkled the vinegar on to her palms. After a time the rigidity of her limbs relaxed, her face regained its former color, such as it- was,

and she breathed more freely, though still very heavily. "'Thank God, it's passed !" said Kershaw. His eyes glowed; for the moment he looked years younger. " She's to have nothing'to eat"; she's to take nothing but her medicine." He dried Myra and wrapped her in the flannel again as tenderly as any woman could have done, and he cooed and murmured to her, and talked to her in baby, language. " What would it's daddy have done if he had lost it, eh, pet? Pretty pet!" "You're a rum 'un," remarked Mr Burton. "Why? You don't believe I should have cared." " Oh, yes, I believe you'd have cared," replied the detective. " And now let me have a spell at this business. Bless you, I was a grandfather before you were a father; and I'll back myself to know a jolly sight more about children than you do—no offence ! Come, give me the little, lady, and you get the tea ready—it'll be a rest for you." " Thanks !" said Kershaw. " I'm pretty nearly soaking." And he wiped the perspiration streaming off him. Thomas Buiton divested himself of his short jacket and waistcoat, and took Myra from Kershaw, who seemed satisfied at a glance that she was in safe hands. "You must never leave off fanning the steam on to her," he said. Then he refilled the kettles and saucepans, and emptied the bath and put it aside. But through all these operations his eyes scarcely left the child. She seemed somewhat easier, and Kershaw and Burton w.;re able to enjoy their tea in peace. "I wish you could have seen her when she was well," said Myra's father, proudly. " Such a pretty little mite!" "How old?" " Fifteen months. She hasn't that ugly scpiint when she's well; she has fair curly hair; a color like a rose; toddles about, and such sweet ways!" "Is she —is she like her mother?" asked Burton, nodding towards the still figure on the bed. Kershaw's features quivered. " I don't think there'll be anybody like her," he said. And there followed a silence, which Burton found difficult to break. Soon Myra claimed all their attention. The whole performance had to be gone through again, and as Kershaw took her from the bath and held her wrapped in the flannel, " Spare her to me, 0 God! spare her!" he murmured. "Well, you just about beat me, that's all I can say," said Mr Burton, walking up and down. For the rest of the night the two men shared the anxious work. It seemed as if they were fighting with death, to clutch this young life from his grasp. As the day broke, Myra sank into a sleep, and they dared hope. It is only fair to say " they," because it was not only the father whose love and care she had a right to claim, but this litter 'stranger rejoiced with him as if he also were of her nearest and dearest. Sympathy born in time of sickness is born strong. Sergeant Burton had a soft heart, and poor little squinting, coughing, sneezing, panting Myra appealed to him as she never would have appealed to him in her sturdy, healthy loveliness. "I should just like to know," he remarked, when they seemed at last to have time to talk, " I should just like to know why, if you were so precious fond of that poor dead lady and this little mite, why you thieved so that you'll get put into prison for the best years of your life. People who commit crimes astonish even me sometimes. You must have known you'd get caught some time or other." Then Kershaw told Eis story. There was nothing very new in it. A delicate wife, who had been used to every comfort; a husband with a clerk's salary to give her still every comfort. Everything going smoothly for the first year or two of marriage, and then the child comes, and the wife is never quite strong afterwards. Illness soon swallows nearly all that the husband has put by, and almost every penny that he earns from week to week. The wife fades for the want of an easy, untroubled life in a warm climate, and of luxuries that in the end he cannot attempt to provide for her. At last he gives up the struggle, and his fingers itch to clutch the money that passes through them day after day. " I made up my mind to be a knave," he said, " but not a fool as well. Nothing less than enough to save her and the child from want for the rest of their lives would satisfy me. So I planned the robbery. We would go from one warm climate to another till we found a place that suited her. and she should have her luxuries, and when we were in safety I'd find something to do. She, poor thing, of course knew nothing. I told her I had got the firm to draft me to South America. I gave up the house and brought her to this hole for a few days under an assumed name. One can hide best among the poor. I told her she must be ready at any moment to go with me. She thought we were cutting from some paltry debts, which she had been dunned for all day and every day, and which worried her to death. I planned the robbery, and when once I got her here I did it." He stopped a second or two; he was white to the lips. " It was a villain}', and towards good masters. I make no excuse for myself. But that she should know peace and ease, so that she could live, I declare was my only reason. I couldn't see her slip awa 1 from me as she was doing. As for being found out, you, as a detective, could name better than I could the robberies that have never been found out, even of bank notes. We should have been all right, I think. I had arranged everything. But she got very ill suddenly, and Myra was ill. As they did not join me I risked everything, and came to them. At once I saw all hope was over. She died in my arms this afternoon —this afternoon. Died—-died—died !" He raised his face, which in its gieyness and hardness might have been cut in some stone weatherworn by the tearing elements of centuries, and as he looked at the man who was to give him over to justice his sad eyes said, as plainly as words could have said, that a higher Power than mortal power had dealt him a, blow which had numbed him for ever, and left him callous to any earthly punishment that might be meted him. " The worst is," he said, in a hoarse whisper, " the worst is that I sinned for her sake instead of resisting all temptation for her sake. What I have suffered to see her fade because I hadn't the means to keep her alive wouldn't have equalled what I felt when 1 knew I was unworthy to ask her to bless me with her last breath. When you sin you sin against those who love you. Would you believe it"—his voice sank so low that Burton had to lean forward to catch what he said—" would you believe it, when the end came she wanted me to kiss her, and somehow—somehow I dared not!" Burton drew back quickly ; the man's despair made him cold and sick. The rain began to beat less fiercely against the windows, and the day broke with a soft light. Myra moved in her sleep. "I thought, you know," said Kershaw, " nothing could touch me after her death,

but this little one has shown m 6 my mistake. Little daughter, little daughter!" The door creaked, and the doctor slipped into the room. He glanced at Burton, and then looked down at the child. " A nurse will be here in a few minutes," he said. Myra moved again; then she opened her eyes. ' " Oh, daddy, oh daddy," she said, in a natural sweet little voice. " She'll live," said the doctor. Thomas Burton put on his overcoat. Fenton Kershaw gave Myra into the doctor's arms. "Take her,' he said with a gasp that was almost a sob. Then he turned to the detective. " I'm ready." He put on his waistcoat and coat. Burton walked from the table to the bed, and back again from the bed to the table. His mouth was screwed up and twitching nervously. "Will she really live, doctor?" he asked. "There's no reason why she shouldn't." Sergeant Burton, detective, took another short promenade. This time he walked from the window to the fireplace, and back again from the fireplace to the window. And after staring out, apparently at nothing, he twisted round sharply and fixed his burning, penetrating gaze on Fenton Kershaw. His voice shook. " Now, look here," he said. " Have you taken much of that money?" " Haven't touched a penny," said Kershaw. " Is it here?" " Yes." " Give it me, and " —he breathed hard — " and you can go. Get off to America. I'll give you my brother's address in Chicago. He'll find you work at once. Drop the name of Fenton Kershaw, and stay over there. I'll take care of the little one. I shall tell my -wife everything ; I always do —it's no good having a wife if you can't — and she'll look after her. When you've made a proper home we'll send her to you. But you must swear you won't write for her till you've made a, home for her, and you must swear by her life, that you and me have saved this night, that you'll never do another wicked thing that'll part you from her. You'll be a kind father enough to her*--1 don't want anybody to tell me that; and so she shan't have to struggle through the world without a father, or with a father whose name is cursed, if I canhelp it. I'm throwing away £2OO by letting you go, and that means a lot to me at my il £ e -" ~ , , "Who are you? said the doctor. "Who am I? Well, let's say I'm Myra's friend," answered Sergeant Burton. " So am I Myra's friend," said the doctor. " And I'll share this business with you ; I pay all expenses, no matter how long she's with you. and look after her, and be at your beck and call when she's ill." Then he turned to Fenton Kershaw. "Well, man, what do you say to this?" Kershaw dropped into a chair, and fell forward on the table. "Can't you speakV" said the doctor. The criminal lifted his head. " Scarcely," he said, " scarcely ! What do I say, you ask; what do I say?" He jumped to his feet. "God bless you both ; that's what I say." He drew an envelope from his pocket and gave it to Burton, who started when he saw the address. " Yes," said Kershaw ; " I hated the things as soon as I stole them ; they burnt me as if they were made of lead and were red-hot. When she died I put them in this envelope, which I had directed, as you see, to Messrs Curtain and Pegwell. I wanted to get off—l didn't want to be caught ; but I didn't want those things any more. I didn't steal for the pleasure of'stealing, and I was sorry for what I had done. I had had enougn of them." " Here's a sheet of paper," said the detective ; " just write imploring them to forgive you. Say you must have been mad when you did it; say your wife's dead, and ask them for the child's sake and for the sake of all the years you've been an honest servant to them to—to stop proceedings, and give you a chance of starting a new life." Kershaw snatched up a pen and dashed off a few lines. Thomas Burton counted the notes, added the piece of paper, and put t-M'in back into the envelope, which he closed carefully. "And there's~my brother's address in Chicago," he said, "and here's mine." "The nurse will be here presently," said the doctor. " Make haste." Kershaw took up his hat. " She was Mrs Frank Kingston here," he said. " so Til be Frank Kingston to the end." He gave a few sovereigns to Burton. "I can't give any more now, but I'll send more as soon as I can." Then he stepped on tip-toe to the liveplace, and looked at Myra sleeping in the doctor's arms. "Myra Kingston," he said, softly, "your father won't be branded as a, felon. You've made two very good friends ; they never shall regret what they're doing." He knelt down and leaned against her little warm body " T swear bv your sweet life that has ',-! spared that 'though I shall long and ,™g and long for you 1 will not ask for vou" till I've made a proper home for you. " swear to work for you, to live for you, to protect you, to guard you, to love you-to love you so that no harm shall ever come to you through me. I swear." He rose. " Wait!" he said, " wait !" He walked slowly across the room and stopped at the side of the bed. He drew the sheet reverently from the face of the corpse. He tried to speak once or twice, but no words came. At last lie said very clearly, turning towards the other men and pointing to the still figure on the bed : " And by thfs—bv this I swear." Tears were on his cheeks. He hesitated, as though still held back by the shame of his sin, and then he stooped down and kissed the cold lips, and his tears fell on to the dead face. He covered it again as reverently as he had uncovered it, and dragged himself from the bed. On his way to the door he halted in front of the two men. He timidly held out his hand, and they grasped it and shook it heartily. He smiled his thanks. Still' smiling when he reached the door, again he looked at Myra. "Good-bye, little daughter," he said; "you'll come to me very soon—l promise you that. Till then, good-bye." Suddenly, as a Hash passes in the skies, so his smile vanished. For his eyes, riveted their glance on that motionless form stretched on the bed. He forgot two men were watching him. he forgot everything but his grief, and he was face to face with that! After a few seconds those other men, hardened men of the world though they were, shuddered and turned away, so that they could not see him. And when the door had closed and they knew he was gone, yet it seemed to them that the lingering shadow of his mighty anguish darkened all the light of the new-born day. Within half an hour Sergeant Burton had dropped a large envelope into 1 the letter box of Messrs Curtain and Pegwell's bank, Fleet street. And within three months, one evening, he and the doctor were standing on either side of Myra's cot. Mrs Burton had just put her to bed, and she was sitting up playing with a necklace of coral beads the doctor had brought her. The chattering, glowing, sun-kissed Myra

of the moment, with brilliant, sparkling eyes anjLfair, curling locks all touched with golden lights, was unrecognisable with the Myra of a certain terrible night not three months past. "Bless her little heart!" said Burton, " she's what I call a joy ; and she's cheap at £2OO. Dimples, Myra ; dimples ! " Myra rounded her arms, put her rosytipped finger* to her cheeks, and fitted a couple of them into the bewitching holes that Cupid himself might have chiselled as a finish to her dainty, fascinating beauty. And how one man to the other she shot that glance of which baby girls seem mistresses, and which is quite sufficient to prove that coquetry in woman is innate and instinctive. This was her prettiest trick, and was Thomas Burton's delight. "I'll have her painted like that." said the doctor. "Dimples, Myra; dimples!" Mrs Burton came to the open doorway of the adjoining room. "You both just worship her," she said. "I'm Availing to see what you'll do when she leaves." "She hasn't gone yei, said Burton. Then he sighed. " But she'll go. It may not be for a year, or two years yet. but she'll go. He's written to me, doctor, to say no matter when he sends for her she's not to go unless you think she's old enough to be taken from my missis, and till you know of somebody that can be trusted with her and be her governess and all that. My brother writes that Frank Kingston is getting along fine." "Who are your friends, Myra?" called out Mrs Burton. Myra crowed, and pointed first to Thomas Burton. "Zere he is! " she said ; and then to the doctor " Zere he is ! " "Ah! and you don't know what friends they are to you," said Mrs Burton. "One has' saved you father for you, though it cost him a lot, and the other's keeping you like a little lady, and will, too, for the rest of your days, if there's nobody else to do it. ' You can't understand all that, my cherub! " But Myra nodded her sunny head, and laughed and laughed again. And as though she appreciated the meaning of the words in all its over-brimming importance, and wished to give a sign of her gratitude, she held out a tiny hand to each of her friends.