The Error of Her Ways

Waikato Times, Volume 125, Issue 20958, 10 November 1939, Page 3

The Error of Her Ways

(BY FRANK BARRETT)

Enthralling Serial Story

CHAPTER Ll.— (Continued) Avoiding Treachery The following day pangs of hunger became poignant. The two men had not two ounces of solid food between then for their subsistence, and the greater part of that Stutter took for his own snare from the rakings of the dustbin. Mrs Stutter stilled her cravings with tea, brewed in a cellar on the paraffin stove. From time to time they looked across at their neighbours, and the tortures of hunger and cold, for they could have no fire, were augmented by seeing Psani and the boy making a fire in the entrance to their shed, and frying slices of ham over it in the frying pan which, with a tea kettle, Psani had fetched from the college. Yet anotner dav parsed. Malcolm smoked his last cigar. Stutter chewed the last dust of shag that could be shaken from his pockets. Friday, the fourth day of their imprisonment, the third of actual starvation, their sufferings became almost insupportable. Stutter chewed a leather strap; Angus swallowed some paraffin, and was saved from fatal consequences by being violently sick. The two men, when they passed, glared at each other with murder in their eyes—each attributing to his fellow this fearful retribution. On this day the two old people died, one within a dozen hours of the other, rather from senile decay and disease than from actual starvation, it may be hoped. And on this day also the scant supply of food set aside by Mrs Stutter for her parents and Sylvia came to an end. “I am sorry to say, madan,” said Mrs Stutter, ‘T have nothing to give this morning but tea.” Sylvia heard this without surprise and with indifference. She knew that she was not the only prisoner, and that the house was in a state of siege; for Mrs Stutter, seeing no advantage to be gained by a lie, had told the truth for once, and revealed their actual position. “The police have traced Mr Malcolm to this house,” she said, “and though we have shut all the doors and windows, showing no light and burning no fires, yet they persist in watching the place. If they knew Mr Malcolm were here, they’d batter the doors down to take him. Our only hope is that, seeing no sign of our being here, they will give up the idea, and go away before we’re all starved. Not one of us dare venture out till they’re gone.” What did it matter, with a breaking heart, how she died? Sylvia asked herself. Ravening hunger she had never experienced in her life. Starvation was a word which as yet had only abstract significance for her. A little bread soaked in tea had satisfied the demands of nature; the prospect of death by the absence of that trifle conveyed no terror to her imagination. Dull aching apathy had succeeded the violent paroxyisms of grief and remorse. Her soul, benumber by excessive affliction, seemed incapable of further suffering. She* thought of death as a happy escape from the misery which could never quit her in life. Even from an unselfish point of view, death seemed desirable. Could it be any relief to her father to know that she was yet alive? Would he not think it better that she was dead, knowing that she had been instrumental to her husband’s murder?

From her window, which looked down upon the court, she saw Malcolm, gaunt, haggard, and cadaverous, pacing the ground, like a starved

wolf in a cage. Even that failed to rouse her from her apathy, or to stimulate one vengeful thought. Would he have shot Tom, but for her vacillation and want of faith in her husband! Every feeling of bitterness was devoted to herself and her own folly. Her fear was that she might linger on—live to bear this terrible burden. Hope, that springs eternally in human souls, suggested only one escape save death—immolation upon the altar of sacrifice. In the books around her she searched for some guiding light in this direction. What could she do for her own redemption? Later in the day, rising from her seat with a feeling of sickness, she reeled, faint and giddy, to her bed, cold sweat bursting out upon her brow. And when an ague of cold, despite the furs in which she was wrapped, shook every limb and set her teeth, she drew the bedclothes over her head, feeling that this was the beginning of the end. CHAPTER LII On the Threshold Late in the night a board fell across Psani’s body as he lay snugly rolled up in his blanket in the cart shed. That board had been held in its place only by a thin twine passed through the wall, carried across the bridge, and attached to the iron ring upon the great door. The twine had snapped before the door had opened six inches; by the time it had opened sufficiently wide for a thin person to pass through Psani was standing on the bridge, his police whistle in one hand, a formidable knife in the other. Through the rack of cloud that screened the moon there fell sufficient light to reveal the figure of Mrs Stutter in her cloak and close-fitting bonnet, as she came through the opening to him, and his figure to her. She approached him, raising her finger to enjoin silence. “What you want, eh?” whispered Psani, barring her passage. “Food,” she replied, under her breath. “Ham, legs mutton, sheese, bread, eh?” He smacked his lips gently and drew his breath through his closed teeth, as if the mere thought of these luxuries made his mouth water. “Anything.” “Have zem all—ham, legs mutton, sheese—most beautiful sings in all ze world. Got zem all ready for you, but-r-stand back closer little furzer off, please, or I blow ze whistle—” “Well?”—Mrs Stutter drew back half a foot—“ What are your conditions?” “Fetch Mrs Clifford.” “I’m starving. The door’s open. Fetch her yourself. You will find a light burning at the foot of the stairs leading to her room.” Psani shook his head slowly. “You sink me dam fool, eh?” he asked. “No, I don't. You’re not. But you needn’t think me an idiot on that account.” “You want me go in zere, get my neck broke, eh?” “I want food, that’s all,” she whispered passionately. “Food for myself—food for her—she is starving too.” “I give you legs mutton, ham, sheese—you take it in to her, eh?” Mrs Stutter reflected for a minu+e, then, with the desperate necessity of satisfying her craving at any price, she answered, emphatically, “Yes.” This gave Psani occasion for reflection also. “But I warn you!” she said, seeing his hesitation. “Those men have had nothing to eat for four days—absolutely nothing. I have had a little, and I am nearly mad. They have borne it so long only from fear. But they cannot endure it another day. You may drive them to commit another murder.” “Anozer!” “Why not? Mrs Clifford alone saw him shoot her husband. Her evidence only can hang him. You have no proof that she is here. If she is put out of the way, how can the first crime be proved against him? That was in his mind last night; I read it in his eyes. And if the second murder is traced to him, what then? Two murders or one, what difference would it make? They can but hang him once.” Psani could find no immediate answer to this argument. “You must have seen that this might happen, or you would have brought the police and forced an entrance at first—supposing you knew we were in there.” “How possible make any mistake about zat when you leave key in ze door?” “That’s how you found us out?” Psani nodded. “Well, what are you going to do? Men don't sleep heavily with hunger gnawing their inside. If they come and find the door open, there’ll be trouble. Two of ’em, remember, mad with despair, against you and the boy. If they master you, then Mrs Clifford will go too—” (To be Continued)