The World's Great Snare

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  He was standing near a rude gray stone wall. He stepped forward and leaned upon it, gazing steadfastly at the long line of yellow light where the sun had gone down. A damp, gray twilight was commencing to fall, and the landscape faded away almost before his eyes. But he did not move; he was thinking. Presently he began to mutter to himself again. He was the only living creature in the midst of a great solitude, and it was a relief to let his fiery, disjointed thoughts escape him.

  “A boor! I was always a boor to her! She was always an aristocrat, even before she put on the silks and satins of young ladyhood. God! how beautiful she is! Curse her beauty! Curse her pride! How her bitter words send the hot blood racing through my veins to my heart! Oh, my God! if it were possible—if it were only possible to hold her in my arms but for a little while—and die! Ay, it would be worth dying for!”

  The light of his great desire gleamed out of his eyes, lit up his bronzed face, and even showed itself in that sudden yearning movement, and outstretching of his hands towards the gray rolling mists amongst which, in fancy, he had seen for a moment, the face of this fair, proud girl. Perhaps at that moment, more than at any previous time in his life, he tasted alike the bitterest and the sweetest depths of his passion. It had come to him on the threshold of manhood, had become an indissoluble part of his sensations, a part of the man himself. He was the boor who loved a princess. It seemed to him that he could no more destroy that love than he could destroy himself. They were one and the same, one flesh and one blood, one body and one soul!

  Yet, from the very days of its birth, there had been a curious impersonality about his worship. She had filled every dream his mind had ever conceived, her image had been painted in upon the canvas of his imagination with wonderfully glowing colours. She was to him the embodiment of all that was sweet, and pure, and beautiful in womankind. And yet it had all been in a curious far-off way. He had never before dared to bring his image of her down to the physical world, to imagine what it would be like to hold her hand, to see her eyes look upon him kindly, to watch her lips smile at him, to assume some sort of personal proprietorship over her. But to-night something had lit the torch. It may have been his own sense of inward development, of emergence from the village boor to manhood and responsibility, the sense of having been brought nearer to her, at any rate so far as material circumstances and position can be considered. Or it may have been a dull, sickening fear which had shot through him when he had seen the added womanliness of her stature and movements, that some other man of her own rank might love her, and seek to break through the stately and dainty exclusiveness of her ripening maidenhood. The fear had stung him into a passionate desire for action, had given him a desperate courage with which to throw aside the dreamer, and boldly challenge his fate. His mind was full of half-formed resolves, of a multitude of daring plans, as he leaned over the wall and gazed across the shadowy landscape. One by one they became knitted into the strong purpose of the man. The hours that he spent then, in the gray, misty twilight, formed an era in his life. They became history with him. From that night a beautiful but impersonal dream was shattered, and a man’s passion was born.

  * * * * *

  It was late when he got back to the farmhouse where he was staying. On the table was his supper and a letter. He looked at it carelessly at first, then with a quick start of surprise. He tore it open, and drew the lamp closer as he read:

  “The Blue River Diggings,

  “Oct. 18th.

  “How are you, pard? Guess you’re snug in the old country by now. There was a hell of a row here, after you left. Dan Cooper, he hurried up and was on your track as soon as it got about as you was gone, and took that skeery-faced kid, Skein, along. They ain’t been heerd on since. I reckon you and the gel—she’d plenty of pluck, that gel had—would about square them two, if so happened as they catched you up!”

  “There has been a wonderful boom here, and you and me is in it, you bet! I dare say you’ve read all about it in the papers. I took on help after you went, and in three days we struck such a vein as ain’t been heard on in these parts, I can tell you! We just shovelled out the gold like dirt. Lord! you should have been there to see the chaps all around, how mad they did get! We worked by daytime and by lantern-light, and we ain’t got to the end of it yet. I reckon I’ve sent in to a broker at ‘Frisco about twenty-eight thousand dollars’ worth, and I’ve got as much more safe hid, waiting for the expressman. We’re scooping it out every day. Besides this, I’ve bought and paid for four of the likeliest claims, and the store which I’m running myself, and making a pile at. I’ve invested a good bit in the store, for the diggings is three times as large as they were, and as the news of the boom spreads, all the greenhorns in ‘Frisco ‘ll be here. The gold ‘ll be about gone, but they’ll want feeding. The profit from the store you and me divides, and also of course the gold, less all the expenses of running the show, and the help on the claim, which I reckon is your look-out. That’s square, ain’t it? Now I want a straight word with you. When you and me started pards, share and share alike, you planked down more coin than me, and you worked harder, for you’re a powerful strong man. Now it’s the result of your labour and your coin as is turning up trumps, and what I want to say is, that we share up level all the profits from the claim and store, and if you says anything different, why, I chucks half into the Blue River, for I’ll be if I touch it! I’m most a lone man, and what I shall do with my pile I don’t know! There ain’t no call for you to come back. I’ve got some safe help, and a pal or two as I can trust, and I’m doing a big thing! You’ll find twenty thousand dollars to your call at a chap’s called Baring in London, when you like to go for it. The next draw will be a sight larger, but I’ve spent a good bit in buying claims, and stocking the store.

  “P. S.—This has been an almighty day. The expressman just arrived. Am sending metal which I reckon will figger out at something like a hundred thousand dollars. You and me is in luck, Bryan.

  “From your affect pard,

  “PETE.”

  The letter fluttered down from Bryan’s fingers, and he stood for a moment perfectly still. His brain was in a turmoil—this thing that had happened was almost too great to grasp. Then a look of triumph flashed in his eyes. His heart leaped up. Here were the muscles and the sinews for his struggle; here was the weapon with which to carve his way upwards. He stretched up his hands to the ceiling, and laughed out loud, waking a thousand echoes amongst the old rafters and beams.

  “Mine!” he cried passionately. “It is the judgment of fortune! I shall win!”

  Just once there glided like a ghost amongst his glowing thoughts and dreams, the image of a dark, sorrowing face, and his heart was thrilled for a moment with the low sweet voice of the woman who had given her soul to set him free.

  But he clenched his teeth, and ground his heel into the floor. It was a thing past for ever—a black spot upon his life which he could never cleanse. He had sworn to himself to forget it; to live as though those days had never been! Nothing could alter them, nothing could ever efface his degradation. He could do but one thing, and that he would do—forget! Between his past and his future there lay stretched a mighty gulf. Not even with memory would he ever suffer it to be bridged over. He had sworn it at midnight on the great steamer as it ploughed its way through the rushing waters of the Atlantic; and that night, in the little farmhouse, he looked through the lattice window upon the moonlit night, and renewed his oath. The bitterness of the past should have no power to poison the future.

  III. THE THRESHOLD OF A NEW LIFE

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  Two days later Bryan found himself in London. He arrived at Waterloo about midday, and was driven straight to one of the great hotels in Northumberland Avenue. Here he engaged a room, and sallying out again, turned westwards.

  He had commenced life upon a new principle, or rather he was commencing a new life. For the first time he had travelled first-class, for the first time he was staying of his own
choice in a fashionable hotel. He walked slowly down Pall Mall, Piccadilly, and Bond Street, noting all the men he met with new and attentive eyes. At the corner of Conduit Street, a brougham and pair of horses pulled up almost by his side, and its occupants, two men, got out, crossed the pavement, and entered a tailor’s shop. Bryan hesitated for a moment; then he quietly followed them in.

  His appearance in somewhat shabby and travel-stained clothes was a little singular in a fashionable part of London, but he carried himself well, and had an air of resolution, almost of dignity, which inspired a certain amount of respect. The man who came noiselessly across the thickly-carpeted room, with its swing-glasses and piles of neatly-folded cloth upon a mahogany counter, looked at him in faint surprise but listened to what he had to say civilly.

  “I’ve just come home from California!” Bryan said simply. “I have plenty of money, and I want to be dressed like other men. Can you make me some clothes quickly?”

  The man bowed.

  “With great pleasure, sir! Do you require a complete outfit for town and country, may I ask, or only for town wear?”

  Bryan considered for a moment. “First of all, I want one of those long black coats.”

  “Frock-coats, sir!”

  “Yes, and trousers to go with it—a couple of pairs. Then I want an evening suit, and some tweed clothes and breeches for the country. I should like the frock-coat first!”

  “Will you choose the material, sir?”

  Bryan shook his head.

  “I leave it to you! You had better take my measure!”

  It was a task which occupied some little time. When it was over, Bryan drew a sigh of relief. He had been used to wearing ready-made clothes.

  “When shall I call again?” he asked.

  “To-morrow afternoon, sir, we will try on the coat, as I presume you wish to wear it in town!”

  Bryan nodded, and walked out. At the corner of Bond Street he went into Scott’s and bought a silk hat which he had sent to the hotel. A little further on, he went into a hosier’s, and bought shirts, collars, ties, and gloves of the latest fashion. Then he paid Truefitt’s a visit, had his hair cut, and his beard trimmed.

  He lunched at a fashionable restaurant, drinking wine instead of beer, and watching the people closely. Afterwards he bought some books, and spent a good part of the afternoon in the National Gallery. In the evening he went to the Lyceum.

  For three days he kept quiet, reading and visiting picture galleries most of the time, and going to a fresh theatre each evening. On the fourth, his clothes arrived, and, with a laugh which had almost a nervous tremor in it, he undid the parcel, and arrayed himself from head to foot in his new attire. The metamorphosis surprised even himself. He looked at his reflection in the glass with a certain vague displeasure. He was annoyed to believe that clothes could make such a difference. He was now to all outward appearance a gentleman, as well turned out, and as much at ease in his clothes as any of the men whom he had met and studied in the West End.

  It was a fine morning, and he walked in the Park. On his way he bought himself a carnation, and, a few minutes afterwards, stopping to look at his reflection in a large plate-glass window, he burst out laughing. The thing seemed so comical to him, so unreal. It was hard indeed to believe that the tall and perfectly dressed man whose image he saw could be the boor who commenced life as a poaching vagabond.

  The Park was full, and, strangely enough, Bryan had scarcely walked a hundred yards when he was able to test his new personality. A barouche and pair of horses were drawn up close to the railings, and a girl, sitting by the side of a stately gray-haired old lady, was talking to several men who stood around the carriage door. Bryan felt his heart give a great thump, but he bit his lip savagely and kept his face turned upon her. She met his gaze quite frankly, and with perfect unconcern, and bowed a little doubtfully as he raised his hat. Then their eyes seemed to meet, and he distinctly saw her start, and a slight colour flush her cheeks. He passed on, walking with just the same careless dignity, borne of his great strength, as when he had sauntered barefooted around his claim on the Blue River, with his spade over his shoulder; and, of course, he did not look behind. When he returned in about ten minutes, the carriage was gone, and he did not see it again. He walked the Row from end to end, eagerly watching the stream of vehicles. It was in vain. He saw nothing more of the barouche with the brown liveries.

  “She would think that I was mad!” he said to himself, with a short, dry laugh, as he turned homewards. “Perhaps I am!”

  For six more days Bryan remained in London. He spent most of his time in what is called the West End, and visited every picture gallery that was open. He made a good many purchases, and walked every day in the Park, where his unusual height and tawny, handsome beard provoked a number of languid inquiries as to his identity, and awakened some amount of curiosity in the minds of certain society journalists.

  Above all, he frequented places where he heard people talk, and carefully noted down in his memory the manner and form of their conversation. Night after night he sat in the stalls of one of the more popular theatres, inwardly chafing at the restraint of a high collar, and the tightness of his dress clothes; but listening to everything with a grim and serious intentness.

  These were days of purgatory to him, but he went through it all with a stubborn and dogged resolution. On the seventh day he returned to Westshire.

  IV. THE SHADOW OF A MEMORY

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  “A Gentleman wishes to see you, sir!”

  The Rev. Raymond Bettesford put down his pen, and glanced at the card which the trim little maidservant had laid before him. He rose to his feet at once, and regarded the tall figure of his visitor with some surprise.

  “Mr. Bryan Bryan!” he said courteously. “Our new neighbour at the Old Hall, I believe! How do you do?”

  He held out his hand, and Bryan gave it a grip which made him wince.

  “I was proposing to call upon you this week,” Mr. Bettesford continued, “but, to tell you the truth, I didn’t know that you had taken up your quarters at the Hall yet. When did you arrive?”

  “Only yesterday!” Bryan answered, taking the chair which the other had drawn out for him. “I’ve been in London for a week or so, looking round. I wanted to have a talk with you right away, so I didn’t wait for you to come and see me. You’re the Vicar here, aren’t you?

  “I am the curate in charge!” Mr. Bettesford explained, a little stiffly. There was a certain brusqueness in Bryan’s manner which did not seem quite in keeping with his bearing and appearance. “The Vicar is away on the Continent, at present!” he added.

  Bryan looked at him steadily. He was a small, fair-haired young man, with a shrewd mouth and eyes, but somewhat worn face. The inspection was satisfactory, although he had expected to find an older man.

  “Leaves you to do the work, eh!” Bryan remarked. “Well, here’s what I came about. I’m an ignoramus who’s made money—there are plenty of them about, as you know—and I want to improve myself. I want to know what is best in books, and literature, and art. I am willing to study, but I want directing. I can pay for it—glad to; that is to say, I should not expect to take up anybody’s time for nothing!” he added a little clumsily, noticing a slight flush which had crept over the other’s face. Bryan was quick at noticing things of that sort. He was a sensitive man himself.

  “I—I really don’t know what to say, Mr. Bryan,” was the somewhat doubtful answer. “I have had no experience in teaching—and I’m not sure that I should be competent to direct you in the manner you require.”

  “I’ll take the risk of that,” Bryan answered calmly. “What I want to know is this. Have you got the time, and if you have, will you try it?”

  “I have plenty of time, and I should be glad to try.”

  Mr. Bettesford answered frankly. He was beginning to appreciate his visitor better, and even to like him. “But the question is, what you want to learn—is it what I
can teach you? You must have had some education, for you speak—pardon my remarking it—quite correctly. What people call culture nowadays is a many-sided thing, and though I have taken my degree, I am by no means a scholar!”

  “I want you to teach me Latin and French, and to map out a course of reading for me in English literature,” Bryan said. “I do not expect too much. I have read a good deal in a disconnected way. It wants welding together. I don’t want so much to take any regular lessons, if you can understand me; I want to come to you and ask questions! And about terms! How many hours could you give me a day?”

  Mr. Bettesford considered.

  “When could you come?” he asked. “I mean at what time of the day?”

  “At any time,” Bryan answered promptly.

  “Then we might manage two or three!” Mr. Bettesford said.

  “Thank you! And will you tell me—if you don’t mind—what you think would be a fair sum for me to pay you?” Bryan asked hesitatingly.

  Mr. Bettesford put his hands in his pockets, and laughed. “Well, I don’t know,” he said. “How would a guinea a week—”

  “Too little! Ridiculous!” Bryan interrupted firmly. “I shall ask you to accept two guineas a week, and I shall come to-morrow at—”

  “Oh, at nine o’clock, if you like, but—”

  Bryan would hear nothing further. He shook hands with the curate, and hurried out.

  “I shall be here at nine!” he called out from the gate. “Good afternoon!”

  Mr. Bettesford turned back to the house. Instead of returning to his uncompleted sermon, however, he entered a long, low drawing-room—a quaint old room, with a huge window opening on the lawn, and many recesses. On a couch near the fire, a woman was lying.

  She put down her book as he entered, and smiled. Raymond Bettesford cut a most unclerical caper, and then dragged a footstool up to her side.