Whatsoever a Man Soweth

by William Le Queux

asked her. Indeed, if you would marry me I shouldn't askher, I should marry first and ask afterwards."

  "But do you really mean to marry Ellice?" I asked seriously. "Is he--well, such a very particular friend?"

  "He proposed to me a fortnight ago after the Jardines' dance, and Irefused him--I always refuse, you know," and she smiled again.

  She was as gay and merry as usual, yet there was about her face a lookof strange anxiety that greatly puzzled me.

  "Then you've had other offers?"

  "Of course, but mostly from the undesirables. Oh! you would laugh ifyou could hear them laying open their hearts, as they call it," she saidgaily. "Why does a man call his love his secret--as though he'dcommitted some awful crime? It is most amusing, I can assure you.Mason and I have some good laughs over it very often."

  "But you surely don't tell your maid such things?" I said, surprised,but knowing well her hoydenish spirit.

  "Indeed I do. Mason enjoys the joke just as much as I do."

  "Ah! Tibbie," I said reproachfully, "you are a sad breaker of men'shearts! By Jove! you are so good-looking that if I didn't know you I,too, should fall in love with you."

  "Why don't you? That's just what I want. Then we should marry and livehappy ever after. It would be so delightful. I'd marry you to-morrow,dear old boy, if you wished," she declared unblushingly.

  "And regret it the day after," I laughed. "Why, Tibbie, you know howhorribly badly off the poor old governor left me--a bare thousand a yearwhen all expenses of Netherdene are paid. The place is an absolutewhite elephant, shabby, worn out, dilapidated--certainly not the houseto take a bride to. I haven't been up there for nearly two years. Acotton-spinner in Oldham rents the shoot, and his cheque is alwayshelpful."

  "Yes," she remarked thoughtfully, gazing down upon the oak floor,"Netherdene certainly isn't a very cheerful spot. It would make a nicehome for incurables, or a lunatic asylum. Why don't you try and form acompany, or something in the City, and run it? Other fellows do."

  "What's the use?" I asked. "I'm no hand at business; I only wish Iwere. Then I could make money. Now, I only wander about and spend it."

  "Well, you have a decent time, so what more can you want?" she asked,looking at me with those wonderful eyes that had caused many a man'shead to reel. "You ought, after all, to be satisfied, and thank yourstars you're not worse off."

  "You're not satisfied yourself, even though you are one of the mostpopular girls in town?" I said. "You want a husband."

  "I shouldn't want one if the mater gave me a decent allowance. I hateto be continually borrowing from Cynthia when the mater has plenty andJack is throwing it away on the Stock Exchange. He's always learning ofgood things from his friends, but they generally result in losses."

  A silence fell between us for some moments, broken only by the slow,solemn ticking of the long old clock near by.

  "And so, Tibbie, you intend to marry Ellice!" I remarked at last,looking straight into her handsome face. Yes; after all, there was anindescribable sweetness in her manner, whatever the world might sayregarding her.

  "It's a secret. I've told nobody; therefore you'll not say a word, willyou?"

  "Certainly not. But I congratulate you. Winsloe is, I believe, a realgood fellow, and I can only hope you will love him."

  "I shall learn to love him in time, I suppose," she answered. "Look!there he is!"

  And glancing down I saw the well-set-up figure, in drab tweeds with hisgun across his shoulder, striding over the park, together with herbrother Jack, my old friend Eric Domville, Lord Wydcombe, and severalladies of the house-party in shooting kit, followed by the keepers anddogs.

  "Tibbie," I said, seriously, turning to her. "You know we've known eachother many years. I was your first sweetheart, and afterwards yourfriend. I am still your firm friend, and as such I may be permitted togive you a single word of advice--to urge you not to marry that manunless you really love him."

  "I know, my dear old Wilfrid," she said, smiling prettily. "You aresuch a philosopher. You ought to have been a parson. Nowadays womendon't marry for love. They unfortunately put that away with their shortskirts. They marry for convenience."

  And she gazed again out of the lead-lighted window.

  "But is it wise of you? Remember I am still your platonic friend, andhave every regard for your future happiness. To serve you I am alwaysready. That you know. Only command me, Tibbie."

  She hesitated for a moment, then turning to me with that strange,anxious look upon her countenance, an expression most unusual for her,she said in a low, intense voice,--

  "I wonder if I might actually take you at your word, Wilfrid. I wonderif--if--" and she hesitated, pursing her lips, and I saw that her handtrembled.

  "Of course I'm always ready to assist you," I said, somewhat surprisedat her sudden change of manner.

  "Ah! no!" she gasped, suddenly pale to the lips, a strange look ofterror in her eyes. "My secret! I am very foolish. I cannot tell itto you--you of all men. It is too terrible. You would hate me!"

  "Your secret!" I echoed. "What secret, Tibbie? Tell me?"

  But she turned away from me, and covering her white face with her hands,burst into a flood of tears.

  CHAPTER TWO.

  REVEALS A WOMAN'S SECRET.

  That evening, as I changed for dinner in the quaint old tapestried room,with its ancient carved four-poster and green silk hangings, I reflecteddeeply.

  What, I wondered, was Tibbie's secret?

  That it was something she feared to reveal to me was quite plain, andyet were we not firm, confidential friends? It had been on the tip ofher tongue to tell me, and to ask my help, yet on reflection sherealised that her confession would estrange us. What could its naturepossibly be?

  Her manner had so entirely and quickly changed, that more than once Ihad wondered whether she had witnessed something, or seen some personfrom the window, and that the sight had struck terror into her heart.Was she conscience-stricken? I recollected how she had suddenly turnedfrom the window, and how ashen her face had gone in a single instant.

  What was her secret?

  I, Wilfrid Hughes, confess that I admired her, though I was in no way alady's man. I was comparatively poor. I preferred to lead a wanderinglife as an independent bachelor, pursuing my favourite antiquarianstudies, than to settling down to the humdrum existence of a countrygentleman with the appended J.P. and D.L. after one's name. I had justenough to make both ends meet, and while Netherdene was let I occupied,when not travelling on the Continent, a decently comfortable set ofchambers in Bolton Street. My friend Tibbie Burnet was, without adoubt, one of the smartest unmarried girls in London, a woman whoseutter disregard of all the laws of conventionality would ten years agohave shocked, but which, alas! now was regarded as the height of _chic_and smartness. Half-a-dozen times report had engaged her, but allrumours had proved false, while one could scarcely take up anillustrated paper without finding a photograph or paragraph concerningher. Hundreds of girls envied her, of course, therefore it was notafter all surprising that evil tongues were ready to say bitter thingsof her. Every woman who is popular, be it in merry Mayfair or tattlingTooting, _blase_ Belgravia or busy Brixton, is sure to make a host ofenemies. There is no more bitter enmity in this world of ours than thejealousy between woman and woman.

  So I had always dismissed the stories I had heard in various quartersconcerning Tibbie as unjust and untrue. One rumour, however, a strange,faint echo, had reached me in a curious roundabout way while staying ata country house up in Yorkshire, and of late it had caused me to pauseand wonder--as I still paused and wondered that night. Could it betrue? Could it really be true?

  I stood looking in the long old-fashioned mirror, gazing unconsciouslyat my own reflection.

  No. What was said was a foul lie. I was quite sure of it. Countryyokels are always inventing some story or other concerning thegentlefolk. It was a fable, and I refused to believe it. Ti
bbie was myfriend, and if she was in distress I would help her.

  And with that resolve I went down to dinner. I found her in the greatoak-panelled hall, where hung the faded and tattered banners of theScarcliffs, a brilliant figure in pale rose, laughing gaily with herbrother-in-law, Lord Wydcombe, her sweet face betraying no sign ofeither terror or of tears.

  She glanced at me, waving her hand merrily as I lounged across the bigvaulted apartment to join the tall, distinguished-looking man ofthirty-eight, whom she had told me in secret she intended was to be herhusband, Ellice Winsloe.

  "Why didn't you come with us this afternoon, old chap?" he asked.