Whatsoever a Man Soweth

by William Le Queux

true."

  "Then you love this man, Arthur Rumbold? Come, do not tell me anuntruth. We are old enough friends to be frank with each other."

  "Yes, we are. I am frank with you, and tell you that you have blamedyourself for assisting me, now that you have discovered my folly."

  "Folly of what?"

  "Of my love. Is it not folly to love a man whom one can never marry?"

  "Then he is already married, perhaps?"

  She was silent, and glancing at her I saw that tears stood in hermagnificent eyes. She was thinking of him, without a doubt.

  I recollected those words penned by the dead man; that allegation thatshe was fooling me. Yes. What he said was correct. The scales had nowfallen from my eyes. I read the truth in her white countenance, thatface so very beautiful, but, alas! so false.

  Who was Nello, the man with whom she corresponded by means of thatcipher--the man she trusted so implicitly? Was he identical with ArthurRumbold? Had she killed the writer of that extraordinary letter becausehe knew the truth--because she was in terror of exposure and ruin?

  My knowledge of Rumbold had entirely upset all her calculations. Inthose moments of her hesitancy and confusion she became a changed woman.Her admission had been accompanied by a firm defiance that utterlyastounded me.

  I noticed how agitated she had become. Her small hands were trembling;and she was now white to the lips. Yet she was still determined not toreveal her secret.

  "Ah! you can never know, Wilfrid, what I have suffered--what I amsuffering now," she said in a deep intense voice, as we stood theretogether in the gardens. "You have thought me gay and careless, andyou've often told me that I was like a butterfly. Yes, I admit it--Iadmit all my defects. When I was old enough to leave the schoolroom,society attracted me. I saw Cynthia, the centre of a smart set,courted, flattered, and admired, and like every other girl, I wasenvious. I vied with her successes, until I, too, became popular. Andyet what did popularity and smartness mean? Ah! I can only think ofthe past with disgust." Then, with a sigh, she added, "You, of course,cannot believe it, Wilfrid, but I am now a changed woman."

  "I do believe you, Tibbie," was my blank reply, for want of somethingelse to say.

  "Yes," she went on, "I see the folly of it all now, the emptiness, thesoul-killing wear and tear, the disgraceful shams and mean subterfuges.The woman who has success in our set stands alone, friendless, with adozen others constantly trying to hurl her from her pedestal, and everready with bitter tongues to propagate grave insinuations and scandal.It is woman to woman; and the feuds are always deadly. I'm tired of itall, and have left it, I hope, for ever."

  "Then it was some adventure in that gay circle, I take it, that isresponsible for your present position?" I said slowly.

  "Ah!" she sighed in a low, hoarse voice, "I--I never dreamed of thepitfalls set for me, and in my inexperience believed in the honesty ofeveryone. But surely I was not alone! Beneath a dress shirt beats theheart of many a blackguard, and in our London drawing-rooms are to befound persons whose careers, if exposed, would startle the world. Thereare men with world-famous names who ought to be in the criminal dock,but whose very social position is their safeguard; and women with titleswho pose as charity patrons, but are mere adventuresses. Our littleworld, Wilfrid, is, indeed, a strange one, a circle of class andcriminality utterly inconceivable by the public who only know of usthrough the newspapers. I had success because, I suppose, of whatpeople are pleased to call my good looks, but--but, alas! I fell avictim--I fell into a trap ingeniously set for me, and when I struggledto set myself free I only fell deeper and deeper into the blackguardlyintrigue. You see me now!" she cried after a brief pause, "a desperatewoman who cares nought for life, only for her good name. I live todefend that before the world, for my poor mother's sake. Daily I amgoaded on to kill myself and end it all. I should have done so had notProvidence sent you to me, Wilfrid, to aid and counsel me. Yet the blowhas again fallen, and I now see no way to vindicate myself. The net hasclosed around me--and--and--I must die!"

  And she burst into a sudden torrent of tears.

  Were they tears of remorse, or of heart-broken bitterness?

  "There is no other way!" she added in a faint, desperate voice, hertrembling hand closing upon my wrist. "You must leave me to myself. Goback to London and remain silent. And when they discover me dead youwill still remain in ignorance--but sometimes you will think of me--think of me, Wilfrid," she sobbed, "as an unhappy woman who has fallenamong unscrupulous enemies."

  "But this is madness!" I cried. "You surely will not admit yourselfvanquished now?"

  "No, not madness, only foresight. You, too, are in deadly peril, andmust leave me. With me, hope is now dead--there is only the grave."

  She spoke those last words so calmly and determinedly that I wasthoroughly alarmed. I refused to leave her. The fact that Parham haddiscovered her showed that all hope of escape was now cut off. This sheadmitted to me. Standing before me, her countenance white and haggard,I saw how terribly desperate she was. Her chin then sank upon herbreast and she sobbed bitterly.

  I placed my hand tenderly upon her shoulder, full of sympathy.

  "The story of your unhappiness, Tibbie, is the story of your love. Isit not?" I asked, slowly.

  Her chest rose and fell slowly as she raised her tearful eyes to mine,and in reply, said in a low, faltering voice,--

  "Listen, and I will tell you. Before I die it is only right that youshould know the truth--you who are my only friend."

  And she burst again into a flood of tears, stirred by the painfulremembrance of the past.

  I stood there holding her for the first time in my arms. And she buriedher face upon my shoulder, trembling and sobbing as our two hearts beatin unison.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

  MAKES PLAIN A WOMAN'S FEAR.

  "Tell me," I said at last, full of sympathy for her in her direunhappiness, "tell me, Tibbie, about this man Rumbold."

  For some moments she was silent. Her pale lips trembled.

  "What is there to tell?" she exclaimed hoarsely. "There was nothingextraordinary in our meeting. We met at a country house, as I met ahundred other men. Together we passed some idle summer days, and atlast discovered that we loved each other."

  "Well?"

  "Well--that is all," she answered in a strange, bitter voice. "It isall at an end now."

  "I never recollect meeting him," I remarked, reflectively.

  "No--you never have," she said. "But please do not let us discuss himfurther," she urged. "The memories of it all are too painful. I was afool!"

  "A fool for loving him?" I asked, for so platonic were our relationsthat I could speak to her with the same frankness as her own brother.

  "For loving him!" she echoed, looking straight at me. "No--no. I was afool because I allowed myself to be misled, and believed what I was toldwithout demanding proof."

  "Why do you fear the man who found you in Glasgow?"

  "Ah! That is quite another matter," she exclaimed quickly. "I warn youto be careful of John Parham. A word from me would place him underarrest; but, alas! I dare not speak. They have successfully closed mylips!"

  Was she referring, I wondered, to that house with the fatal stairs?

  "He is married, I suppose?"

  "Yes--and his wife is in utter ignorance of who and what he is. Shelives at Sydenham, and believes him to be something in the City. I knowthe poor woman quite well."

  It was upon the tip of my tongue to make inquiry about Miss O'Hara, butby so doing I saw I should admit having acted the spy. I longed to putsome leading questions to her concerning the dead unknown in CharltonWood, but in view of Eric's terrible denunciation how could I?

  Where was Eric? I asked her, but she declared that she was inignorance.

  "Some time ago," she said, "I heard that he was in Paris. He leftEngland suddenly, I believe."

  "Why?"

  "The real reason I don't kn
ow. I only know from a friend who saw himone day sitting before a _cafe_ in the Boulevard des Italiens."

  "Your friend did not speak to him?" I inquired quickly.

  "No."

  "Then it might have been a mistake. The person might, I mean, havemerely resembled Eric Domville. Was your informant an intimate friend?"

  "A friend--and also an enemy."

  "Ah! Many of us have friends of that sort!" I remarked, whereat shesighed, recollecting, no doubt, the many friends who had played herfalse.

  The wild, irresponsible worldliness, the thoughtless vices of the smartwoman, the slangy conversation and the loudness of voice that was one ofthe hall-marks of her go-ahead