The woman who has success in our set stands alone, friendless, with a dozen others constantly trying to hurl her from her pedestal, and ever ready with bitter tongues to propagate grave insinuations and scandal.

It is woman to woman; and the feuds are always deadly. I'm tired of it all, and have left it, I hope, for ever."

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

"Ah!" she sighed in a low, hoa.r.s.e voice, "I--I never dreamed of the pitfalls set for me, and in my inexperience believed in the honesty of everyone. But surely I was not alone! Beneath a dress shirt beats the heart of many a blackguard, and in our London drawing-rooms are to be found persons whose careers, if exposed, would startle the world. There are men with world-famous names who ought to be in the criminal dock, but whose very social position is their safeguard; and women with t.i.tles who pose as charity patrons, but are mere adventuresses. Our little world, Wilfrid, is, indeed, a strange one, a circle of cla.s.s and criminality utterly inconceivable by the public who only know of us through the newspapers. I had success because, I suppose, of what people are pleased to call my good looks, but--but, alas! I fell a victim--I fell into a trap ingeniously set for me, and when I struggled to set myself free I only fell deeper and deeper into the blackguardly intrigue. You see me now!" she cried after a brief pause, "a desperate woman who cares nought for life, only for her good name. I live to defend that before the world, for my poor mother's sake. Daily I am goaded on to kill myself and end it all. I should have done so had not Providence sent you to me, Wilfrid, to aid and counsel me. Yet the blow has again fallen, and I now see no way to vindicate myself. The net has closed 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, her trembling hand closing upon my wrist. "You must leave me to myself. Go back to London and remain silent. And when they discover me dead you will still remain in ignorance--but sometimes you will think of me-- think of me, Wilfrid," she sobbed, "as an unhappy woman who has fallen among unscrupulous enemies."

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

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

She spoke those last words so calmly and determinedly that I was thoroughly alarmed. I refused to leave her. The fact that Parham had discovered her showed that all hope of escape was now cut off. This she admitted to me. Standing before me, her countenance white and haggard, I saw how terribly desperate she was. Her chin then sank upon her breast 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. Is it 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 you should know the truth--you who are my only friend."

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

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

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

MAKES PLAIN A WOMAN'S FEAR.

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

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

"What is there to tell?" she exclaimed hoa.r.s.ely. "There was nothing extraordinary in our meeting. We met at a country house, as I met a hundred other men. Together we pa.s.sed some idle summer days, and at last discovered that we loved each other."

"Well?"

"Well--that is all," she answered in a strange, bitter voice. "It is all 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 him further," she urged. "The memories of it all are too painful. I was a fool!"

"A fool for loving him?" I asked, for so platonic were our relations that 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 a fool because I allowed myself to be misled, and believed what I was told without demanding proof."

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

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

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. She lives at Sydenham, and believes him to be something in the City. I know the poor woman quite well."

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

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

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

"Why?"

"The real reason I don't know. I only know from a friend who saw him one 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, have merely 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 she sighed, recollecting, no doubt, the many friends who had played her false.

The wild, irresponsible worldliness, the thoughtless vices of the smart woman, the slangy conversation and the loudness of voice that was one of the hall-marks of her go-ahead circle, had now all given place to a quietness of manner and a thoughtful seriousness that utterly amazed me.

In her peril, whatever it was, the stern realities of life had risen before her. She no longer looked at men and things through rose-coloured spectacles, she frankly admitted to me, but now saw the grim seriousness of life around her.

Dull drab Camberwell had been to her an object-lesson, showing her that there were other peoples and other spheres beside that gay world around Grosvenor Square, or bridge parties at country houses. Yet she had, alas! learned the lesson too late. Misfortune had fallen upon her, and now she was crushed, hopeless, actually seriously contemplating suicide.

This latter fact caused me the most intense anxiety.

Apparently her interview with Arthur Rumbold's mother had caused her to decide to take her life. The fact of Parham having found her in Glasgow was, of course, a serious _contretemps_, but the real reason of her decision to die was the outcome of her meeting with Mrs Rumbold.

What had pa.s.sed between the two women? Was their meeting at Fort William a pre-arranged one, or was it accidental? It must have been pre-arranged, or she would scarcely have gone in the opposite direction to that of which she left word for me.

The situation was now growing more serious every moment. As we stood together there I asked her to release me from my imposture as her husband, but at the mere suggestion she cried,--

"Ah! no, Wilfrid! You surely will not desert me now--just at the moment when I most need your protection."

"But in what way can this pretence of our marriage a.s.sist you?"