The World's Great Snare

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “We were saved by a caravan, but Bryan’s fever grew worse. I took him to my rooms at San Francisco, but he grew weaker and weaker. The doctor told me one day that he would die unless roused by some strong emotion.. Then it dawned upon me how I might repay him for what he had done for me. He did not love me, and, alas! I loved him very much; and I made up my mind that I would save him. He had come to America to search for some papers which were to make him rich, so that he could go back to the woman of whom he used to dream on the banks of the Blue River. The papers were in the possession of the man who had been my husband’s friend and my persecutor. I went to him, and I made a bargain. It was my soul for Bryan’s life. He gave me the papers and money, and I gave them to Bryan. He took them; he was glad to go; and he left me. But when my time came, and I went to this man’s house to give myself to him, for once the fates were with me. He was dead! He had been shot by an assassin, and I fled back into the shadows of the city, and my heart nearly broke. I had lost Bryan, but I was free! Then I told myself that I would die. There seemed no other way. The love I had had for Bryan was in my heart always, like sweet, sad music. It was all over, but it should never be debased. I made up my mind to die; but while the poison was in my hand there came a letter. The man who was dead had left me money. I came to England, and I went on the stage; and one night, Bryan saw me at the theatre. He came to see me. He wished to be kind. I had saved his life, and I am very, very lonely here. I do not know any women, and I have not one friend. And Bryan said that the woman he was going to marry would be kind to me for his sake, but I knew that he would not tell you everything, and because we both love him, I came to you!”

  Her voice, which had become a little tremulous, but wonderfully soft and sweet, died away, and her eyes filled with tears. She held out her hands to Lady Helen, and took a swift step forwards. But Lady Helen did not move.

  “Did Mr. Bryan know that you were coming to me?” she asked.

  Myra’s hands fell to her sides. Her heart suddenly stopped its wild beating. She looked out upon Lady Helen through a mist of unshed tears.

  “Did Bryan know that I was coming to you!” she repeated falteringly.

  “Why, no!”

  “I imagined not,” Lady Helen said calmly. “I will do him the justice to suppose that he would have prevented it. If you are sure that you have nothing else to say, I should be glad if you would go away. Your story has not been exactly a pleasant one for me to listen to!”

  “A—a pleasant one! I do not understand! Oh, my God!”

  Myra’s hands were clasped to her temples for a moment. She could not realize it all at once. There was a dull singing in her ears, and the room seemed spinning around her. Only that fair marble face with its two spots of angry colour, and its cruel, scornfully curled lips, seemed steadfast before her eyes. She had rent her heart and opened those old wounds—in vain! She had done this—only to be scorned, and by the woman whom Bryan loved! It was horrible! Was she no longer human, then, because she had sinned? Was she indeed for ever beyond the pale of all kindred with her sex? The sense of her degradation seemed burned into her heart, and she shivered. This woman’s voice was the decree of nature; it was the pronouncement of her doom. She was right. She was an unclean thing! She ought not to have come here at all. Her place for ever must be amongst the pariahs of the world. She was mad to have struggled against her fate. The intolerable agony of that moment left its mark upon her life for ever. Yet some faint attempt at justification found its way up from her heart.

  “You think that I ought not to have come, that I am not fit to come to you!” she faltered. “Yet, I loved him dearly. I only gave myself to him because I loved him. It did not seem wrong. Perhaps you think me worse—than I am! There was never—anybody else! I have faced death since—that there should be no one else!”

  “I should be glad if you would go away!” Lady Helen said.

  For one moment Myra rebelled, stung with a keen pang of hopeless indignation against the fate which seemed dealt out to her by this woman’s verdict.

  “Oh, you are cruel!” she cried bitterly. “The world is cruel! Is there no mercy anywhere, then? Does a woman’s sin live for ever? Is this how you Eastern women judge?”

  “I do not judge any one,” Lady Helen answered. “By your own showing you have given yourself of your own accord to a man who would have avoided the gift if he could. That fact places you in a certain position, and amongst a certain class. I have rung the bell. Will you be so good as to go away now.”

  “I will go,” Myra answered calmly, choking down a little sob which trembled in her throat. “I am sorry that I ever came. It was a great mistake.”

  Lady Helen waited until her visitor was gone, and then she went up to her room and locked the door. No one saw her again until the dinner-bell had sounded.

  VIII. THE SAVIOUR OF A SOUL

  Table of Contents

  The Earl of Wessemer drove straight to his club, and entering the smoking-room, took up a paper. But he found it a little difficult to concentrate his thoughts. He listened to the odd scraps of conversation which were being bandied around him, and presently be began to talk himself to his neighbour, Sir George Conyers.

  They had chatted idly for a few moments about a recent meet of the Four-in-Hand Club, when a servant in the club livery entered, and brought a note to Sir George. He opened it with indifference, but he had scarcely glanced it through before his whole expression changed. Lord Wessemer, who chanced to glance towards him, was surprised and a little repelled by the slow, triumphant smile which had broken over his face, and the bright gleam in his eyes. He scribbled an answer in pencil, and then leaned back in his chair with the letter still in his hand.

  “The ways of womankind are wonderful indeed!” he said, with a little sneering laugh. “I was never more surprised in my life!”

  Lord Wessemer shrugged his shoulders.

  “Anything sensational?” he asked.

  “Oh, no! Just a little odd, that’s all! There’s a girl, an actress, I won’t mention her name, whom I consider the most beautiful woman in London. Well, I’ve done my best to make her acquaintance. All no good. She was a protegee, by-the-bye, of your young friend, and he seemed to be the only favoured one. That girl, between ourselves, has snubbed me horribly, and yet to-night—look here!”

  He tore off the signature to the note, and passed it over. Lord Wessemer read it.

  “HILARITY THEATRE.

  “DEAR SIR GEORGE,

  “You have often asked me to go to supper with you. If you have no engagement, I will meet you after the play to-night.”

  Lord Wessemer returned it without any sign of interest. “What did you say?” he asked.

  “Not much! ‘Ladies’ room at the “Monopole,” at a quarter to twelve.’ That’ll give her time to get back to her rooms and dress first. I shall send my carriage for her. An odd thing, by Jove!”

  He strolled off, and left Lord Wessemer sitting looking into the fire. In an ordinary case he was man of the world enough to have dismissed such an episode without a second thought. But this was not an ordinary case. He sat looking into the fire so long and so steadfastly, that one or two of the men around noticed it.

  “Getting an old man!” one remarked.

  His friend shook his head.

  “Lord Wessemer will never be an old man,” he said. “He is a combination of the eighteenth century beau and the modern cynic, and I dare wager that he never troubles himself to think of anything more momentous than a new sauce or an old wine. He will always be graceful and debonair, for he never thinks. He is the very type of refined old age.”

  Lord Wessemer passed out while they were talking, and stood for a moment in the hall. He looked at his watch. It was ten o’clock. He stepped into his carriage.

  “Hilarity Theatre!” he said.

  The brougham, with its wonderful dark bays, set him down at the doors of the theatre in less than five minutes. He paid for a stall and sat in the back row.r />
  The last act was just commencing. He ignored the performance and watched Myra carefully. There was a bright glow in her cheeks which needed no rouge, and her movements seemed full of a wonderful and sinuous voluptuousness new to her. She had never sung so well, or acted with such verve and daring. The applause was tremendous. But Lord Wessemer watched her without applauding; he even sighed.

  Directly the performance was over he walked round to the stage-door, and slipped a sovereign into the doorkeeper’s hand.

  “I want to speak to Miss Mercier for a moment,” he said. “She has just left, sir,” the man answered. “She was in a great hurry this evening.”

  “Can you give me her address?”

  The man gave it him after a moment’s hesitation. Lord Wessemer returned to his carriage.

  “Weymouth Street, No. 39,” he said.

  In ten minutes the small brougham drew up outside Myra’s rooms. Lord Wessemer saw with relief that Sir George Conyer’s carriage was waiting at the door.

  “I want to speak to Miss Mercier,” he said to the servant who answered his ring. “I shall not detain her long. Kindly show me up to her room.”

  Lord Wessemer was a man whom no one ever dreamed of disobeying. The girl showed him up into Myra’s sitting-room. It was empty.

  “Miss Mercier is changing her dress,” she said. “She will he here directly.”

  Lord Wessemer nodded, and he was left alone. He stood still on the hearthrug, and waited.

  His quick eyes wandered round the room. He noticed everything, even the little pile of books, at the titles of which he glanced with a faint smile. There was not a single novel. There were all the modern aids to education, in one form or the other—Glendoroff’s method of learning French, and several volumes of critical essays on art and literature. There were some cushions on the sofa, huddled together and crushed, and a handkerchief lying down on the floor. Lord Wessemer sighed. He knew that a very short time ago this room must have witnessed a woman’s agony.

  She came in at last, dressed for the evening, in a black lace gown with mauve foundation and ribbons, quietly enough compared with the toilettes of dozens of women, but yet in a different style to anything she had yet attempted. The colour on her cheeks, too, was a little higher than usual, and her eyes were unnaturally bright. In her carriage there was a wonderful admixture of the old grace and a new-born voluptuousness. She carried herself with a different air, less feminine and more defiant. Lord Wessemer looked at her long and earnestly. To him she represented the type of a woman deliberately giving herself over to destruction. He was philosopher enough to study her for a moment curiously.

  She stopped short when she saw that it was a stranger who confronted her. Lord Wessemer dropped his eyeglass, and bowed.

  “I have to introduce myself,” he said, in that low, winning tone which he knew so well how to use, “and to apologize for my intrusion! I am the Earl of Wessemer, and you are Miss Myra Mercier, I believe? Will you allow me?”

  He bent over her hand with old-fashioned courtly grace.

  “You must not be shocked at my presumption in coming here!” he continued pleasantly. “Remember that I am old enough to be your father!”

  She understood him, and was ashamed of the suspicion which had caused her for a moment to retain her hand.

  “I do not quite understand,” she said. “Have you anything particular to say to me?

  “You think that I have come at a most unreasonable time to say it, don’t you? Will you allow me to explain? I won’t keep you more than five minutes.”

  His manner was perfect, as it always was, polished and deferential, but exceedingly kindly. In his presence Myra unwittingly became her old self again. The false hardness of a few minutes ago vanished. She smiled at him brightly, and drew off her gloves. It was a respite.

  “Why, of course I will!” she answered. “Won’t you sit down?”

  She loosened the strings of her heavy opera cloak, and it fell back from her bare shoulders. He took an easy-chair, and she sat opposite to him.

  “I know you, and of you,” he said, “from Bryan. He has told me a great deal!”

  The colour in her cheeks became very real for one brief moment. Then it faded out, leaving her quite pale, save for that one pink spot. Lord Wessemer leaned over towards her, and continued:

  “Bryan has told me how nobly you saved his life in San Francisco,” he went on, “and also that it was you who procured and brought him those wonderful papers. I want to tell you something about them, if I may—if you will listen for a few more minutes to an old man!”

  “Why, yes, of course I will,” she said timidly.

  “Those papers were the key to Bryan’s history. They were stolen long ago, and they told him—all he was so anxious to know. It was a very sad history. His father committed a great sin—a sin which he has never ceased to repent. He deceived a trusting woman, and Bryan was their son. He was a villain, and, alas! I am he!”

  She sat up and looked at him in blank surprise.

  “You!” she exclaimed. “You Bryan’s father?”

  “Even so,” Lord Wessemer answered, with bowed head. “I have paid very bitterly for the evil I did. Do you remember this last paper you brought him? It was the most wonderful of all, but it tells how in deceiving his mother, I was myself deceived by a false friend. The marriage which I intended to be a sham one, was a real and binding ceremony. My sin is none the less, but the fact remains. Bryan is really my son!”

  “Your own son!” she exclaimed.

  “Yes,” he answered gently. “I am an old man now, you see, and though I have never thought of marrying since those days, I have often felt very lonely indeed, and I have longed for a son to bear my name after me, and to become the head of my family. But Bryan will not take my name. It is his punishment, and I do not blame him! We are friends! I see him every day! But he will not call me ‘father ‘! It is my deep sorrow, and it is always with me!”

  He bent his head, and was silent for a moment. Her dark eyes were full of sympathy.

  “So you see that I, too, have very much to thank you for,” he continued. “It is you who saved my son’s life; and I want to know whether we cannot, Bryan, and I, and all of us, show our gratitude in some way. We cannot repay you, that is impossible! But it would make an old man very glad if you would accept our respectful friendship—”

  “Stop!”

  She had risen to her feet, and she was looking at him with a curious quivering at the lips.

  “Bryan—Bryan came here, and he spoke of—finding a friend for me. He would go, he said, to the woman whom he was going to marry. She would be kind to me, he said, for his sake. But I—I was afraid that he would not tell her all. I went to her myself, this afternoon!”

  Her voice suddenly broke down, and died away in a little moan, but she dashed the tears from her eyes and continued. Her face had grown very set and hard.

  “She showed me—that I was a very wicked girl. I did not quite understand before, but—she made it very plain. Perhaps you do not know about me, or you would not be here. I was Bryan’s mistress! Do you understand? I lived with him. I went to him of my own accord. I was alone, and I loved him; so I went. Perhaps you are sorry now that you came!”

  Lord AVessemer took her hand, and held it tenderly in his.

  “My dear girl,” he said quietly, “I know everything, and if you will give me that honour, I shall be proud to call you my friend. You must not let anything that Lady Helen said trouble you. She has seen nothing of the world, and although she is my ward, I am afraid that she is a little narrow and prejudiced. She has 110 strong passions herself, good or evil, nor any of those great, sweet impulses which have made you a woman whom I am proud to know. You must not think that Lady Helen’s opinions are the world’s opinions. The woman who gives herself away for her own advantage is a shameful woman, here and everywhere. But the woman who loves one man so tenderly and so unselfishly that she gives herself to him as you gave yoursel
f to Bryan, the world of thoughtful men and women has no single thought or word against.”

  She covered her face with her hands, and sobbed aloud.

  “It is too late!” she moaned. “It is too late!”

  “It is not too late, Myra! See!”

  He pointed to the clock. It struck twelve! Their eyes met, and she was white to the lips.

  “You knew!” she cried. “My God! you knew!”

  He bowed his head.

  “I knew!” he answered. “My poor, dear child!”

  She sank on her knees before him, weeping passionately.

  “Thank God you came!” she sobbed. “I—I loathed myself so, and yet Lady Helen’s words seemed always ringing in my ears, and Bryan was going to marry her, and I was very, very lonely! If I had gone, I should have killed myself afterwards; but I should have gone—if it had not been for you!”

  He led her to a chair, and talked to her soothingly.

  “We must see that you are never lonely any more,” he said. “I—”

  He stopped abruptly, and looked round. The door had opened; Bryan was standing on the threshold.

  Lord Wessemer took up his hat, and stooping low, kissed Myra’s hand. A single look into Bryan’s wild face seemed to tell him what had happened.

  “Good-bye, Myra!” he said gently. “Here is some one else come to talk to you!”

  He crossed the room, and heard her little cry as she recognized Bryan standing gazing at them in blank amazement. Lord Wessemer dropped his voice as he passed him, and looked straight into his eyes.

  “Remember, Bryan,” he said, “that you are a Wessemer!”

  He walked down the stairs, and stepped into his brougham. Sir George Conyers’s carriage was still waiting, and he put his head out of the window, and beckoned to the footman.