SINCLAIR LEARNS THE TRUTH AT LAST.
After Koto had left Sinclair he sat down to think. His brain was
whirling, for his thoughts and plans were in confusion. His first
impulse had been to go straight to Numè; but he had promised Koto to
wait until the following day. Now that he was alone, he suddenly
remembered Cleo Ballard. Was he free to go, after all? Could he desert
Cleo now while she lay so sick and helpless? His joy in the renewed
assurance of Numè's love for him had been suddenly tinged with bitter
pain. What could he do?
He slept none through the night. In the morning of the next day he
hurried over to the hotel and made his usual enquiries after Cleo's
health. Mr. and Mrs. Davis, with Tom, had done their best to prevent him
from knowing the cause of Orito's suicide. Various reasons had been
suggested; and after the first alarm had worn off, and the bodies had
been interred with due ceremony, the excitement subsided somewhat, so
that they had hopes of the talk quieting down, and perhaps dying out
altogether, without the truth reaching Sinclair's ears; for, knowing him
to be her betrothed, there were few who were unkind or unscrupulous
enough to tell him.
As Sinclair passed through the hotel corridor on his way to the front
door, Fanny Morton came down the wide staircase of the hotel. She
stopped him as he was going out.
"_Let_ me express my sympathy," she said, sweetly.
"Your sympathy!" he said, coldly; for he did not like her. "I do not
understand you, Miss Morton."
"Yes," she cooed. "I am sure I can vouch for Cleo that she _never_
dreamed he would take it so seriously. I was with them on the voyage
out, you know, and indeed Cleo often said the passengers were dull. _He_
cheered her up, and--and----"
"Really, Miss Morton, I am at a loss to understand you," he said,
curtly.
Fanny Morton showed her colors. There was no suggestion of sweetness in
her voice now.
"I mean that every one knows that Mr. Takashima killed himself because
he was in love with Miss Ballard; because she let him believe on the
boat that she reciprocated his--affection, and the night of the ball she
told him the truth. He killed himself, they say, hardly an hour after he
had seen her."
Jenny Davis stood right at the back of them. She had heard the woman's
venomous words, but was powerless to refute them. Sinclair felt her eyes
fixed on him with an entreaty that was pitiful.
He raised his hat to Fannie Morton.
"I will wish you good morning," he said, cuttingly, and that was all.
Then he turned to the other woman.
"Let us go in here," he said, and drew her into a small sitting-room.
"What does that woman mean?" he asked.
Mrs. Davis had broken down.
"We can't keep on pretending any longer, Mr. Sinclair. Yes; it is true,
what she says. Poor Cleo did lead him on, thoughtlessly--you know the
rest."
A look of dogged sternness began to settle on Sinclair's face.
"Then she was the real cause of----"
"No! no! _don't_ say that. Arthur, she never intended doing any harm.
Cleo would not willingly harm anything or any one. She really liked him.
Tom will tell you. It was the reason why she never had the heart to tell
him--of--of her engagement to you."
For a long time the two sat in moody silence. Then Sinclair said, almost
bitterly: "And it was for _her_ that Numè suffered."
"Why, Numè--is--what do you mean?" the other asked, showing signs of
hysteria.
"Yes; Mrs. Davis, I know the truth," he said, grimly. "I understand that
you thought you were really serving Cleo and myself by acting
so--but--well, a man is not cured of love so easily, you know. She
(Numè) gave me up because she did not want to spoil a good woman's life,
as she thought, after what you told her. This same woman did not scruple
to take from her the man who might have comforted her after everything
else had failed. Now she is utterly alone."
"I won't say anything now," Mrs. Davis said, bitterly. "I can't defend
myself. You would not understand. It is easy to be hard where we do not
love;--that is why you have no mercy on Cleo."
"I am thinking of Numè," the man answered.
"May I ask what you intend to do?"
"Last night I was uncertain. This morning, now that I know the truth,
things are plain before me. I am going to Numè," he added, firmly.
"But Cleo?" the other almost implored.
"I cannot think of her now."
"But you will have to see her. What can you tell her? We are hiding from
her, as best we can, the fact of--of the tragedy. _That_ would kill her;
as for your ceasing to care for her, she suspected the possibility of it
long ago, and might survive that. Yet how can she know the one without
the other?"
Sinclair remained thinking a moment.
"There is only one way. Let her think of _me_ what she will. You are
right; if possible the truth--even Takashima's death--must be kept from
her so long as she is too weak to bear the knowledge. Can we not have
her make the return voyage soon? I will write to her, and though it will
sound brutal, I will tell her that the reason why I cannot be more to
her than a friend is--because I--I do not love her,--that I love another
woman."
Mrs. Davis was weeping bitterly. All her efforts and plans had been of
no avail in Cleo's behalf. She saw it now, and did not even try to hold
Sinclair.
"Yes," she said, almost wildly. "Go to Numè--she will comfort you. At
least your sorrows and hers have ended, now. But as for ours--Cleo's and
mine, for I have always loved her better than if she were my own
sister--we will try to forget, too."