The Betrayal of John Fordham

"Again, John," he cried with brazen effrontery, "like a bad penny returned. I can't afford to lose sight of you. What a sly dog you are! but I am a slyer. It is an amusing game. Set a thief to catch a thief, you know."

"It is you who are the thief," I said, all my fears returning, "but you have had your journey for nothing this time. You can get nothing more out of me for the best of reasons; you have robbed me of almost my last penny."

"We shall see. So you thought to give me the slip. You may thank your stars you did not succeed. I have come to see you not on my account, but on Barbara's."

"You might have spared yourself the trouble," I said, coldly. "I have nothing to say to her; she can have nothing to say to me."

"That is where you are mistaken. Passion blinds you, John. Mind, I don't mean to say you have nothing to complain of. I see now that you were not suited to one another, and I dare say I was to blame in not opening your eyes before you married her. There were reasons. In the first place – I admit it frankly – I wanted to get rid of her. I am no saint, but she tired me out; honestly, I was sick of her. In the second place, she bound me down. 'It is my last chance,' she said. Why, she was engaged three times before you met her, and was found out in time by her lovers, who were not slow in beating a retreat. You were the unlucky one to fall into the trap, and though I've been hard on you I am sorry for you. In running away from her and taking up with another woman you did what I should have done if I had been in your place. However, it is all at an end now."

"At an end!" I echoed, regarding him with amazement

"At an end," he repeated, gravely. "You will soon be free, and then I suppose you will wash your hands of me. Well! Perhaps I shall have a bit of luck in another quarter. I don't mind telling you that I had a man watching you all the time you were in Swanage. I knew when you left and where you ran to. I could have been here three weeks ago if I wished, and I have only come to bring you the news. Barbara is dying."

God forgive me, the exclamation that escaped me was not one of horror, but of relief; and the next moment I was shocked at myself.

"She has behaved abominably," he continued, "but after all, she is your wife, and you can hardly refuse to see her, and whisper a word of forgiveness – supposing we are in time. I left her this morning; the doctor was with her, and said he doubted whether she would live over to-morrow."

"It is so sudden," I said, and still my thoughts continued to dwell upon Ellen and our child. "Has she been long ill?"

"She has not been ill at all in that sense," he replied. "It was an accident. Yesterday morning, when she was in her usual state – you understand, John – she slipped from the top of the stairs to the bottom, and broke her spine. The moment the doctor saw her he said there was no hope. Will you come?"

It was my duty; I should have been less than man had I hesitated. "Yes," I said, "I will come. When is the train?"

"It starts in an hour if you can get ready by that time."

"I will meet you at the station," I said, and went at once to Ellen to inform her of what had occurred. She approved of my going, and hastened my departure. For Barbara she had only words of pity, and her eyes overflowed in commiseration for the wasted life so near its end. In this crisis it would have been contrary to nature had we not thought of ourselves, and of what Barbara's death meant to us, but it was a subject we avoided. I breathed a blessing over our sleeping child, and promising to write to Ellen directly I got to London, I bade her good-bye.

Maxwell was at the station.

"Plenty of time, John," he said, "the train doesn't start for half an hour. You'll stand me a brandy and soda and a sandwich, I suppose. I haven't had a bite or a drink since the morning. I'm shipwrecked again. Serve me right, you'll say. So say I. I shall have to turn over a new leaf. Would you believe I had to travel third-class, and didn't have money enough to pay for a return ticket? Hard lines for a gentleman; but such is life."

"You'll have to travel back third-class," I said. "I have no money to waste."

He grumbled at this, but I paid no heed to him. After disposing of his brandy and soda he asked for another, which I refused. He laughed, and complimented me upon displaying a strength of character which he had not given me credit for. If I had not hurried him we would have missed the train.

Few people were traveling by it, and we had a compartment to ourselves. Such conversation as we had on the journey was of his seeking; meeting with no encouragement from me he leant back moodily and closed his eyes. Quite two hours passed without a word being exchanged, when suddenly he said:

"John, after Barbara's death you will marry Madame Virtue, of course. How soon after? I shall expect an invitation, old fellow."

I did not answer him, and he made no further attempts at conversation. At the end of our journey I asked him where Barbara lived.

"Islington way," he said, sulkily, and calling a cab, gave the driver the address.

The cab pulled up at the door of a wretched house in a narrow street between "The Angel" and the Agricultural Hall. I paid the man and followed Maxwell to the second floor, where, opening a door, he fell back, motioning me to enter first.

The room was in semi-darkness, the window-curtains being drawn down.

"Is that you, John?" a voice asked, and at the same moment the curtains were drawn aside.

It was the voice of my stepmother. From an inner room came the sound of driveling laughter.

As I turned and saw Maxwell standing with his back against the door, and an insolent smile on his face, suspicion entered my mind. It was to some extent confirmed when I observed the insolent smile reflected on the face of my stepmother.

"Barbara is still alive, dear brother-in-law," said Maxwell, laughing quietly to himself. "You are in time, you see. Oh, yes, you are in time."

I threw open the door of the adjoining room. A strange woman was there, standing by a chair in which Barbara was lolling. Except that she had grown more unwieldy, that her eyes were bleared and dim, and that her driveling mouth and hanging jaws gave her the appearance of a besotted hag, she bore no traces of a mortal illness such as Maxwell had described. The truth rushed upon me with convincing force. I had been tricked.

"Neat, wasn't it?" exclaimed Maxwell, as I closed the door upon the disgusting sight. "Would you believe," addressing my stepmother, "that our dear John was actually calculating the time when he would be free to marry the low woman for whom he deserted his lawful wife?"

"I would believe anything of him," said my stepmother.

"I warn you," I said. "Another such allusion, and I will thrash you within an inch of your life."

"Oh! I'm not to be frightened by threats," he blustered, "and I'm not going to quarrel with you."

"You will gain nothing by the trick you have played me," I said. "I am already making your sister an allowance which my means do not warrant, and which no court of law would compel me to pay."

"A pretense of poverty for which we are prepared. And we are prepared also to make your affairs public property unless you listen to reason."

"You are in the plot against me," I said to my stepmother.

"That is a lie," she replied, composedly. "I am not in any plot against you, but I am ready to give evidence when called upon."

"We are here, John, in the presence of a witness," said Maxwell, "for the purpose of coming to an understanding. You have had sufficient experience of me to be aware by this time that you are no match for me. If you wish to be left in peace, to lead any life you choose, you will have to pay for it. Shall I name the price?"

"It will be quite useless. You will never obtain another shilling from me."

"You shall have the opportunity to consider it, John. For one thousand pounds – a sum you can well afford to pay – you shall be left forever at peace, to go your own way to the devil. I will bind myself never to molest you again by any legal document you may lay before me. Consider it well, brother-in-law. What I offer is worth the price."

"It needs no consideration. You have my answer."

"I give you a week to think it over," he continued. "If then you persist in your refusal, I will dog you like your shadow – and not only you but the lady; observe how polite I am – in whom you take an interest. I will hunt you down and make your life and hers a daily misery. You may be able to stand it for a time. If I am any judge of appearances she will not. You have a gift of imagination. Imagine the worst I can do, and you will fall short of the reality. If not for your own sake, John, for hers, think it over."

"You have my answer," I repeated; and brushing him aside, I left the house.

CHAPTER XXII

Before the expiring of the month from the date of the deception practiced upon me I had put into execution a plan I formed while Maxwell was threatening me. To continue to live in England persecuted by his malignant ingenuity would have been an act of folly; to purchase intervals of peace at the cost of being reduced to beggary in a year or two would have been no less. At all hazards I was determined that some small sum should be secured to Ellen, to shield her and our child from penury, and to this end I made over to her the balance of my fortune, securely invested in Consols, the interest on which she would receive monthly from my solicitor, the principal reverting to her at my death. I take this opportunity of expressing my heartfelt thanks to this gentleman for the faithful manner in which he has carried out my instructions and executed the delicate business I entrusted to him. For my own immediate necessities I took one hundred pounds, which indeed was all that remained after the investment which secured to Ellen one pound a week during my lifetime. It was my desire at first, that she should accompany me to Australia, but my solicitor argued against it; and his arguments were strengthened by a medical opinion that neither the voyage nor the Australian climate would be good for my dear Ellen's health.

In the winding up of this business and the preparations for my departure, I exercised the greatest caution and secrecy, in order that my enemies should have no suspicion of the locality in which it was determined that Ellen should reside. We chose London as offering the greatest security for her, and because she would be within hail of my solicitor, to whom she was to apply for protection in the event of molestation. The knowledge that I had baffled my pursuers was a satisfaction to me, and more than once I put successfully into practice the tactics I adopted when I first discovered I was being watched and followed. With respect to our correspondence I arranged that my letters to Ellen, and Ellen's to me, should be sent under cover to my solicitor, who would forward them to their correct address. It was probable that I should be shifting from place to place in Australia, and Ellen might have occasion to remove. During the month a number of communications from Maxwell reached me through my solicitor. Some contained threats, some invited me to a meeting in which a modification of his terms could be discussed. I did not acknowledge one of these letters, and in the last I received Maxwell wrote: "I have discovered that it is your intention to leave England with Madame Virtue and your precious infant. If you think you will escape me you are mistaken. Go where you will you will be shadowed and not allowed to rest until you come to terms. Be wise in time, dear John." This threat did not alarm me; the discovery he announced was probably mere guesswork; even if it were not, my departure would strengthen the chances of Ellen's safety. Before I left there was still a neglected duty to perform – to inform Ellen that I had deceived her as to my real name. She evinced no surprise, and did not reproach me, nor did it shake her faith in me. From the hour we met my dear Ellen has never uttered a word to cause me pain. Humbly do I ask forgiveness for the sorrows I have brought upon her.

At length the day of our separation arrived. I had put off my departure to the latest moment, and was to travel by the night train to meet my ship.

We sat together in Ellen's humble room, her head on my shoulder, our child in my arms. Though he could not yet speak an intelligible word he had, thank God, learned to love me. What Ellen and I had to say was but a repetition of the fond assurances we had exchanged that we would be true to each other to the last hour of our lives. She was outwardly more cheerful than I; such women as she have a strength of endurance denied to man, whose courage often deserts him at the supreme moment of a moral crisis.

Ellen rose to spread the cloth for our last meal together, and it touched me to observe how she had consulted my tastes in what she had placed upon the table. To please her I forced myself to eat, and supper ended, she gave her babe the breast, her eyes shining with tenderness and love.

"You must be brave, dear," she said. "You must never lose heart – never for one single moment."

"And you, Ellen, you must also be brave."

"I am – I shall be; and cheerful, too. If I were to mope, dear, baby would suffer – and that would never do, would it, darling?"

I see her now a picture of sweetest motherhood, as she sat crooning to the little fellow, who was drawing life and goodness from nature's fount. In the dark watches of my lonely life the picture rose before me, and I saw the dear woman with her baby at her breast, her tender eyes shining upon me. It taught me patience, and never failed to comfort me. Across the seas a heart was throbbing with love for the wanderer, a mother was whispering to her babe of the absent father; an invisible link stretched from the quiet bush to the fevered city, along which, in hours of unrest, sped the spiritual message: "I am thinking of you. Dear love, dear love, do not lose heart; I am thinking of you."

And so we parted. The last words were spoken, the last kiss given. I turned and saw, through tears, Ellen standing at the door, a blessing on her lips, her soul in her eyes. "Farewell, dear heart, farewell!"

CHAPTER XXIII

It is not pertinent to my story to dwell at any length upon my Australian experiences. As I am not writing for literary purposes, brief allusion to them will suffice.

I went out steerage in a sailing vessel, and was brought into contact with new phases of life and adventure. Had I been less anxious about myself and those connected with me, I should have found ample scope for contemplation and study in these novel pictures of human life and struggle; and even as it was, they frequently afforded me a healthy diversion from my own private cares. My time on board was chiefly occupied upon a diary which I subsequently sent home to Ellen, and being written for her I took pains to make it interesting. It interested me too, and I was amused at the importance with which trivial incidents were insensibly invested. I was, it is true, subject to fits of depression, but the salt breezes, the rough life, the open air, the alternations of storm and sunshine, invigorated me, and helped to shake them off. I had with me, besides, an infallible charm in the portraits of Ellen and our child, which I wore close to my heart. Whenever I gazed upon these pictures Ellen's words recurred to me: "Dear love, dear love, I am thinking of you," and hope bloomed like a flower within me.

At home I had given little thought to the special groove in which I should strive to obtain a livelihood in the Colonies. I was ready and willing to undertake any kind of work, but I was certainly not prepared for the difficulties I encountered. The market was crowded with unemployed labor; on all sides I heard the cry of hard times, and yet money seemed to be abundant. Surely, thought I, there must be some place for me, a man of education, in this great city, but this very quality of education seemed to stop the way. Gentlemen were at a discount; bone and muscle were the staple, despite the fact that bone and muscle were striking against capital. The wages rejected by rough workingmen I should have been glad to accept, and had I been a bricklayer, a carpenter, or a stonemason, I should soon have been in a situation; having no special trade to back me, I went to the wall. After weeks of vain endeavor, I determined to go up country and see what I could do on the goldfields. I could wield a pick if I could do nothing else.

I had lived very sparingly, but my little store of money was dwindling fast, and would, even with extreme frugality, be exhausted in a month or two. No time, therefore, to lose in idleness. To the goldfields I set my face, tramping it alone through the bush, seeking employment on the way, which I did not obtain. The golden days of the Colonies were over, and the familiar and magic cry of "Rush, O!" was seldom heard. Still, gold was being dug from the earth, and nuggets were as much my property as any man's – if I could only get on the track of them. I did not. For me Tom Tiddler's ground was nearly barren, the few pennyweights of gold I managed to extract from alluvial soil being scarcely sufficient to provide me with the commonest necessaries. Strangely enough, certain qualities which should have served me in good stead tended rather to retard me, and indeed made me unpopular with the class I mixed with. For instance, my sobriety. I was frequently invited to drink, and my steady refusal was regarded with disfavor, occasionally with contempt. Lucky diggers celebrate their good fortune by "going on the spree," and standing treat to one and all. No inducement could prevail upon me to join them; I held aloof from them, and they showed their feelings by refusing to associate with me. I regretted this the more because as a rule they were a set of free-hearted men, whose instincts were generous, if not exactly prudent. The consequence was that I made no friends, which did not help me in the battle I was waging. In this fight for fortune my greatest consolation was derived from Ellen's letters. Every month I received from my lawyer, through the Melbourne Post Office, a packet containing Ellen's letters, and one from himself upon business matters. His communications were brief. There was nothing of importance to report concerning my wife; her allowance was drawn regularly, and there was no improvement in her habits; Maxwell had called several times, and on one occasion would not depart without an interview, which was granted. He expressed anxiety about my welfare, and made efforts to ascertain where I was; the information not being supplied he retired, after indulging in mysterious threats – as to which, my lawyer said, I need not be in the least degree alarmed.

Ellen's letters were longer, and I need hardly say I read them again and again with delight. Not in one of them was to be found a complaining word; instinctively she always took the bright and cheerful view, and I knew that for my sake she would make light of crosses. How did her letters run? She was happy and in good health; she was comfortable in her lodgings, and the landlady was kindness itself; our child was wonderfully well, and was growing "so big" that I would hardly know him; his eyes were more beautiful than ever; everybody noticed them, everybody fell in love with him; it made her so proud to see people look admiringly at him, and "you would not believe the notice he takes of things"; he had learned already to lisp "mamma" and "papa;" and he sent his love to his dear papa, and a thousand, thousand kisses; she had obtained some needlework by which she was earning a few shillings a week, "not that through your great kindness we have not enough to live upon, but I want to put something by for a rainy day;" I was to be sure not to order her to give up the work, because she had too much idle time on her hands, and the hours flew by more quickly when she was fully employed; "when my needle is in my hand my thoughts are always on baby's dear father, and I am wondering what he is doing at that precise moment – but indeed, my love, you are never out of my thoughts;" and so on, and so on. Not a detail of her domestic life which she believed would afford me pleasure was omitted, "and I hope I am not worrying you by speaking of these small matters, but it is such a pleasure to me; I write every night when baby is asleep and my work is done." The tender expressions of concern for my welfare were inexpressibly comforting to me. In my lonely tent I saw with my mind's eye the dear woman in her London lodging sitting pen in hand at her labor of love, with baby asleep in his little crib, and everything in the humble room clean and sweet and orderly, and I thanked God she was happy and well.

Things went from bad to worse with me. Driven by necessity I wandered from place to place, and there seemed to be no rest for the sole of my foot. When I plied my pick on the goldfields I worked as "a hatter," by which is meant a man who works singlehanded. I spent weeks and weeks prospecting for gold and finding none. Bad luck dogged me wherever I went, whatever I undertook. I had a reasonable longing for money – for the sake of my dear Ellen and my boy, and once I missed a great fortune.

I had been compelled to part with all my belongings except a short-handled pick. All my other tools were gone, and tent and blankets as well; not a shilling in my pockets, but happily the best part of a cake of cavendish and a cutty. No man knows the comfort that lies in a pipe of tobacco as a bushman does; it has sustained the courage of many a man in as desperate a plight as I was in on that day. I had started in the early morning for a cattle station where I had heard there was the chance of a job, and towards evening found that I had missed my way. Had there been such twilight as we enjoy in England there would have been time to get into the right track, but in Australia night treads close upon the shadows of evening. It was not the first time I had been "bushed," and I accepted the position as cheerfully as my circumstances would permit. The night was fine, the sky was filled with stars, the air was sweet and warm. I had camped out under more favorable conditions, but I made the best of this, comforting myself with the reflection that I had only a few hours to wait before I obtained a meal at the cattle station I had missed. Meanwhile I smoked my pipe, and soon afterwards fell asleep upon a bed of dry leaves.

I was up with the sun, and was about to resume my search for the lost track when my eyes fell upon a range of hills studded with quartz. I thought of the stories I had heard of rich reefs being accidentally discovered by men who had lost their way in the bush, and considered that it was as likely to happen to me as to another. It is true I was hungry, but I could hold on a bit longer, and I determined to spend an hour or two in prospecting. So to it I went, selecting the most likely-looking hill, on the uppermost ridge of which rested a huge boulder of quartz, which a vivid imagination might have converted into the fantastic image of a human monster. Detaching some pieces of stone from the base of this boulder I saw fine specks of gold in them in sufficient quantity to give promise of a paying reef. The specks were so finely distributed that they could only be won by the aid of fire, water, and quicksilver, and the pulverizing stamps of a crushing machine. The discovery was therefore valueless to me in its power to relieve my present necessities, but I marked the spot and determined to return to it when my circumstances were more favorable to the opening of a new reef.

I reached the cattle station in the evening, and to my disappointment learned that there was no work for me. The kind-hearted people on the station gave me a plentiful supper and a shake-down, and when I rose the next morning to continue my wanderings I was not allowed to depart empty-handed. The life I led in the Colonies was rough and hard, but it was studded with stars of human kindness which I can never forget.

Six months afterwards I was in a position – having a few pounds in my pocket – to visit the quartz ranges I had prospected, my intention being to mark off a prospector's claim and set to work. Other men were before me; every inch of ground north and south was marked off for miles, and a thousand miners were at work. The huge boulder in which I had found specks of gold had been blasted away, and I was informed that a wonderful amount of gold had been taken from it. The claim upon which it had stood was the richest on the line of reef, the stone averaging five or six ounces to the ton. A quartz crushing machine had been erected, and was merrily pounding away.