The Betrayal of John Fordham

"Why, of course I have. I take it only as a medicine." I picked up the empty brandy bottle, and placed it on the dressing table. "Oh, that," she exclaimed. "It was filled with lemonade, and I drank it every drop while you were away last night. What kept you so long? Oh, my head is racked! I hope no pretty Frenchwoman – "

"Be silent!" I cried, sternly. "Of what use is this subterfuge? You cannot deceive me."

"I never tried to r I would not be so wicked. It is cruel of you to pick a quarrel with me the moment we are married. People wouldn't believe it if they were told. For God's sake, get me a little brandy!"

"From me, Barbara, not one drop!"

"You won't?"

"No, I will not."

"Brute! Leave my room!"

I was glad to obey her, feeling how idle it was to pursue the conversation. The moment I was gone I heard her scramble from the bed and lock the door. Then I heard the sound of things being violently tossed about, and presently the door was unlocked, and she stood before me with a flaming face.

"You are a thief!" she screamed. "You are a sneak and a spy – "

"Hush, Barbara! The people in the hotel will hear you."

"Let them hear! What do I care? You are my husband, and you are a thief. How dare you rob me? How dare you sneak, and pry, and search my boxes, while I am asleep? You'll be picking my pocket, next, I suppose. But I'll show you that a married woman has rights. You men can't grind poor weak women into the dust any longer. I'll show you!" She rang the bell violently.

"The servants must not see you in that state, Barbara," I said, with my back against the door.

"They shall see me in any state I please, and I will let them know – I will let all the world know – that we have been married hardly a day, and that this is the way you are treating me. I give you fair warning. If you don't get me the brandy I will scream the house down!"

What could I do? A waiter rapped at the door, and asked what monsieur required. I gave him the order, and when the brandy was brought I took it from him without allowing him to enter. Before I had time to turn round Barbara snatched the decanter from my hand, and ran with it into the bedroom. In a few minutes she returned, looking, to my astonishment, bright and well.

"See what good it has done me," she said, in a blithe tone. "When I am suffering nothing has such an effect upon me as a small glass of brandy. It pulls me together in a moment almost. The doctor ordered it especially for me, and when I can't get it at once I feel as if I should go mad. I don't know what I say or do, so I am not accountable, you know. Ask the doctor. I'll let you into my secret, my dear.' All women take it, from the highest to the lowest. Fact, upon my word. You are a goose. Now, we will not quarrel any more, will we? Kiss me, and make it up."

I kissed her to keep her quiet, and, indeed, I felt that I was helpless in the hands of this brazen and cunning woman.

"Barbara," I said, "you have caused me the greatest grief I have ever experienced."

"I am so sorry, so very, very sorry!" she murmured. "Can I say more than that?"

"You can, Barbara. You can promise me never to drink spirits again."

"Do you think I ever intend to?" she asked, in a tone of astonishment.

"I don't know."

"Now listen to me, love," she said, with an ingenuous smile. "I will never touch another drop as long as I live."

"Do you mean that truly?"

"Truly, truly, truly! I was so ill, and so unhappy at being left alone! I can't bear you out of my sight, John, dear, and if you won't take advantage of it I don't mind confessing I am a wee bit jealous. We will not talk of it any more, will we?"

"It is a solemn promise you have given me."

"A solemn, solemn promise, love. If you have any doubts of me I will go down on my knees and swear it."

"I take your word, Barbara."

While Barbara was dressing the manager of the hotel waited upon me, and to my surprise handed me my account. As I had not been in the house twenty-four hours I inquired if it was usual for his visitors to pay from day to day. No, he replied blandly it was not usual. Then why call upon me so soon for payment? Did he mistrust me? He was shocked at the suggestion. Mistrust an English gentleman? Certainly not – no, no. This with perfect politeness and much deprecatory waving of his hands.

"But you expect a settlement of this account," I said, irritated by his manner.

"If monsieur pleases. And if monsieur will be so obliging as to seek another hotel in which he will be more comfortable, more at his ease – "

"I understand," I said. "You turn me out. Why?"

"If monsieur will be pleased to listen. The servants were not used to the ways of monsieur and madame; and there had been complaints from visitors. The sick gentleman in the next apartment – "

"Enough," I said, impatiently. "I leave your hotel within the hour, and I will never set foot in it again."

He was grieved, devastated, but if monsieur had so resolved —

These uncompleted sentences were very significant, and afforded a sufficiently clear explanation of the proceeding. With suppressed anger I ran my eye down the account, and pointed to an item of five francs for brandy.

"Supplied this morning," he explained, "to monsieur's order. Five francs – yes, monsieur would find it quite correct."

"I required only a small glass," I said. "It is an imposition."

He trusted not; such an accusation had never been brought against him. Would monsieur be kind enough to produce the decanter? A proper deduction would be made if only one small glass had been taken.

"Produce the decanter! Certainly I will."

I called to Barbara to give me the decanter, and, her white arm bared to the shoulder, she handed it out to me. It was empty. I blushed from shame.

"Does monsieur find the account correct?"

"It is correct. Here is your money."

He receipted the bill and departed with polite bows and more deprecatory waving of his hands. As I sat with my closed eyes covered by my hand, Barbara touched my shoulder. I looked up into her smiling face.

"Have I made myself beautiful, dear?"

Most assuredly she would have been so in other men's eyes, for she was eminently attractive, but she was not in mine. Her beautiful outside served only to accentuate what was corrupt within.

"Why do you not answer? Are you not proud of your wife?"

Proud of her? Great God! Proud of a woman who had brought this shame upon me, and who, but an hour ago, was as degraded a spectacle as imagination could compass.

"Don't get sulky again," she said, and as I still did not speak, she asked vehemently, "What is the matter now?"

"Simply that we are turned out of the hotel," I replied.

"Is that all? The insolent ruffians! It is a thousand pities we ever came here. But why get sulky over it? Paris is crammed with hotels, and they will only be too glad to take our money."

"It is not that, Barbara. I wish to know if you drank all the brandy in the decanter."

"All? It wasn't more than a thimbleful. And see what good it did me."

"Did you finish it before you promised never to touch spirits again?"

"What a tragedy voice, and what a tragedy face! Of course I did. Do you think I would be so dishonorable as to break a promise I gave you – you, of all, men? That isn't showing much confidence in me."

"You will keep that promise faithfully, Barbara?"

"I should be ashamed to look you in the face if I did not mean to keep it faithfully. You will never find me doing anything underhanded or behind your back, John."

I rallied at this. My happiness was lost, but there was a hope that our shame would not be revealed to the world. As for what had occurred in this hotel, once we were gone it would soon be forgotten. The swiftly turning kaleidoscope of life in Paris is too absorbing in its changes to allow the inhabitants to dwell long upon one picture, especially on a picture the principle figures in which were persons so insignificant as ourselves.

"Not a sou," cried Barbara, snapping her fingers in the faces of the servants who swarmed about us when we were seated in the carriage; "not one sou, you greedy beggars!" We drove out of the courtyard, and Barbara, turning to me, said in her sweetest tone, "I hope you will be very good to me, John, for you see how weak I am. Oh, what I have gone through since you put the wedding ring on my finger! The dear wedding ring!" She put it to her lips and then to mine. "I do nothing but kiss it when I am alone. It means so much to both of us – love, faithfulness, truth, trust in one another. All our troubles are over now, are they not, love? And we are really commencing our honeymoon."

CHAPTER VII

There was no difficulty in obtaining accommodation at another hotel. The choice rested with me, for I was not particular as to terms, I had no scruple in spending part of my capital, my intentions having always been to adopt a profession, and not to pass my days in idleness. My inclination was for literature; I was vain enough to believe that I had in me the makings of a novelist, and I had already in manuscript the skeleton of a work of fiction upon which I intended to set to work when I was settled down in life. Before our marriage I had confided my ambitious schemes to Barbara.

"Delightful!" she exclaimed. "My husband will be a famous author. What a proud woman I shall be when I hear people praise his books!"

I brought away from the hotel letters which had arrived for me, and Barbara carried the bouquet I had purchased for her on the previous night. The moment we were in our new quarters she called for a vase, and placed the flowers in water. The brooch I had purchased at the same time was still in my pocket; the device of two hearts entwined was a mockery now in its application to Barbara and myself.

"How sweet of you to buy these flowers," she said, with tender glances at me. "You will always love me, will you not – you will always buy flowers for me? I have heard people say that marriage acts upon love like cold water on fire – puts it out, but I should die with grief if I thought that would be so with us. What are your letters about, dear?"

They were from agents, giving me particulars of two houses, either of which would be a suitable residence for us when we returned to London, and set up housekeeping. Barbara and I had made many pleasant journeys in search of a house, and we had selected two in the neighborhood of West Kensington. One was unfurnished, the other had been the residence for a few months of a gentleman who had furnished it in good style, and was desirous of selling the furniture and his interest in the lease. I preferred the former, Barbara the latter, and I now gave her the letters to read. The furnished house was offered to me for a sum which I considered moderate, and an answer had to be given immediately, as another likely purchaser was making inquiries about it.

"Now sit down, like a good boy," said Barbara, "and send the agent a cheque, and settle it at once. It will be the dearest little home, and we shall be as happy as the day is long."

I had no heart to argue the matter; after the experiences of the last twenty-four hours one house was as good to me as another. A home we must have, and I earnestly desired to avoid contention, so for the sake of peace I did as Barbara wished, and wrote to the agent to close the bargain. While I was attending to my correspondence Barbara was bustling about and chatting with a chambermaid with whom she appeared to be already on confidential terms.

"What delightful rooms these are," she said, looking over my shoulder as I was writing, "and what a clever business man my dear boy is! I am ever so glad we moved from that disagreeable hotel. You must consult me in these things for the future; I have an instinct which always guides me right. The moment I entered the place I knew we should not be comfortable there. Go on with your letters while Annette assists me to unpack. You must not look on, sir; I shall not let you into the secrets of a lady's wardrobe till we have been married a year at least. When you have finished your letters you can arrange your private treasures while I am arranging mine, or if you are too tired you can lie on the sofa and smoke a cigar. Would it shock you very much if I smoked a cigarette? It is quite the fashionable thing for ladies to do."

I replied that I did not like to see women smoke.

"Then you shall not see me do it," she said, vivaciously. "I would die rather than give you one moment's annoyance."

Annette was the chambermaid, a tall, thin-faced, spare woman of middle age; and a stranger, observing her and my wife together, would have supposed they had been long acquainted. Barbara was given to sudden and violent likings and dislikings, and had once said to me, "I love impulsive people. They are ever so much better and so much more genuine than people who hum and ha, and want time to consider whether they are fond of you or not. They resemble spiders who, after watching for days and days, creep out of their corners when you least expect it, and bind you tight so that you can't move, and say, 'I have made up my mind; I am going to eat you bit by bit.'" I thought this speech very clever when I first heard it, and I became immediately a worshiper of impulsiveness. That Barbara should strike up a sudden friendship with the new chambermaid did not, therefore, surprise me. Together they proceeded with the unpacking of Barbara's wardrobe, Barbara darting in upon me now and then to give me a kiss, "on the sly," she whispered, "for she mustn't see." Then she would return to Annette, and they would laugh and talk. My letters written, I lit a cigar and took up a French newspaper. Once Barbara brought a peculiar flavor into the room, and I asked her what it was.

"Cloves," she replied. "I dote on them." She popped one into my mouth, and said, "Now we are equal and you can't complain. Oh, John, promise me never, never to eat onions alone. I am passionately fond of them. You are beginning to find out all my little failings."

She ran into the bedroom to tell Annette the joke, and there was much giggling between them.

"How provoking!" she cried, darting in for the twentieth time. "I have mislaid the key of my small trunk. Lend me your keys; perhaps one of them will fit."

I gave her my bunch of keys, and she was a long time trying them. I took no notice of this, being engrossed in a feuilleton, and taking from the style in which the exciting incidents were described a lesson for the novel I contemplated writing.

"Not one of them will fit," said Barbara, throwing the keys into my lap. Shortly afterwards she called out, "Congratulate me, John, I have found my key. It was in my pocket all the time. See what a simple little woman you have married; and you thought me clever, you foolish boy!"

So far as I can recall my impressions I am endeavoring to describe them faithfully. I went through many transitions of feeling in those days, now hoping, now despairing, now accusing myself of doing my wife an injustice, now sternly convinced that I was right. On this day I was comforted, Barbara was so bright, so ingenuous, and I firmly believed she would keep the promise she had given me. She brought into play all the arts and fascinations by which she had beguiled me in our courting days. She ordered me to take her for a drive, to buy her violets, to drive to the Magazin de Louvre to make purchases (where she selected a number of things she did not need), to take her to a famous restaurant to dine – "it is so dull," she said, "to dine in a stuffy little room all by ourselves" – and, dinner over, she invited me to accompany her to a theatre where a comedy was being played which Annette had told her was very amusing.

"I can't live without excitement," she said. "I love theatres, I love bright weather, I love flowers, I love handsome men – why do you look so grave, sir? Do you not love handsome women? You are a ninny if you don't, and if you don't, sir, why did you marry me?"

"Barbara," I said gravely, "it is a strange question, I know, but do you think we are suited to one another?"

"It is a strange question," she replied, laughing. "My dear, we were made for one another. Fie, love! Do you forget that marriages are made in Heaven?"

"Ours, Barbara?"

"Certainly, ours."

Wonderful were the inconsistencies of her utterances; one moment questioning whether she had not made a mistake in marrying me, the next declaring that our marriage was made in heaven.

"I have not a secret from you," I said.

"Nor I from you," she returned. "I hope you agree with me, John, that there should be perfect confidence between man and wife, that they should hide nothing from one another."

"I do agree with you; not even the smallest matter should be hidden."

"Yes, John, love, not even the smallest matter. Little things are often very important, and it is so awkward to be found out. I am so glad we are of one mind about this. When we first engaged I said to Maxwell, 'John shall know everything about me – everything. All my faults and failings – nothing shall be hidden from him. Then he can't reproach me afterwards. I will be perfectly frank with him.' Maxwell called me a fool, and said there were lots of things people ought to keep to themselves, and that I should be horrified if I were told all the dreadful things you had done. He spoke of wild oats, and bachelors living alone, and the late suppers they had in their chambers with girls and all sorts of queer company. But I was determined. You might deceive me, but I would not deceive you. I would not have that upon my conscience."

"You really kept nothing from me, Barbara?"

"Nothing, love."

"And you are keeping nothing from me now?"

"Nothing, love."

I did not press her farther. Her smiling eyes looked into mine, and I had received incontestible proof that she was lying to my face.

CHAPTER VIII

I was an inveterate smoker, and at this period my favorite habit was a consolation to me. I smoked at all hours of the day, and Barbara had encouraged me, saying that she loved the smell of a cigar. But on the morning following the conversation I have just recorded she complained that my cigar made her ill, and I went into the boulevard to smoke it. When I had thrown away the stump I returned to the hotel to attend to my trunks, which were not yet unpacked. These trunks were in a small ante-room, the key of which I had put in my pocket. I had adopted this precaution in order that they should not be in Barbara's sight, that she should not be left alone with them, and that when I unpacked them she should not see what they contained. Upon my return to the hotel Barbara was in her bed-room, attending to her toilet, and Annette was with her. It was Barbara's first visit to Paris, and we had arranged to make the round of its principal attractions.

The first trunk I opened was that in which I had deposited the five bottles of brandy I had found among Barbara's dresses. To my astonishment they were gone.

I was positive I had placed them there, but to make sure I searched my second trunk, with the same result. The bottles had been abstracted. By whom, and by what means?

The cunning hand was Barbara's.

What kind of a woman was I wedded to who spoke so fair and acted so treacherously, who could smile in my face with secret designs in her heart against my peace and happiness? I could go even farther than that, and say against my honor. Fearful lest my indignation might cause me to lose control over myself and lead to a scandalous scene, I locked the trunk and left the hotel. In the open air I could more calmly review the deplorable position into which I had been betrayed.

It is the correct word to use. Treacherously, basely, had I been betrayed.

It was long before I was sufficiently composed to apply myself to the consideration of the plan by means of which Barbara obtained the bottles of brandy. The lock of the trunk had not been tampered with, and no force had been used in opening it. She must have had a duplicate key. How did she become possessed of it?

I examined my keys, and I fancied I discerned traces of wax upon them. I inquired my way to the nearest locksmith, and giving him the bunch asked whether an impression in wax had been taken of any of them.

"Of a certainty, monsieur," he said, "else I could not have made them."

"It is you, then, who made the duplicates?"

"Assuredly, it is I, monsieur."

"Of how many?"

"Of two, monsieur."

"Of these two?" indicating the keys of my two trunks.

"Exactly, monsieur."

"From impressions in wax which you received."

"Yes, yes, monsieur," he said, redundantly affirmative. "Have you come to ask for them? But they were delivered and paid for last night."

"By a thin-faced, middle-aged woman, with gray eyes and a white face?"

"The description is perfect. I trust the keys are to your satisfaction, and that they fit the locks."

"They fit admirably," I said, and I gave him good morning.

Annette! She was in my wife's pay; together they had conspired against me. The first practical step towards obtaining access to my boxes was taken when Barbara informed me that she had mislaid one of her keys, and borrowed my bunch; then the impressions in wax, and Annette going to the locksmith to give the order; then the packet containing the keys which Annette had secretly conveyed to my wife while my back was turned; then Barbara's complaint this morning that my cigar made her ill, and my going out to smoke. During my absence my trunk was opened and rifled. The petty little mystery was solved.

It was late when I returned to the hotel. I expected a stormy scene, it being now two hours after the time I had appointed to take Barbara to see the sights of Paris; but she was not in our rooms to reproach me. In the bedroom I noticed that two padlocks had been newly fixed to each of her trunks. I went into the office to make inquiries.

"Madame is out," said the manager.

"On foot?"

"No, monsieur; in the carriage that was ordered."

"Did she go alone?"

"No, monsieur; Annette accompanied her."

"Annette!" I exclaimed. "Has she not her duties to attend to here?"

"She is no longer in our service," was the reply. "She is engaged by madame. It was sudden, but she begged to be allowed to leave. Your wife implored also, monsieur, and as another woman who had been with us before as chambermaid was ready to take her place, we consented – to oblige madame."

"Is Annette a good servant?"

"An excellent domestic."

"Trustworthy, honest, and sober?"

"Perfectly. Madame could not desire a better."

Every word he spoke was in Annette's favor, and I felt that another burden was on my life. If I could not cope with Barbara alone, how much less able was I to cope with her now that she had such an ally as this sly creature?

At five o'clock they came in together, my wife flushed and elated, Annette quiet and placid as usual.

"I have had a lovely day," said Barbara, as Annette assisted her to disrobe. "I suppose my dear boy has been running all over the city in search of me."

"You are mistaken," I replied. "I have not searched for you at all."

"I am not going to believe everything you say, you bad boy," she said, darting into the bedroom.

I divined the reason; it was to ascertain whether the padlocks on her boxes had been tampered with. Reassured on this point, she resumed her chatter.

"How lonely my dear boy must have been! I declare he has been smoking. Annette, give me my cloves. Will you have one, John? No? Is it not good of Annette to accept the situation I offered her? She will travel with us to Switzerland and Italy, and will tell us all we want to know about the hotels there, and what is worth seeing, and what not. She will save you no end of money. And what a perfect lady's maid she is! I wonder what possessed me to leave England without one; but I am glad now that I did not engage one there, for I could not have got anybody half so handy and clever as Annette."

While my wife was speaking Annette made no sign, and nothing in her manner indicated that she understood what was being said in her praise. Had she been a stone image she could not have shown less interest. This was carrying acting too far, for her name being frequently mentioned, she would naturally have exhibited some curiosity.