The Betrayal of John Fordham

"And the terrible lesson, Barbara?"

"Everything in moderation," she said, and after a little pause, added, "Besides, it isn't true; it isn't possible. Novel writers are compelled to draw upon their imaginations, and they invent unheard-of things – as you will do, I suppose with your stories. Make them hot and strong, John, and you will stand a greater chance of success. People like to have their blood curdled. If I had the talent to write a novel I should stick at nothing. Look at – ," she mentioned the name of a living English author whose stories were wonderfully successful – "he deals in nothing but blood; in every novel he writes he kills hundreds and hundreds of people, and slashes them up dreadfully. His pages absolutely reek with gore. Now, you can't convince me that he is describing real life; he is describing things that never occurred, that never could have occurred. It is just the same with this story that I have been reading. Very clever, of course, and very horrible, but absolutely untrue."

That was her verdict, and I knew it was useless to argue with her.

We arrived at Geneva between eight and nine o'clock. In accordance with Barbara's wish, we took the omnibus of the Hotel de la Paix, where Maxwell was to meet us. She was disappointed that he was not at the station; we looked out for him, but we did not see him.

It happened that the lady and gentleman of whom I have spoken took the same omnibus and were seated when we entered. They drew into a corner of the omnibus, and the gentleman shifted his place so that he sat between his companion and Barbara. He seemed to be desirous that the ladies should not sit next to each other.

A disappointment awaited Barbara at the hotel. Maxwell was not there. When I gave my name to the proprietor and was speaking about the rooms we were to occupy, he said, "There is a letter for madame," and handed it to her. It was from Maxwell. She read it with a frown.

"It is a shame – a shame!" she cried.

"What does he say?" I asked.

"He will not be here till the end of the week," she replied, fretfully. "He may not be here at all."

"I am sorry," I said.

"You are not," she retorted, fiercely. "You are glad."

And certainly it was she who spoke the truth.

We went up in the lift to look at our rooms, and then I came down again to order dinner. Returning to inform Barbara that it would be ready in twenty minutes, I found the door locked.

"Let me alone," Barbara cried from within. "I don't want any dinner. You can have it without me. It won't spoil your appetite."

I turned to go downstairs and met Annette.

"Is my wife unwell?" I asked.

"Madame is disturbed that her brother has not arrived," the woman answered. "She does not require me any longer to-night. I am to get something to eat and go to bed. Good-night, monsieur."

"Good-night, Annette."

She had spoken sulkily, as though vexed at not being allowed to wait upon her mistress.

I had my dinner alone, and afterwards strolled along the banks of the beautiful lake, smoking a cigar. There was no moon, but the sky was bright with stars. I was in no hurry, knowing that when Barbara was in one of her passionate fits it was best to give her plenty of time to get over it. My presence irritated her, and I did not care to be the butt of her unreasonable anger.

CHAPTER XI

There was still no news of Maxwell, and I was pleased to be spared his presence.

Now, I cannot say whether the scene which took place later in the day between me and Barbara was inspired by a communication which she had just received from Annette, or whether she had been already enlightened upon the subject, and had stored up the pretended grievance for use against me when she was in the humor for it. It matters little either way, and perhaps it would have been wiser of me to treat the accusation with contempt; but there are limits to a man's patience, and I could not always keep control of myself. It was commenced by Barbara inquiring whether my lady friend had followed us to Geneva, and by her answering the question herself.

"But of course she has. You have laid your plans artfully. Keep her out of my way, or I'll strangle her."

"You are mad," I muttered, and indeed, I must either have believed so, or that she was at her devil's tricks again.

"Not yet," she screamed, and then I knew that she had been drinking. "Not yet. You may drive me to it in the end, but the end hasn't come yet. No, not by many a long day, Johnnie, my dear! Only don't let me get hold of her, or there'll be murder done."

"Tell me what you mean," I said, closing the doors and windows, for I was anxious that the people in the hotel should not hear, "and I may be able to answer you."

"Where is the lady's brooch you bought in Paris?" she asked. "Show it to me, and I'll be satisfied. Well, where is it?"

Then I recollected that Annette had passed through the room of the hotel in Paris when I emptied my pockets there; I was looking at the brooch, debating what I should do with it.

"You are thinking what to say," Barbara continued. "I will save you the trouble of inventing a lie. Say that you bought it for me."

"It would be the truth. I did buy it for you."

"Give it me, then; it belongs to me."

"I cannot give it to you; I have parted with it."

"I knew it without your telling me. You gave it to the other woman."

"There is no other woman in the case. Be reasonable, Barbara. Things are bad enough, God knows, but I can honestly say you have no cause for jealousy. The brooch was intended for you, but I changed my mind, and returned it to the jeweler."

"Not thinking it suitable for me."

"Exactly. I did not think it suitable for you."

"The device was not appropriate, eh?"

"It was not appropriate."

"I wonder you are not ashamed to look me in the face. It was a device of two hearts entwined – yours and another woman's – and it was not a suitable device to offer to me, whom you had married but the day before!" (I thought with dismay that Annette must have sharp eyes to have seen it in that brief moment when she passed me, looking slyly on the ground.) "You are a clumsy liar, John. If you want to know, it was because I was maddened by your shameful conduct that I left you last night. I was sorry for it afterwards. I reasoned with myself, saying, He is my husband, and it is my duty to be by his side. That is why I was not sorry when you found me this morning. You may break my heart, but I will never leave you again, never, never! Now that I have found you out don't presume to lecture me again upon any little faults I may have – but keep your women out of my sight, my dear."

I argued no longer; my heart was filled with bitterness; the smallest of my actions was turned against me with such ingenuity as to render me powerless.

I will not dwell upon the incidents that enlivened the remaining weeks of this mockery of a honeymoon. Again and again did I find Barbara under the influence of drink, and again and again did I seek refuge in silence, for every word I spoke was twisted into an accusation against myself. We saw nothing of Maxwell, and after a month's tour Barbara declared she was tired of foreign countries and foreign people, and yearned to take her proper place in our dear little home in London. "Where you will discover," she said (she was in one of her amiable moods), "that I am a model wife, and a perfect treasure of a housekeeper."

We were in London nearly two months before we settled in our new home, which, as I have stated, was situated in West Kensington. Immediately upon our return Barbara and I drove to the house, and took a tour of inspection through the rooms. It seemed to me that a few days would suffice for the necessary alterations and additions, but Barbara was of a different opinion. This piece of furniture did not suit her, that would not do, the other was altogether out of place. She did not like the paper on the walls, the ceilings were frightful, the patterns of the carpets horrible. Before our marriage we had come to London to see the house, and then she was satisfied with everything, now she is satisfied with nothing. If I ventured to make a remonstrance her reply was:

"Do let me manage! What can you know about domestic affairs? Leave them to me; I will soon put things to rights."

Seeing that her idea of putting things to rights would cost a large sum of money, I said:

"Remember, Barbara, I am not a millionaire."

"Perhaps not," she answered, "but you have thousands and thousands of pounds, you stingy fellow, and we must commence comfortably. Our whole happiness depends upon it. I sha'n't ruin you, my dear. Besides, are you not going to coin money out of your books?"

"They have to be written first."

"Of course. And to write striking stories you must have a cosy study. Do you think it is my comfort I am looking after? My dear old boy, you shall have the snuggest den in London."

"When they are written – if they ever are" – I was tortured by a doubt whether my mind would be sufficiently at ease for literary work – "they may not find favor with the publishers."

"I will manage them, John. Don't meet troubles half way. There is a clever song – did you ever hear it? – 'Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you.' That is what I call common sense."

The result was that she had her way. My one desire was for peace. Love held no place in my heart The utmost I could hope for was that I should not be plunged into disgrace.

I had very little to do with the new arrangements of the house. Finding that every suggestion I made was received with opposition, I became wearied with the whole affair, my share in which was limited to paying the bills. This exactly suited Barbara, who now and then rewarded me by declaring that she was having a delightful time. During these few weeks we lived in a furnished flat in Bloomsbury, and having nothing else to do, I spent the greater part of the day in the reading-room of the British Museum, for which I had held a ticket since I left my stepmother's house. Barbara and I would breakfast together in the morning, and make arrangements for a late dinner. Then we would separate; Barbara for West Kensington, accompanied by Annette, I for the British Museum, or for a lonely walk or ride. Once or twice a week, when the weather was fine, I would ride on the top of an omnibus to its terminus, and return to my starting-point by the same conveyance. My favorite ride was eastward, through Whitechapel, and occasionally I would alight in the centre of that wonderful thoroughfare – where a greater variety of the forms of human life can be met than in any other part of the modern Babylon – and plunge into the labyrinth of narrow streets and courts with which the district abounds. What made the deepest impression upon me in my wanderings thereabouts was the poverty of the residents and the immense number and the magnificence of the gin palaces, in the immediate vicinity of the most flourishing of which were usually congregated groups of wretched men, women and children – chiefly the latter during the midday hours of my visits – whose one idea of life and life's duties was drink. The subject had a fascination for me, and my heart sank as I noted the hideous degradation to which it brings its victims. The soddened, bestial faces, the shameless lasciviousness, the frightful language, the hags of forty who looked seventy, the young children with preternatural cunning stamped on their features, and from whose ready tongue familiar blasphemies proceeded; girl-mothers with exposed breasts putting glasses of gin to their babies' lips – these were horrible and common sights. I was standing watching such a scene in a narrow, squalid street, flanked at each corner by a gorgeous, shining palace of gin, when I noticed a policeman at my side. We entered into conversation, and I learned that he had placed himself near me as a protection.

"A famous thieves' quarter this, sir," he said; "I thought you mightn't know."

"Thank you for the warning," I replied; "the people are very poor; all the houses seem to be tumbling down."

"They belong to a big swell."

"Does he not come to inspect them?"

The policeman – an intelligent man, evidently with some education – laughed. "He may have seen them once in his lifetime, and that was enough for him. The property is managed by an agent, in the employ of the steward of the estate, who walks through it perhaps once a year."

"The rents must be very low."

"Not low enough for them that live here. There isn't a house in the street with less than three or four families in it."

I pointed to two girls whose ages could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen, each with a baby at her breast, "What becomes of them when they grow old?"

"They never grow old," was his significant reply.

"Are you a reporter for a newspaper, sir?"

"No; I am here merely out of curiosity."

"Don't come at night – alone," he said, as he turned away.

His question had put an idea into my head which I thought might be carried into effect for the benefit of that half of the world that does not know how the other half lives.

I make no excuse for introducing this episode into my story; the sights I saw had an indirect bearing upon my own life.

In the evening Barbara and I would meet in our Bloomsbury flat, and go out to dinner, generally to a foreign restaurant, and sometimes afterwards to a theatre or a music hall, the latter being always of Barbara's choosing. I followed in her wake; the least resistance or reluctance to carry out her wishes only brought fresh misery upon me. She continued to tipple, but not in my presence; it seemed to be a principle of her life to do everything in secret. On Sundays she went to church, and professed to be much edified by the discourse. She would pray at home, too. Once when I entered our sitting-room I discovered her on her knees before a couch, her face buried in the cushion. She remained there so long that I put my hand on her shoulder. She did not move. Looking down I found she was asleep, with a vacuous smile on her countenance. I moved to another part of the room, and soon afterwards she staggered to her feet, and stood, reeling to and fro. "Annette!" she called querulously. The woman entered, and supported her to her bedroom. The next day she complained of her heart.

"I was very ill yesterday," she said. "I fainted while I was praying. My prayers were for you, John."

I did not answer her, and she asked me whether I ever thought of the future world.

"It is our duty, my dear," she said. "Life in this is very sad."

CHAPTER XII

While the house was being prepared for our reception, I heard nothing of Maxwell. I thought of him often, and I sometimes fancied that Barbara was not so ignorant as myself of his whereabouts and doings – a supposition which proved to be true, but his name was not mentioned by either of us. In looking back upon those days I can see that I was acting a part as well as Barbara. I was miserably conscious of it at the time, but it did not strike me as it strikes me now. Words of affection had no meaning, and we knew it – and knowing it, nursed in our hearts the belief that the other was a hypocrite. I have no desire to show myself in a favorable light to Barbara's disadvantage. Her judgment of me was warped by her passion for drink, and my judgment of her was perhaps harsher than it should have been because of the bitter disappointment under which I labored. I could not always be patient, I could not always endure in silence; she stung me by her sly cunning, by the artful entanglements she wove for me, by the detestable assumption of religious fervor which she used to mask the degrading vice which made my life a hell. I had to be continually on the alert to avoid public exposure, and in this endeavor Annette was useful, for she did what she could to shield her mistress. Self-interest was her motive, for Barbara was continually making her presents of money and articles of jewelry and dress. I was quite aware that she was my enemy, that when she spoke of me she lied and traduced me, but I could find no fault with her when she was in my presence. It may be that she held me in contempt because I did not beat or kill my wife.

We gave up our flat, and took up our quarters in the home in which before my marriage I had hoped to live an honorable and happy life. That hope was dead, and in my contemplations of the future I could see no ray of light. There was but one source of relief – work. Hard toil, exhausting manual labor would have done me good; failing that, I had my pen. My visits to the vice-haunted haunts of London had supplied me with a theme.

"What does my dear boy think of it?" Barbara asked, on the morning we entered the house.

"It looks very clean and new," I replied, as we walked through the rooms.

"It is what I aimed at, dear. We are going to commence a new life. No more wrangles or disagreements, no more misunderstandings, everything that is unpleasant wiped off the slate. I am never going to worry you again. Can I say more than that?"

"We shall be all the happier, Barbara, if you keep that in mind."

'"Of course I shall keep it in mind. And you, too, John – you will keep it in mind, and not worry me. Fair play's a jewel. This is my morning room. Isn't it sweet? And this," opening a communicating door, "is my prayer room, my very, very own. I shall come here whenever I feel naughty, and pray to be good. Oh, what a consolation there is in prayer!"

The walls were lined with pictures of sacred subjects and moral exordiums in Oxford frames. There was an altar with prayer books ostentatiously arranged, and a cushion for her to kneel upon when at her devotions. She looked at me for approval, and I said that prayer chastened and purified.

"It is what it will do for me, dear John. However earnest and wishful to do right one may be there are always little crosses. I intended this room for your study, but I felt that you would rather I put it to its present use."

"Then there is no study in the house for me?"

"No, dear. We can't have everything we wish. I thought you might take a room elsewhere for your literary work. You can go and scribble there whenever you feel inclined; it will be so much better for you. There will be nothing to disturb you – no sweeping and scrubbing of floors and difficulties with servants, which put men out so. You see how I thought of you while I was arranging things. There are some nice quiet streets off the Strand where you can take chambers and be comfortable and cosy. If you had a business in the city you would have to go to it every morning, so it is just as if you were a business man. We shall dine at home at half-past six. I shall expect you to be very punctual, or the cooking will be spoilt and the cook will give notice. Oh, the worry of servants! But I take all that on myself."

I was not displeased at the arrangement. Had it been left to me I should have chosen it, so I said I was quite satisfied, and she clapped her hands and kissed me.

"I have an agreeable surprise for you," she then said. "Maxwell is in London."

"You have seen him?"

"Oh, yes, every day almost. He has been of immense assistance to me in choosing furniture and wall paper, and managing the people who did the work. If it hadn't been for him I should have been dreadfully imposed upon, and it would have been ever so much out of your pocket. You will be glad to hear that he will dine with us this evening."

I said I should be glad to see him; and indeed it was a matter of indifference to me, but I determined to be on my guard against him.

"I was angry with him," she continued, "for not meeting us in Geneva, as he promised; but he couldn't, poor fellow. He met with an accident, and had to lay up in a poky little village in Italy. It is such a comfort to me that he is near us. There is no one like our own."

"Is he living in London?"

"For the present. He has been unfortunate and has lost a lot of money – the stupid fellow is so trustful. He went security for a friend and was taken in. Don't you go security for people, John, it's a mistake. I have another surprise for you. 'Our first dinner in our dear little home shall be an unexpected pleasure to John,' I said to myself, when I was looking over my letters, and came across one from your mother."

"My stepmother, Barbara."

"It's all the same. Such a pretty, friendly letter; so full of good advice! Young wives need advice, and old wives can give it them."

"But when did you hear from her?" I asked.

"Don't you remember? It was when we were engaged."

"I remember that I wrote to her of our engagement, and that she did not reply to me. She wrote to you instead. Is that the letter you refer to?"

"Yes."

"You told me that you tore up the letter the moment you read it, and that she must be an awful woman. I distinctly recollect your saying that we could do without her and her beautiful son."

"What a memory you have, John! Or are you making it up?"

"I am not making it up. You did not tear up the letter?"

"No," she said with a beaming smile, "I kept it by me, and I am sure you are mistaken in what you think I said. I did not show it to you because I knew you had some feeling against her and Louis, and I didn't want to annoy you. I am not the woman to make mischief between such near relations. Little differences will arise, and it is our duty to try and smooth them over. That is what I did, and you will be delighted to hear that they are content to let byegones be byegones, and are burning to see you."

"I will think over it."

"I have thought over it for you, dear. They are coming to dinner this evening."

"Do you consider it right, Barbara, to invite them without consulting me?"

"I do, my dear. I am a peacemaker. Our housewarming will be quite a family party."

I submitted, wondering to what length Barbara would go in her duplicity, and whether she or I was mistaken in our recollection of the circumstances in connection with this particular letter. I did not wonder long. I knew that I was right.

Maxwell made his appearance an hour before dinner, and – having made up my mind – I received him with a cordiality which I did not feel.

"Well, here you are," he said, with a searching glance at me, "a regular married man after your lovely holiday tour. Enjoyed yourself?"

"Barbara has given you a full account, no doubt," I replied, all the evil that was in my nature aroused by his mocking voice; "judge from that."

"You must be a model husband, then," he said, laughing quietly to himself, "and she a model wife. I owe you an apology for not joining you on the Continent. The fact is" – he looked to see that Barbara was out of hearing – "I was not traveling alone, and upon considering the matter I came to the conclusion that our company might not suit you. A question of morals, you know."

"I am obliged to you."

"For keeping away? Good. One to you. Where are you going, Barbara?"

"Domestic affairs," she replied. "To do the cooking." And she left the room.

"Was your accident very serious?" I asked.

"Accident!" he exclaimed. "What accident?"

"Then you did not meet with one?"

"Not that I am aware of. I had the jolliest time."

I dropped the subject, and we talked of other matters, with a lame attempt at civility on both sides, until Barbara re-entered the room, when he cried out:

"I say, Barbara, what is this about my meeting with an accident on the Continent?"

"You did meet with an accident," she said, boldly.

"Did I? Well, then, I did." He looked me full in the face, and laughed.

"I am disgusted with you, Maxwell," Barbara exclaimed. "Don't pay any attention to him, John; you can't believe a word out of his mouth."

Thereupon he laughed still more boisterously, winding up with, "Don't expect me to take a hand in your matrimonial squabbles; you must settle them yourselves."

"We don't have any, do we, John?" said Barbara, in her sweetest tone.

Maxwell appeared to be immensely amused, and they had a bantering bout, in which I took neither share nor interest. When they appealed to me I replied in monosyllables, until Barbara said:

"There, you have offended him. Ask his pardon immediately. I won't have my dear boy annoyed."

His eyes twinkled as he held out his hand, which I was compelled to take to avoid an open rupture. "I ask your pardon, John."