The Betrayal of John Fordham

CHAPTER XIV

Towards the end of that week I had invited my friend the editor to take a mid-day chop with me. He had put my name down as a candidate for admission into a literary club which I was anxious to join, and there was a difficulty in regard to my qualification. Had the articles I wrote for his paper been signed with my name, there would have been no question as to my being properly qualified, but they had been published anonymously, and I was personally unknown to the members. My proposer had vouched for me and had passed his word, but it was not deemed sufficient; they wanted proof positive, and this nettled him. Certain members of this committee had spoken to him privately, and had advised him to withdraw his candidate, but he had set his heart upon the matter, and was determined to carry me through. He held an influential position in the club, and it seemed to him that his influence would be weakened if he beat a retreat. And now on this day he came to tell me that the difficulty was at an end.

"Somehow or other," he said, "it has leaked out that you are the writer of those articles, and your election is assured. The committee meet in a fortnight, and the vote will be unanimous."

I was greatly disturbed. It had been my earnest desire to keep my name from being associated with the exposures I had made. Had I been unmarried and free, it would have been my pride that the world should know and give me my meed of praise, but married to Barbara, and with the curse of drink in my own home, I shrank from public gaze. A foreboding of evil stole upon me.

"The fellows are wild to meet you," continued my friend, "and every member of the committee has promised a white ball. This has set my mind at ease about you, for it is a serious matter being pilled in such a club. I know a case or two where a black ball has meant social death. I should have felt it more than you. You see, I am your sponsor. 'What do you say now to my candidate being qualified?' I said to two members who were dead against you on the score of your being a stranger. A man crept in once, and we discovered he was a blackleg. He gave us a chance, and we expelled him. Since then a strict watch has been kept upon candidates. Before it leaked out who you really were, they wanted to know whether you were a gentleman, a man of honor and good character, one it would be agreeable to mix with – what we call a clubbable man. They have no doubts now. You will be cordially welcomed by a band of as good fellows as can be met with in London, and you may look upon yourself as one of the inner circle."

"I am sorry my anonymity as a writer is destroyed," I said, speaking with reserve. "It lessens the value of one's work."

"Oh, I don't know," was his reply. "Up to a certain point it is all very well, but when a man has won his spurs everybody is ready to shake hands with him. What have you to be ashamed of, and why shouldn't you reap your reward? You wrote those things devilishly well; I was amazed at some of your word pictures. You must have had rare opportunities of studying the subject. 'That man is a vivisectionist,' said a very good judge."

It would have been better for me had I made a clean breast of it there and then, had I confided to him the awful sorrow which lay like a poisonous worm in my heart. But I let the opportunity slip.

He remained with me a couple of hours, and urged me to contribute a second series of articles on the same subject.

"You have drawn your illustrations for the first series from the poor," he said; "draw those for your second series from the rich."

"You forget," I rejoined, "that the skeletons of the rich are kept in iron closets with patent locks. The skeletons of the lower classes stand at open doors."

"Invent your instances," he suggested. "With such a rich store of material as you have at command, you can't go wrong. That is an ugly gash you have on your cheek. Cut yourself shaving, I suppose." I nodded. "Ah, I knew a man who was frightened to take a razor in his hand for fear he would cut his throat."

Inwardly resolving not to execute the commission, I promised to consider the matter, and he took his departure. I walked with him to his office, and then mounted an omnibus and rode a few miles, thinking of the disclosure that had been made and dreading to see my name in the papers. But I did not know how to prevent it. We live in an age of personalism, and very little of the private life of public men can be hidden from the Paul Prys of journalism. Almost to a certainty it would come under the notice of Maxwell and my stepmother, who would be ready to weave mischief out of it. Surely no man ever shrank from fame as I did. The prospect chilled me to the heart.

It is anticipating events by a few hours to record that on the following morning I received a letter from the editor informing me that he was over-worked and was going to Germany for a rest. He had designed to go earlier, but while there was a doubt of my election he felt it to be a point of honor not to leave London. He intended now to enjoy his holiday. I gathered from his letter that he would be absent a week.

At five o'clock I returned to my chambers, and my heart sank when I saw a huddled heap of clothes lying in front of my door – a woman in a drunken sleep.

I had no need to stoop to ascertain who it was. By her side was an empty brandy bottle, which she must have purchased on the road; the satchel on the ground was large enough only for the spirit flask I found in it – empty, as a matter of course.

I carried her into my sitting-room; her drunken stupor was of too profound a nature for her to make any resistance. It was as much as I could do to accomplish the task, for Barbara had grown very stout and unwieldy. Her condition was most disgraceful; I had seen nothing more degrading and shameful during my recent investigations. Probably to obtain ease for her feet, which she had complained of lately as being swollen, she had unlaced her boots, her clothes were torn and untidy, her hands ungloved, her hair hung loose about her bloated face, her lips and mouth were unsightly with the stains and dribble of liquor.

It was of the utmost importance that I should get her home without attracting attention to myself. A large latitude is allowed to men who occupy chambers, but in this particular house were old established offices of respectable firms, and there was a special clause in my lease as to doing anything which might cause annoyance to my neighbors.

I rang for the housekeeper, and slipping half-a-sovereign into her hand, begged her to assist me. She did not put any awkward questions to me, but called up her servant. Between them they repaired as far as they were able the disorder in my wife's dress and appearance, and, the offices in the house being closed – it was now past six o'clock – we managed to half carry, half support her to the street door, and into a four-wheel cab. Thus, on this occasion at least, was open exposure averted, but I thought, Where shall I find rest if this fresh form of persecutions be added to the list? And indeed I had an assurance of it in a subsequent scene with Barbara, during which she said, "You are living an infamous life away from your home. I will follow and disgrace you wherever you go."

A still bitterer blow was to fall upon me, a blow which drove me to the brink of despair. At the end of a week, the limit of time fixed by the editor for his holiday, I wrote him, and as no notice was taken of my letter, I concluded that he had not returned from his tour. My intention was to reveal my story, to acquaint him with Barbara's resolve to follow and disgrace me, and to request him to withdraw my name from candidature for his club. In his absence this course could not be taken, and I was compelled to await the course of events.

On the day following that on which the committee meeting was held, I received a letter from my proposer, which overwhelmed me. He informed me that I had been balloted for by the committee, and had been unanimously blackballed. He expressed his approval of this result. "I had the power," he wrote, "to withdraw your name, but having been made acquainted with the infamies you have practised, I considered it due to the committee to disclose the matters to them, expressing at the same time my sincere regret that I should have been so misled as to place your name on the candidates' book. The unanimous blackball was given as a warning to careless members to be exceedingly careful as to the character of the persons they desired to introduce into a club of gentlemen." He then proceeded with a minute narration of the charges brought against me, and I learned the names of my accusers. First, my wife; then her brother Maxwell; then my stepmother and her son Louis; then Annette; then the servants in our house; then an independent witness in the person of a gentleman who, with Maxwell and Louis, had been stationed at the window of the house opposite to that of my bedroom, and had witnessed the scene between Barbara and me when I was shaving. This scene, which had been cunningly prepared for my benefit, was construed into an attack I had made upon my wife with my razor; her agonized shrieks were appeals for mercy; my rapid drawing down of the blind was due to my fear that my barbarous behavior might be witnessed from the opposite house. It was represented that I was a man who habitually concealed his vices beneath a veil of gentle melancholy, as of one who was himself oppressed, and that my systematic cruelty had broken down my wife's health and made her a confirmed invalid.

There was a still more horrible charge. With a morbid craving for notoriety I had plied Barbara with brandy, and had made her an object lesson in the various stages of intoxication, so that my descriptions might be true to nature. She was my model, a living victim whom I was deliberately driving to madness.

It appears that Maxwell having learnt through the public journals that I was the author of the articles on Drink which had attracted general attention, called upon the editor of the paper in which they were published, and brought these accusations against me. At first the editor refused to listen, characterizing the charges as too horrible for belief and as being utterly inconsistent with the opinion he had formed of me. Maxwell, however, persisted, and the editor, impressed by his earnestness, consented to see the witnesses and hear what they had to say. For the last week a private court of inquiry had been made behind my back. The editor was convinced. Shocked at the revelations he advised my wife to apply for redress in the divorce court, but she said she would rather die than bring that shame upon me; she still clung to me, still trusted that obedience and affection would win me to a better comprehension of my duty towards her; and I was warned by my correspondent to consider my position while there was yet time, and not to lightly throw away the treasure of a good woman's love. He required, he concluded, no further contributions from my pen, and wherever his influence could be exerted it would be to prevail upon other editors not to accept my writings. His last words were – "Henceforth we are strangers."

I knew what this letter meant. The fiendish malice of the enemies in my home had brought upon me social and moral death. I wandered forth like Cain, accursed of men, and though, unlike him, there was no guilt upon my soul, the reflection brought me no comfort. My life had come to wreck. A gulf of black despair lay before me.

Men have been driven mad by physical torture, and under the pressure of mental agony some have lost their reason. Upon no other grounds can I account for my conduct after this last crushing blow fell upon me. I offer no excuses. My wife's theory – put forward in palliation of her own misconduct – that man is not responsible for his actions, is entirely opposed to my view. For what I did during that dolorous time I was and am accountable. I sinned, and have been punished; and little did I deserve the heavenly consolation administered to me in the darkest hour of my life.

I did not go home that day or night. Dazed and forlorn, I wandered, an outcast, through the streets and over the bridges.

CHAPTER XV

It was well on in the afternoon when I entered my house. I had been to my chambers, and having transacted some business which the change in my affairs seemed to me to render imperative, I gave up the keys, and turned my back forever upon the brighter side of my existence. I had also visited a clergyman and a barrister with whom I had a slight acquaintance; it was waste power, time thrown away, and I must have paid the visits without the least hope of deriving any good from them.

As I walked towards my home I was overcome with faintness, and I reeled like a drunken man. Then I recollected that food had not passed my lips since breakfast yesterday morning. I entered the nearest restaurant – it happened to be a public-house – and standing at the counter ate some sandwiches and hard boiled eggs. The barmaid asked what I would take to drink and for a moment I thought of calling for brandy, but it was not on that occasion I broke my vow never to touch spirituous liquor. I drank a glass of lemonade, and pursued my homeward way.

As I entered the house I heard Barbara moaning and gibbering upstairs. The sounds were familiar to me, and it was with a sickening feeling that I entered the sitting-room. Maxwell was there and my stepmother. Maxwell was quite composed; my stepmother looked rather scared at my sudden entrance and wild appearance. They did not welcome me with effusion. Maxwell made the remark that they had been wondering what had become of me, and he inquired why I had not come home last night. I did not answer him. My stepmother volunteered the information that poor Barbara was very ill.

"You had better not go up to her," she said. "The sight of you will make her worse."

Neither did I reply to her. Their presence was so hateful to me that I left the room unceremoniously. They followed me into the passage, and, my foot on the stairs, some words of what passed between them reached my ears.

"Mad, I think," said my stepmother.

"Looks remarkably like it," responded Maxwell, pulling at his mustache. "Or, let us be charitable, and put it down to drink."

"Supposing," she said, and finished the sentence in a whisper.

I stepped back.

"Supposing you drove me mad between you," I said, "there would be an end of me, and you and my wife would have control of my property. Is that it, dear friends?"

They looked at each other, and my stepmother said, boldly: "Decidedly mad. Not a doubt of it."

"No, dear stepmother," I said, my voice and manner expressing detestation of her, "not yet mad. Sane as yourselves. You remind me of an omission which I must repair. I have not made my will; it is a thing that ought not to be neglected. Not one of you shall profit by it, I promise you. Pray let me know what you are in my house for."

"We are here to protect my sister from your brutality," said Maxwell, and it pleased me to see that I had disconcerted them.

"Indeed! From my brutality? Of which you have already given evidence in your secret court of inquiry. And your sister, too. There was a time when I fancied there was no great love on either side. You pair of scheming devils! I will show you that I am master here. Out! the pair of you! Out of my house!" And I advanced towards them with so threatening an air that they began to retreat.

"We will see what the law says to this," blustered Maxwell. "We have witnesses enough."

"False witnesses – false testimony. When you come to consider the matter it may not suit your purpose to appeal to the law. Establish that my wife lives in fear of me, and that I am systematically cruel to her, and you will succeed in obtaining a judicial separation. I shall not thwart you, for it is what I pray for. The Courts award her maintenance, the income of a third of what I am worth. Then I am free, and you and she can trouble me no more. Free! Can you understand what that means to me? Fools! I have offered her more than a third, and she has refused. Why, if I gave her cause for a complete divorce she would not avail herself of it. She is too good a wife, too pure, too mindful of her wifely duties to desert the husband she loves so well."

Had it not been that I was apprehensive of falling into deeper public disgrace I should not have spoken so openly, for it was speaking against my own interests; but, indeed, I might have spared myself this small duplicity, for nothing was farther from their wishes than to sever the bonds which bound me to Barbara. While those held firm they had, through her, some power over my purse; loosen them, and the power was gone. It was only through my enforced bondage that they could hope to gain.

"When you were a child," said my stepmother, white to the lips, "I foresaw what you would grow into."

"You did your best for me," I retorted. "You made my home a paradise – not much worse than this home is to me – you showed me daily how you loved me. I remember well your tender care of me. Truly there are men and women who are baser than beasts."

"If I were a man I would thrash you," she hissed.

"Ask your son Louis, my loving half-brother, to do it for you. Ask that reptile by your side to undertake the task. Cunning and malice have had their day. Let us try brute force."

I laughed in their faces. In this encounter we were more like animals snarling at one another than human beings. Meanwhile Barbara continued her moaning and gibbering upstairs.

"That is my work, is it not?" I went on. "It is I who have made her what she is, a living shame to decency. Before our marriage she never touched strong drink – is that the way it goes? She was an innocent, simple child of nature, and it is I who have debased and contaminated her. That is what you have made my friends believe. If it is any satisfaction to you, hear from my lips that your cowardly plot has succeeded, and that the honorable career I had mapped out for myself is at an end. Has my wife told you that on the first night of our marriage she locked herself in her room in Paris and drank herself into such a filthy state of intoxication that we were turned out of our hotel? But doubtless she kept this delectable piece of information to herself."

"Another of your abominable inventions," cried my stepmother, "as true as all the rest."

"Exactly. As true as all the rest. Women such as she, and you, should be whipped daily for the public good."

"Oh!" cried my stepmother, digging her nails into her palms. If she could have killed me with a look she would have done it – and with shame I admit that I should have deserved a greater punishment than that for expressing myself as I did. But I was stung to utter recklessness, to utter forgetfulness of what was due to one's own sense of self-respect.

"Come, come, John," said Maxwell, trying another tack, "you are over-excited. You will be sorry for this to-morrow."

"I am sorry for it to-day. It was not to be expected when I courted your sister that you should warn me of the pit into which I was falling – you were too anxious to be rid of her. I see now, but did not see then, the meaning of your covert sneers when you spoke of our married life. By the way, from time to time you borrowed money of me in those days. Are you prepared to repay it?"

"What I owe you," he replied, with a dark look, "I will repay – with interest. As for money, I never had one farthing from you." He turned to my stepmother. "He is good at invention, this John of ours."

"He is good at anything low and vile," she said. "Mark my words – one of these days he will commit murder."

"You nurse your hatred well," I responded. "And now, quit my house."

They retreated before me, and I drove them, as though they were cattle, to the street door.

"John," said Maxwell, with a sudden show of amiability, "this is all nonsense, you know. Let us be friends."

He held out his hand, and the impulse was upon me to strike it down, but I merely gave him a contemptuous look, and threw open the street door. As they stood on the threshold Louis came up, and I think for a moment that Maxwell, with this reinforcement, had an idea of forcing his way in again.

"Do you see what he is doing?" cried my stepmother to her son. "The low wretch is turning us out of the house."

"What else can you expect?" asked Louis, the scar on his forehead becoming blood-red in my frowning glance.

"We shall come back," said Maxwell, and I slammed the door in his face.

My conduct was brutal; I admit it. It would have been manlier had I behaved with dignity, but during that evil time all my impulses were evil. There is an element of savagery in every human being, and it leaped forth and mastered me, and robbed sorrow of its crown. It led me into further excesses, and had not an angel appeared and rescued me, I might have deserved all the obloquy that had been thrown upon me, and have become utterly, irretrievably lost.

It was evening, and I lingered in the passage outside Barbara's door, which was locked against me. Then I called aloud:

"Annette, are you there?"

At first no answer; then, the question repeated, the reply:

"Yes, monsieur."

"Open the door."

"But, monsieur, it is madame's orders," she began, but I did not allow her to finish.

"Open the door."

"I dare not disobey madame."

"Open the door."

This time she did not answer. I put my shoulder to the door, and exerted all my strength. It is not a thing to boast of that I am a man of great muscular power, and that on this occasion I exulted in it. The evil spirit within me urged me on. As I strained my muscles there was silence in the room; for a little while Barbara's voice was not heard. The door creaked, yielded, then burst open with a crash.

Annette stood upright, her cold, gray eyes fixed upon me. She was a woman of indomitable firmness, and in my knowledge of her she never showed the least trace of fear. My wife cowered on the floor, clad only in her nightdress, and in a more disgraceful condition than when I found her lying at the door of my chambers in the Strand. Her body was trembling and convulsed, her features twitched, there was a nameless terror in her eyes. The atmosphere of the apartment reeked with the fumes of liquor.

"You are a faithful servant," I said to Annette, "to encourage your mistress in these disgusting orgies. You have a human excuse, I suppose. It pays you."

"I am paid with ingratitude," she answered, composedly. "To keep this" – pointing to my wife – "from the other servants in the house – is not that faithful service?"

"And to give false evidence against your master," I retorted, "that also is faithful service, is it not? I know you for what you are, Annette – a panderer to vice and infamy."

"That is defamation, monsieur, I can make you pay for it."

"Do so. It will rid me of you. I am willing to pay the price."

This bickering was stopped by a piercing scream from Barbara.

"See there – see there!" the wretched creature shrieked. "Those devils are creeping in again! Keep them off – keep them off! Save me – save me!"

She bit, she snarled, she tore at the phantoms.

I cannot describe the scene. My pen halts, my fingers refuse to trace the words. I remember helping Annette to lift my wife to the bed; I remember noting with morbid curiosity the singular phase in her delirium that she clung to Annette for protection while she clawed at me; I remember her falling from the bed, and creeping under it to hide herself from the imaginary terrors which afflict the dipsomaniac; I recall her delirious entreaties for more brandy, her shrieks for mercy, her ribald utterances when, for a brief space, these terrors ceased, her shuddering paroxysms, her tears, her hysterical sobs. Good God! Can we call such beings human? Should there not be a law to put them under restraint, to treat them as we treat the mad, to free the innocent partners of their unspeakable degradation from the horrible curse which weighs like a blight upon despairing hearts?

So the night passed, and I paced the passages, the rooms, the stairs, in a frame of mind the memory of which even now, after a lapse of years, sends a shudder through me. For the time being I lost faith in human goodness. Purity and sweetness were delusions – they had no existence. Charity, virtue, kindliness, our holiest sentiments, the spiritual instinct which lifts our thoughts above sordid cares and rewards, all were mockeries, and he who believed in them was a fool. Nothing was real but corruption. Beneath the lying mask on the world's face lurked treachery and foul desire, and over this mass of impurity reigned the Spirit of Evil.