The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Betrayal of John Fordham, by B.L. (Benjamin Leopold) Farjeon This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The Betrayal of John Fordham Author: B.L. (Benjamin Leopold) Farjeon Release Date: April 28, 2014 [EBook #45525] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BETRAYAL OF JOHN FORDHAM *** Produced by Transcribed by Charles Bowen from page images provided by the Web Archive (http://archive.org/details/betrayaljohnfor00farjgoog) Transcriber's Notes: 1. Page scan source: http://archive.org/details/betrayaljohnfor00farjgoog (New York Public Library) Table of Contents created by Transcriber. THE BETRAYAL OF JOHN FORDHAM BY B. L. FARJEON AUTHOR OF "Aaron the Jew," "A Fair Jewess," "The Last Tenant," "The Peril of Richard Pardon," Etc., Etc. R. F. FENNO AND COMPANY 112 FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1896, BY B. L. FARJEON. Betrayal of John Fordham. TABLE OF CONTENTS I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII XIII XIV XV XVI XVII XVIII XIX XX XXI XXII XXIII XXIV XXV XXVI PART II XXVII PART III XXVIII XXIX PART IV XXX XXXI XXXII XXXIII THE BETRAYAL OF JOHN FORDHAM. CHAPTER I. JOHN FORDHAM'S CONFESSION. My name is John Fordham, and I am thirty-four years of age. So far as I can judge I am at present of sound mind, though sadly distraught, and my memory is fairly clear, except as to the occurrences of a certain terrible night in December two years ago, which are obscured by a black cloud which I have striven in vain to pierce. These occurrences, and the base use to which they have been turned by an enemy who has made my life a torture, have brought me to a pass which will cause me presently to stand before the world as a murderer. No man accuses me. It is I who accuse myself of the horrible crime, though I call God to witness that I know not how I came to do it, save that it must have been done in self-defense. But who will believe me in the face of the damning evidence which I afterwards found in my possession—and who will believe that when the fatal deed was done I did not see the features of the man I killed, and did not know who he was? My protestations will be regarded as weak inventions, and will be received with incredulity—as probably I should receive them were another man in my place, and I his judge. It is the guiltiest persons who most loudly proclaim their innocence, and I shall be classed among them. Am I, then, weary of life that I deliberately place myself in deadly peril, and invite the last dread sentence of the law to be passed upon me? In one sense, yes. Not a day passes that my torturer does not present himself to sting and threaten me and aggravate my sufferings. My nights are sleepless; even when exhausted nature drives me into a brief stupor my fevered brain is crowded with frightful images and visions. So appalling are these fancies that there is a danger of my being driven mad. Death is preferable. And yet, but a few moments before I committed the crime, I was looking forward hopefully to a life of peace and love with a dear and noble woman who sacrificed her good name for me, and whom I promised to marry when I was freed from a curse which had clung to me for years. The night was cold, the snow was falling, but there was joy in my heart, and I walked along singing. Great God! my heart throbs with anguish as I think of the heaven which might been mine had not cruel fate suddenly dashed the cup of happiness from my lips. But it is useless to repine; I yield because it is forced upon me. One consoling thought is mine. The dear woman I love with a love as true and sincere as ever beat in the heart of man, will turn to me with pity, will visit me in the prison to which I go of my own accord, and in the solemn farewell we shall bid one another will extend her hands and forgive me for the wrong I have done her and our child. These last words cause me to waver in my purpose. Our child! Hers—mine. I am the sweet little fellow's father. I saw him yesterday with his mother, though neither he nor my dear Ellen knew that I was near them, for I was careful they should not see my face. How he has grown! Yesterday was his fourth 'birthday, and to-day Ellen is wondering who left the toy horse and cart at her lodgings. His sturdy little limbs, his lovely hair, his large brown eyes with their wonderful lashes, the music of his voice! What bliss, what torture I endured as I followed and listened to his prattle. "Oh, mother!" he cried, dragging at her hand. "Look—look! Do look!" His excitement was caused by a display of toys in a window, and they stood together—Ellen and my boy—gazing at the treasures there displayed. He liked this, he liked that, and wasn't this grand, and wasn't that beautiful? and, oh! look here, mother, and here, and here! He was especially fascinated by the horse and cart. Very tenderly did Ellen coax his attention to a box of white lambs, which was to be obtained for sixpence, and they went into the shop, where it Was placed in his arms, for his little hands could not grasp it firmly, and he wanted to carry it home himself. As he and his mother walked away I observed him look longingly over his shoulder at the horse and cart, and doubtless there was in his young mind a hope that one of these fine days when he was a big, big man such a treasure might also be in his possession, and that he would be able to ride off in it straight to fairyland. I am sure Ellen would have given it to him could she have afforded it, but she is obliged to be economical and sparing with her pennies. She earns a trifle by needlework, and, through a solicitor, she receives a pound a week from me, whom she believes to be thousands of miles away. Upon this she lives in modest comfort, saving every penny she can, and looking forward cheerfully to the future. The future! Alas for her—for Reggie—for me! Reggie's father hanged for murder! But he need never know. He does not bear my name, for Ellen would not have it so. "Not till the laws of God and man sanction it," she said, and I let her have her way. Spirit of truth and justice! Show me the path wherein my duty lies. More than one path is open to me. I could disappear at sea beneath the waters, and my enemy would never discover how and by what means I had severed the cord of life. He would hunt for me, and gnash his teeth at the escape of his prey. Some satisfaction in that. Oh, miserable fool, to express such a sentiment! But let it stand. I have no desire to conceal my weaknesses. Being gone, Ellen would still receive her pound a week. This is secured to her, and it is this my enemy would snatch from her. "You have money left," he cried. "I will have my share of it, or I will denounce you." He shall not succeed. He shall not rob Ellen, nor shall he denounce me. No man except myself shall bring me to the bar of justice. I could kill him, and the world would be rid of a monster. I am strong; he is weak. I have held him with one hand, so that he could not move a step from the spot upon which he stood. Dead, he could do no more mischief. Wretch that I am! Add murder to murder? No. I will not burden my soul with conscious guilt. I will do what I resolved to do, and this confession, when it is completed, shall be sent to Ellen. Condemn me, world. Ellen, in my last hours I look to you for one blessed ray of light. There was a dread crisis in my life when you were my guardian angel, and saved me from destruction. You will not fail me now. Receiving consolation at your dear hands, from your pure heart, I shall lay down my load, and with sobs of thankfulness shall bid the world farewell. In heaven, where the truth is known, we shall meet again. CHAPTER II. Were it not necessary I would make no mention of my child-life, but this record would be incomplete were I to pass it over in silence. All that I can do is to dwell upon it as briefly as possible. My mother died a few weeks after I was born; my father waited but twelve months before he married again, and in less than two years his second wife was a widow. Thus I lost both my parents at too early an age to retain the slightest recollection of them. By his second marriage my father had one child, a boy; my half-brother's name was Louis, and by him and my stepmother I was regarded with aversion—by her, indeed, with a much stronger feeling, for when I was old enough to reason out things for myself I learned that she hated me. My father had made a fortune by commerce, and in his will he behaved justly to those who had a claim upon him. Half of his fortune was left to his widow, without restriction of any kind except that she was to rear and educate me, and that her home was to be mine until I was twenty-one years of age; then I was to become entitled to my share, one-fourth, which was so securely invested and protected that she could not touch it. The remaining one-fourth was left to Louis in the same way. Two of my father's friends were appointed trustees, to see to the proper disposition of his children's inheritance. In the conditions of this will my stepmother found a double cause for resentment. She was angry in the first place that the whole of the fortune was not bequeathed to her, and in the second place that she was not appointed trustee; and she visited her anger upon me, an unoffending child, who could have had no hand in what she conceived to be a plot against her. Upon her son she lavished a full measure of passionate love, while I was allowed to roam about, neglected and uncared for. Nothing was too good for Louis, nothing too bad for me. He had the best room in the house to sleep in, I the worst; he was always beautifully dressed, and I was made to wear his cast-off clothes. It was the breast of the fowl for Louis, the drumstick for me, and dainty dishes were prepared for him which I was not allowed to taste; my meals were measured out, and if I asked for more I was refused. He was taken to theatres and entertainments, I was left at home. His Christmas trees were at once a delight and a torture to me. They could not prevent me from looking and longing, but not a toy fell to my share. The heartless woman told me that I had robbed her and her son of their inheritance, and I have no doubt that she had nursed this grievance into a conviction. "You are nothing but a pest and a nuisance," she said. And as a pest and a nuisance I was treated. In these circumstances it would have been strange indeed if my child-life had been happy. I was glad when I was sent to school, and I did not look forward to the holidays with any feeling of pleasure. Studious by nature, I did well at school, and good reports of my progress were sent home, which my stepmother tore up before my face. Notwithstanding this systematic oppression I strove to win affection from her and Louis, but every advance I made met with cold repulse, the result being that we became less and less friendly. At length I gave up the attempt, and suffering from a sense of injustice preserved my self-respect by an assertion of independence. Instead of bending meekly beneath the lash, I stood up boldly, and seized and broke it. This really happened. One scene, which lives in my memory, will serve as an illustration. I do not say it in praise of myself, because these things come by nature, but I have a tender feeling towards all living creatures, and cannot bear to see them tortured. To Louis it was a delight, and even his pets did not escape when he grew tired of them. He had some white rabbits, and one day I saw him bind all the limbs of one of them round its body till it resembled a ball in form. Then he threw it high in the air again and again, and frequently failing to catch it the poor thing fell upon the gravel path in the garden till it was covered with blood. I was fourteen years of age at the time, Louis was twelve. I darted forward, and picking up the wounded animal was loosening its bonds, when he snatched it from me. I endeavored to take it from him, telling him it was cruel to torture the helpless creature. We had a struggle, and his screams brought his mother from the house. She fell upon me, and dragged me away. "See what he has done," said Louis, pointing to the bleeding rabbit, which had fallen to the ground. "You did it," I retorted. "It's a lie," he screamed. "You did it, you did it." It was not the first falsehood he had told by many to get me into trouble. Panting with rage, my stepmother ran back to the house, and returned with a cane she had often used upon me. "I will punish you for the lie," she said. "How dare you say my darling would do such a cruel thing? You are a disgrace to the name you bear." She flourished the cane; I stepped back. "I have told the truth," I said, "and I don't intend to be punished any more by you for faults I do not commit." "You do not intend!" she answered, advancing towards me. "I will teach you; I will teach you!" Swish went the cane across my face; only once, for as she was about to repeat the blow I wrested it from her, broke it, and threw it over the garden wall. In a frenzy of ungovernable fury she seized the first weapon that caught her eye—a gardener's spade—and attacked me with it, and at the same moment Louis ran at me with a three-pronged rake. He slipped and fell, and in his fall wounded himself with the prongs. His cries of pain diverted his mother's attention from me; she flung away the spade, and caught him in her arms. Alarmed at the sight of blood dripping from his face I stepped forward to assist her. "Keep off, you murderer!" she shrieked. "You have killed my boy! You will come to the gallows!" She flew into the house with Louis, and I saw nothing more of her that day. Louis, as I afterwards learned, kept his room for a week; it was not till months had passed that we met again, and then I noticed a scar on his forehead which I was told he would carry with him to the grave. From that time I was made to feel that I had two bitter enemies in my father's house. Arrangements were made to keep me at school during holidays, and I was not sorry for it. Once a year only was I allowed to visit my home, and then I was shunned; my meals were served to me in a separate room, and not the slightest attention was paid to my wants. I grew to be accustomed to this, and took refuge in study, longing for the day to arrive when I should be free. I recall the conversation which took place on that day between my stepmother and me. "You have made arrangements, I presume," she commenced, "for residing elsewhere?" "I have been thinking what I had best do," I said. "That is not what I asked you. It is perfectly immaterial to me what you have been thinking of. I presume your arrangements to live elsewhere are already made." As a matter of fact they were not, but I could not pretend to misunderstand her. "You wish me to leave the house soon?" I said. "At once," she replied, "without a moment's unnecessary delay. You shall not eat another meal here. Your presence is hateful to me." "I have known that all my life," I said, mournfully. "Then why have you remained so long?" she asked, speaking with angry vehemence. "A man with a particle of spirit in him would have gone away years ago, but you, like the creature you are, have sponged upon me to the last hour. You are twenty-one to-day, and I am no longer legally obliged to keep you. Go, and disgrace yourself, as you are sure to do." "I shall never do that." "It has to be proved," she retorted. "As if any one knowing you would believe a word that passes your lips! We shall see your name in the papers in connection with some scandalous affair." "You are mistaken. I bear my father's name, and I would suffer a hundred deaths rather than see it dragged through the mire." "Swear it," she cried. "I swear it. But, hating me as you do, why should you be so sensitive about my good name?" "Your good name!" she said, scornfully. "It is only because I bear it, because Louis bears it, as well as you, that I exact the pledge from you. Otherwise, do you think I care what becomes of you?" "Truly," I said, "I believe it would rejoice you to hear the worst." "It would." % "I hope to disappoint you. On my solemn word of honor nothing that I do shall ever make our name a theme for scandal or reproach." "I hold you to that. We shall see whether there is any manhood in you, or the least sense of honor. Now, go!" "Cannot we part without enmity?" I asked. Persecuted and wronged as I had been, some touch of sentiment—of which I was not ashamed—moved me to the endeavor to soften the heart of my dead father's wife. "No, we cannot," she answered. "To ask it proves your mean spirit. But do you think we shall forget you? We have something to remember you by Be sure—be sure that it will not be forgotten while there is blood in our veins." "To what do you refer?" "There is a scar on my Louis' face inflicted by you, which he will bear with him to the grave." "No, no," I cried. "It is not true to say I did it. I deplore the accident, but it was caused by his own cruelty." "How dare you utter the lie? It is not the first time; you said as much on the day you tried to kill him. Yes, you would have murdered him had I not been by. We shall remember you by that, and it shall be evidence against you if there is ever occasion for it. Cruelty! My darling Louis cruel! He has the tenderest heart. You coward—you coward! Had he been as old and strong as you you would not have dared to attack him. But that is the way with such as you—to strike only the weak. Time will show—time will show! You are going into the world; there is no longer a check upon you. There will be a woman, perhaps, whom you will beat and torture. Oh, yes, you will do it; and you will lie to the world and whine that the fault is hers. Let those who stand by her come to me and Louis—we will give you a character; you shall be exposed in your true light. I hate you—I hate you—I hate you! May your life be a life of sorrow!" And she flung herself from the room. The time was to come when these cruel words were to be used against me with cruel effect; there was something prophetic in their venom. I did not see Louis before I left the house, and on that day I commenced a new life. CHAPTER III. For three years it was uneventful. I lived much alone, and made a few friends, with one or another of whom I took a holiday every year on the Continent. Then an event occurred which gave birth to the startling incidents and experiences of my life. Ten years ago this month Barbara Landor and I were married. I was twenty-four, and Barbara was three years my senior. To a young man in love—as I must have been at that time, though my feelings for my wife soon underwent change, and I look back upon them now with amazement—such a disparity is not likely to cause uneasiness. It did not cause me any. I was swayed entirely by my passionate desire to make the woman with whom I was infatuated my wife. I had known her only a short time before I proposed, and was accepted. Our engagement was of but a few weeks' duration, and during our courtship I observed nothing in Barbara's manner to disturb me. No one warned me; no friend bade me pause before I bound myself irrevocably to a woman who was to be my ruin. Occasionally her face was rather flushed, and she was eager and nervous, which I ascribed to the excitement of our engagement. Her sparkling eyes, her rapid speech, the occasional trembling of her hands—all this I set down to love. She confided to me that she had no fortune, and that she had thought of seeking employment as a governess or as a companion to a lady. She possessed great gifts, which, of course, I magnified; she was a good musician, could speak French, German and Italian fluently, and sang to me in those languages with a rich contralto voice. "Had it not been for you," she said, "I might even have got into the chorus at the opera." "Is not this better?" I asked, embracing her. "Much better," she replied, returning my embrace. She was a handsome woman, dark, tall, and commanding, and her nearest relative was a half-brother, Maxwell, much older than she, for whom I had no special liking. Naturally, after I had drawn from Barbara an avowal of her love, I addressed myself to him. He stood towards her in the light of a guardian, and she was living in his house. In reply to his questions I was very candid as to my worldly position and prospects, and he professed himself satisfied; but I remembered afterwards that when I came courting his sister he would look at me with an expression of amusement on his features, as though he was enjoying a joke he was keeping to himself. He was in the habit of boasting that he was a man of the world, and knew every trick on the board. It was chiefly at his urging that the marriage was precipitated. "Long engagements are a mistake," he said. "Don't you think so?" I replied that I was entirely of his opinion. "That simplifies matters," he said, "because I am going abroad. I shall not take a sister with me, you may depend upon that." It was a plain hint, and the wedding day was fixed. Soon after this, when I called to do my wooing, he told me that Barbara was not well enough to see me. "She has a frightful headache," he said, "and is not in a condition to see anybody." I was much distressed, and I asked if she had a doctor. "Not necessary," he said. "She will get over it. When she is in that state best leave her alone, old fellow. There's a hint for you in your matrimonial campaign. Barbara hates the sight of doctors; she is a delicate creature, very highly strung, something of the full-blooded racer about her, the kind of woman that requires managing." "I shall be able to manage her," I said confidently. "I should think you would," he said, with a mocking smile. "Barbara and you are going to have a high old time of it. By the way, can you lend me a tenner for a few days?" It was not the first time he had asked me for a loan, which was always to be paid in a few days; but he never returned a shilling of the money he borrowed from me. I gave him the ten pounds, and inwardly resolved to have as little as possible to do with him after my marriage. I debated with myself whether I should communicate the news of my engagement to my stepmother and Louis, and acting upon the advice of Barbara—to whom I gave a truthful relation of my child-life—I wrote to them in affectionate terms. To me no answer was returned, but Barbara received a letter which she told me she tore up the moment she read it. "Your stepmother must be an awful woman," she said, "but we can do without her and her beautiful son." It was very considerate of Barbara, I thought, not to show me the letter, the tenor of which it was not difficult to guess, but I could not help looking grave. "No long faces, you dear boy," cried Barbara. "Do you think I believe a word she says? Do you think I care for any one but you? If she hadn't been the meanest creature living she would at least have sent a wedding present." The wedding was a very quiet one. A friend acted as my best man, and a few other of my friends were present. On Barbara's side there was only Maxwell, who gave his sister away. She looked beautiful, and was in high spirits. The ceremony over we hastened to Maxwell's house, where I and my friends expected to sit down to a wedding breakfast. To my surprise there was nothing on the table but the bridecake and a couple of bottles of wine. It was not a time to ask for an explanation of this inhospitable welcome to the wedding guests, but I was deeply mortified, and I saw that my friends were angry and offended. Maxwell made light of the matter; he filled the glasses, and in a florid speech proposed the health of bride and bridegroom, to which I responded very briefly. "There is nothing else to wait for, I suppose," said my best man, in a sarcastic tone. No one answered him, and with shrugs and halfhearted wishes for happiness he and the other guests took their departure, leaving Barbara and me and Maxwell alone. "Don't quarrel with him," Barbara whispered to me; "he has the most awful temper." For her sake I put the best face I could upon the slight that had been passed upon me. Maxwell appeared to be unconscious that he had behaved in any way offensively; he drank a great deal of wine, and urged Barbara to drink, but she refused. "A glass with me, darling," I said. "To our future." She raised the glass to her lips, and set it down, untasted, with a shudder. I had noticed at the meals we three had together that she drank nothing but water. "You do not like wine?" I said. "I detest it," she replied. "I'll drink your share whenever you call upon me," shouted Maxwell. "She is quite right, isn't she, John? Milk for women, wine for men." He was getting intoxicated, and began to troll out a song about wine and women. I strove to quiet him, but he went on laughing hilariously. Excited and enraged, I quickly emptied my glass, and was about to drink again, when Barbara laid her hand upon my arm. I put the full glass upon the table, at which Maxwell, who had been observing us, laughed louder still. "Maxwell!" cried Barbara, angrily. "Barbara!" cried Maxwell, with his bold eyes upon her. "Well, my lady?" They looked strangely at one another, and it was Barbara who first lowered her eyes. There was something threatening in Maxwell's glance, and she seemed to be frightened of him. I was not sorry, for I accepted it as an indication that she would side with me in my desire not to court his society when we returned from our honeymoon trip. We were to start for the Continent in the evening, and there were still two or three hours before us. To pass this interval of time in Maxwell's company was not a pleasant prospect, but I scarcely knew how to avoid it. He evinced no disposition to leave Barbara and me together, and I felt awkward and out of place, and really as if it was I who was intruding. The house was his, and in a certain sense we were his guests. A bright idea occurred to me. I proposed that Barbara should dress for our journey, and that we should go and lunch at an hotel. Barbara, however, said she could not eat, and Maxwell cried boisterously: "What are you thinking of, brother-in-law? A newborn bride sitting down to eat at an hotel on her wedding day. She would sink to the ground in shame, wouldn't she, Barbara? But I accept your invitation with pleasure, my boy. I am famished, and you must be. I insist upon you fortifying yourself; it is a duty you owe to Barbara and to society at large. With what is before you, it is absolutely necessary that you should keep up your strength. Take my word for it; I'm an older bird than you. Let us go. Barbara will nibble a biscuit, or make a meal off a butterfly's wing, if she can catch one." I turned to Barbara, and she whispered that it would be best. She was tired and would lie down while we were away. I saw that she was weary, and disgusted with her brother's behavior, so to save her from further annoyance, I consented to go with Maxwell. "I don't like to leave you for a moment, darling," I said, "but I must get him away. I shall be back in good time; be sure you are ready." I said this smilingly, as if I referred to woman's proverbial failing in seldom being ready at an appointed time when she has to dress for a journey or a dinner, or anything, in fact. She did not return smile for smile. In a weak, helpless way she clung to me for a moment, and then abruptly left the room. "Oh, turtle doves, turtle doves!" exclaimed Maxwell, hooking his arm in mine, as we walked along. "Oh, golden day, with love's fetters binding one fast! Auspicious epoch in a man's career when he is strung up for life! Love, honor, and obey, and all that sort of thing. Connubial bliss, Darby and Joan, till death doth us part. Not for me, my boy, not for me; but every man to his taste. Fol-de-riddle! Chorus of infatuated bridegrooms—fol-de-riddle, fol-de-riddle!" "Hold your tongue," I said, between my teeth, "or I'll not stay with you another moment." "Right you are, my sensitive plant," he returned. "I'm mum as the inside of a screwed down coffin." But he continued to sing softly to himself, and to chuckle as he cast furtive glances at me. In such circumstances it was not likely that I could enjoy my meal, and I sat for the most part doing nothing, while Maxwell disposed of the various courses he ordered. Drinking did not affect his appetite, and he would have kept at the table all the day had I not called for the bill. "Time to go, eh? Love's call must be obeyed," he said, rising, and pouring out the last glass of wine in the bottle. With his left hand on the table he steadied himself, and held up the glass. "You're not half a bad sort, John, but you're a bit soft. You want hardening, my boy, and you'll get it." "What do you mean?" I asked. "What do I mean? Why, that Barbara's all your own now, all your own. Well, here's a happy honeymoon to the fond couple." He drained the glass. I hardly knew how to take his words, and I did not answer him. On our way back he borrowed twenty pounds of me, and I determined it should be the last he would ever get from me. I was strongly inclined at first to refuse, but I was afraid he would make a scene, and so for Barbara's sake I gave him the money. "Thank you, John," he said, pocketing the notes. "You're a trump, but a trifle green. Here we are at the house. What a jolly wedding-day!" I could have struck the mocking devil in the face, for by this time I was thoroughly out of temper; but, again for dear Barbara's sake, I refrained from uttering the hot words that rose to my lips. The carriage was at the door and my wife was ready. Maxwell opened his arms for a parting embrace, but Barbara slipped from him and entered the carriage. As it moved away I caught a last glimpse of him standing on the doorstep laughing immoderately, and I almost fancied I heard him call after us, "What a jolly wedding day!" CHAPTER IV. The next day we were in Paris. We had a miserable crossing and two miserable railway journeys. On neither of the lines could I get a compartment to ourselves, both the French and English trains being crowded to excess. On the steamboat Barbara was very ill, and I gave her into the charge of the stewardess, being too unwell myself to attend to her. We were not, as may be imagined, a very cheerful couple, nor was this a cheerful commencement of our honeymoon. I did my best, however, to keep up Barbara's spirits, but she continued to be sad and despondent, and did not rally till we reached the gay city. The bright sunshine and the animation of the streets did wonders for us. I held her hand in mine as we drove to the hotel in which I had engaged rooms, and life assumed a joyful aspect. The color came again to Barbara's cheeks, the sparkle to her eyes. "The worst is over, dearest," I said, "and we are together—and alone." She pressed my hand fondly. Was I really in love? I cannot answer. The fire of youth was in my veins, the light of hope was in my heart. Call it what you will—love, passion, desire—Barbara was all in all to me, and our fond endearments caused the hours to fly at lightning speed. The embarrassments and mortifications of yesterday were forgotten; to-day was ours, to enjoy. We dined at the hotel, by Barbara's plate a caraffe of iced water, by mine a bottle of old Burgundy. At nine o'clock, knowing that Barbara had some unpacking to do—for it was my intention to remain in Paris a week—I said that I would take a stroll in the streets, and would return at ten. "It will take me quite two hours," she said, with a trembling eagerness in her voice, "to get my boxes in order." "I will return at eleven," I said gaily, kissing her. I strolled through the brilliantly lighted streets in a dream of delight. There was no Maxwell near to disturb me with his mocking laughter. Barbara was her bright self again, and she and I were "man and wife." "Man and wife," I murmured. "Nothing can come between us now, nothing can separate us. She is mine forever. I am really a married man." I saw in the window of a jeweler's shop a brooch with two hearts entwined. It was emblematical of Barbara's heart and mine, and I went in and purchased it, and purchased also at a florist's a bouquet of the loveliest flowers. It was now ten o'clock, and I had still an hour to myself. A long time to carry a large bouquet of flowers amidst a throng of people, but what cared I? Why should I hide my happiness? Was I not proud of my beautiful Barbara, whose pure and innocent heart I had won, and whose sweet companionship would brighten my days till we were both old and white-haired? Let the whole world know that the flowers were for my bride—let the whole world know that I was in love. Was not this the city of love? The hum of merry voices proclaimed it—the myriad stars, the soft air, the brilliant lights, the animated gestures of men and women, all proclaimed it. There were no dark shadows to blot the bright picture; joy was universal; there was no sadness, no death, no cankered care to wither the glad hopes of the future—all was light and love. At a quarter to eleven I hastened to the hotel of which she was the sun, and paced the boulevard a few yards this way, a few yards that, and strolled into the courtyard, and looked at my watch, and impatiently counted the seconds, and fretted and fumed until the minute hand reached eleven. Then I eagerly mounted the stairs, and entered our sitting-room. The lights were burning, and the room had a cheerful appearance. A communicating door led to the bedroom, and I listened at this door a moment, but heard no sound from within. I arranged the bouquet of flowers in a vase, which I filled with water, and then I turned out the lights, with the intention of entering our bridal chamber. But the door was fast. I tried very softly again and again to open it, and then with greater force, but it would not yield. "Barbara," I called in a low tone, "it is I. Why have you locked the door?" No answer reached my ears. I called several times, with the same result. Long before this I had become alarmed, and had re-lit the gas in the sitting-room. Stories of dark crimes committed in this city of light flashed through my mind. The door was locked, but that might be a blind. It was scarcely possible that Barbara could be in the room; she had been decoyed from the hotel upon some pretense, perhaps by the delivery of a false message from me. If so, what would be her fate? And even supposing her to be in her room, how to account for the frightful silence? Fool, criminal that I was to leave her alone, a hapless woman in a strange city! It was I, and I alone, who had brought the woman I loved into this perilous position. I rushed down to the manager of the hotel, and asked if any visitors had been admitted into my rooms during my absence, or any message delivered to my wife. The manager, who was the soul of politeness, and who was smoking a cigarette after the labors of the day, made inquiries of the concierge and of the servants who had not retired to rest. No person had called to see madame; no message had been taken to her; she had not been seen to leave the hotel. Had she rung for refreshment or assistance? No. Had any sounds of disturbance been heard in her apartment? No, the apartment had been perfectly quiet. Were they certain that madame could not have left the hotel without being seen? It was not possible. She would have had to pass through the courtyard, and the concierge or an assistant was constantly on the watch, noting who came and who went. Then, how to account for the facts of her bedroom door being locked and of her not answering to my call? The servants could not account for it; the manager could not account for it. With profuse apologies he hazarded a question. Was madame subject to fainting fits? Was it that she had swooned? With my permission he would accompany me to the apartment, and together we could ascertain. We ascertained nothing; we discovered no clue to the mystery. The door defied all our efforts to open it, and no reply was given to our summons. The suspense was maddening. "See, monsieur," said the manager, stooping, and putting his eye to the key-hole, "the door is locked from within. The key is in the lock. Be tranquil; madame is safe; she has fallen into a sound sleep. I myself sleep so soundly that——" I interrupted him impatiently. "If my wife has fallen asleep she must be awakened." He did not see the necessity; if I would be patient madame would herself awake when she had slept enough; then all would be well. "My wife must be awakened," I repeated vehemently. "Undoubtedly," he then said, falling complacently into my humor. "If you insist, monsieur, madame must be awakened." "But how?" I cried, in a fever of anxiety, which with every passing moment grew more intense. "As monsieur says," he replied, with exasperating coolness, "but how?" "The lock must be forced." "A million pardons, monsieur. The lock of the door is of a particular kind. It is not a common lock—no, no. It was put on especially for a distinguished visitor, who frequently occupies this apartment. It is what is called a patent lock, and is the property of our distinguished visitor. I cannot consent that it shall be forced." "Then we will have a piece cut out of the door. By that means we can reach the key, and turn the lock from within." "Again a million pardons. The door is of oak; it was made for our distinguished visitor. I cannot consent, monsieur, that the door shall be destroyed." "Hang you! Stand aside!" I pushed him away, and applied my shoulder to the door. I was young, I was strong, but I might as well have set myself against a rock. The door held firm and fast, and the noise I made did not arouse Barbara. Even in the midst of my despair I heard the manager remark, "These eccentric English!" Finding my efforts vain, I beat the panels with my fists. A servant entered, and whispered to the manager. "Desist, monsieur," he said, stepping forward, "you are disturbing our visitors. It cannot be permitted. In the adjoining apartment is a sick gentleman. He has already inquired whether there is a fire or an earthquake. If monsieur pleases, there is another way.' "What is it? Quick—quick!" "The window of madame's room looks out upon a courtyard at the back. It is easily reached by a ladder. The night is warm; madame may have left her window unfastened——" I stopped any further explanation by hurrying him to the courtyard at the back. On the way he insisted upon informing me that the hotel was of the highest character and eminently respectable. No robbery had ever taken place in it; no crime had ever been committed within its walls. Madame was fatigued by her journey, and had probably taken an opiate. I should find her asleep in her bed quite safe—quite safe. "The ladder—the ladder!" I cried, in a frenzy. "Where is the ladder?" It was soon brought—though I thought it an age before it was fixed against the wall—and a porter commenced to ascend. But I pulled him back with a rough hand, and said I would go up myself. "These eccentric English!" I heard the manager again remark to those assembled around him. His surmise was correct. The window was closed but not fastened; I pushed it open and stepped into the room. It was dark, but by the light admitted through the open window I saw the form of my wife huddled upon the bed. I laid my hands upon her and called, "Barbara—dear Barbara!" A faint moan was the only response. "Great God!" I cried. "She is dying!" I swiftly lighted the gas, and the room was flooded with light. Then I discovered the horrible truth. An empty brandy bottle rolled from the bed to the floor, and on the dressing table was a corkscrew with the cork still in it. The cork was new, and the bright capsule by its side denoted that the bottle must have been full when it had been opened. I bent over Barbara's stupefied form, the fumes of liquor which tainted her hot breath were sickening. My wife was not dying. She was drunk! The whole room was in a state of disorder; the bed curtains were torn, articles of feminine attire were scattered about, brushes and combs and other toilet requisites had been swept from the table, a chair had been upset; but at that moment I took little note of these signs, my attention being centred upon the degrading human spectacle which lay before me on the bed—my wife, the woman I had idealized as an embodiment of purity and simplicity. I was not allowed to remain long undisturbed; I heard a smart rapping at the bedroom door, and I became instantly conscious that I had a new part to play. I closed and fastened the window, and drew the curtains across it, I lowered the gas almost to vanishing point, and then, turning the key in the lock, I opened the door just wide enough to see the manager's face. "Madame is safe?" he inquired. "Quite safe," I replied. "As I said. Asleep?" "Yes, asleep." "As I said. There has been no crime or robbery?" "There has been no crime or robbery." "And madame is well?" "Quite well." "I trust you are satisfied, monsieur." "Perfectly satisfied." "Is anything more required?" "Nothing more." "No assistance of any kind? The chambermaid is here. Shall she attend to madame?" "Her assistance is not needed. Good-night." "Good-night, monsieur." As he and the attendants left the adjoining room, I heard him remark for the third time, "These eccentric English!" CHAPTER V. The first thing I did was to securely bolt and lock every door, to darken every window that gave access to our rooms. I must be alone with my shame and my grief. No one must know—the secret of this vile, this unutterable disgrace must not escape, must not be whispered, must not be suspected. From the friends who had been present at the wedding ceremony I could not expect sympathy after the way in which they had been treated; from strangers I could hope for none; by friends and strangers alike I should be pointed at and derided. I must wear a false face to all the world—as false as the face my wife had worn to me during our courtship. For in the first flush of the frightful discovery I did not stop to palter with myself, I did not attempt to disguise the truth, to delude myself with the hope that this was a new experience in Barbara's character. The fatal truth fastened itself in my heart. Signs which had borne no baneful significance in the past were now suddenly and rightfully interpreted. I understood Maxwell's mocking words and laughter: "You want hardening, my boy, and you'll get it," he had said, Again, "Barbara is not in a condition to see anybody. When she is in that state, best leave her, old fellow. There's a hint for you in your matrimonial campaign." And then his last derisive exclamation, "What a jolly wedding day!" The meaning of the looks he and Barbara had exchanged on that day when we three were together after the ceremony, was now clear to me, as clear and withering as a blasting lightning stroke. She was a drunkard, and he was keeping the joke from me. His look conveyed the threat, "Be careful, or I will betray you." Aye, betray her before she betrayed herself! The momentary defiance in her eyes died away, and she trembled in his presence. "I will betray you!" Good God, how I had been betrayed! Barbara was mine forever; as Maxwell had said, she was all my own. We were linked together; our fates were united. There were no separate paths which each could tread apart from the other. Hand in hand we must take our way, and death alone could tear us asunder. On my honor as a man there died within me during those few moments of torturing reflection all the love I had borne for Barbara. I awoke to the fact that it was not true love, but animal passion for her beauty, that had led me into this pit of shame and despair. Some men arrive, by slow and devious roads, at a belief that shakes their faith to its foundations. Not so I. As surely as I knew that I lived and moved did I know that I was wedded to a drunkard, and that there was no civilized law that could divorce me from her. I was Barbara's shield and protector, her lord, her master, her victim. Her claim upon me was not to be evaded; even to dispute it would cover me with ignominy, would make my name a bye-word. I could not break the fetters of the law which bound us together and made us one. Had Barbara not been a confirmed drunkard, she could never have drank a full bottle of brandy in so short a time. Three or four glasses would have overcome her, and she could not have continued to tipple. Think what you will of me, I declare that I had no compassion for the woman I had married. No pity for her stirred my heart. Perfect in its devilish cunning was the duplicity she had practised. "You do not like wine?" I had said to her. "I detest it," she had answered; and never in my presence had she drank anything except water. Most artfully had she concealed from me a secret which was to wreck all my hopes of happiness, which was to shut out from me all the pure and innocent pleasures which a man at my time of life might naturally look forward to. What pity could I have for one who had done this evil? I made no attempt to rouse my wife, not because I feared I should not succeed, but because I had no desire to restore her to consciousness and to hold converse with her. I needed time to review more calmly the position in which I was placed and to decide upon my course of action in the future. Meanwhile I applied myself to an examination of the bedroom. One of Barbara's trunks was unlocked; the lid was down, but a litter of feminine apparel on the floor denoted that it had been hurriedly opened and the articles of clothing as hurriedly snatched from the top, with no intention, as Barbara had indicated, of putting her things in order, but rather of getting quickly at something which lay beneath. Had I the right to search this trunk? was the question I mentally put to myself. I did not, however, stop to discuss it. Right or wrong, I raised the lid, and taking out the garments which first met my eyes I found beneath them damning proofs of Barbara's degradation. Five bottles of brandy were brought to light—the one she had emptied made the sixth. She had provided herself liberally, sufficient for six days at the rate she had commenced. My first impulse was to throw them out of the window, but I checked myself in time. The noise of the broken glass would have brought the manager and his staff buzzing about me. What should I do with the cursed things? Leave them in her trunk? No; it would be inviting a series of disgraceful exhibitions such as that which lay within my view. From me she would receive no assistance to reach a lower depth than that into which she had fallen. I could at least make it difficult for her to obtain her next supply of liquor without my knowledge, so I carried the bottles to the outer room, and secreted them in one of my own trunks, determining to get rid of them by some means in the course of the next few hours. Then I huddled Barbara's clothes into her trunk, and closed the lid. Without casting another glance at my wife, who was now beginning to breathe more heavily, I returned to the sitting-room, and sinking into a chair, burst into a passionate fit of weeping. Thus did I pass my bridal night. CHAPTER VI. At seven in the morning I heard my wife shifting restlessly and moaning in her bedroom. I had not had a moment's sleep during the night. My eyes closed occasionally from weariness, but sleep did not come to me; nor did I woo it, for I felt the necessity of keeping awake, lest Barbara should create a disturbance. Her condition was a new and bitter experience to me, and I did not know what form it might take. In whatever form it presented itself I must be prepared to cope with it; and it behoved me, therefore, to keep on the watch. I paid no attention to Barbara's moans, but went to my dressing-room and bathed my face with cold water which refreshed and strengthened me. In the front courtyard the birds were singing and the fountain was playing. I threw the window open; the air was sweet and fresh, and I was grateful for the relief it afforded me. My wife continued to groan and toss about, and still I did not go to her. At length she called my name in a fretful voice. "Well?" I said, standing by the bedside. "Why did you not come to me before?" she asked, querulously. "Did you not hear me?" "Yes, I heard you." "And you kept away! How could you, love, how could you, when I am suffering so?" She paused for a sympathetic word from me, which she did not receive. "I am so ill, dear John, so very, very ill! My head is on fire. Give me your hand." I made no responsive movement, and she looked at me from beneath her half-closed lids. "You are not looking well yourself, John. Have you had a bad night?" "A most horrible night." "I am so sorry, dear. Watching by my side for so many hours has tired you." "I have not been watching by your side." "You bad boy—what could you have been doing; and why do you speak to me so unfeelingly? I am sure I have done nothing to deserve it. Oh, my poor head! You did not know I was accustomed to these headaches." "No, I did not know." "I ought to have told you, dear." "Yes, you ought to have told me. It would have been better for both of us." "I don't see that; unless you have deceived me, it could have made no difference in your fee...