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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

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 feelings, and I believed every word you said—yes, I did, John, dear." She shuddered and moaned, as though seized with an ague. "Get me something, or I shall go mad with pain!"

"What will you have? A cup of tea?"

An expression of disgust spread over her features. "Tea! It is the worst thing I could take. You do not understand—of course you do not understand. Put your arm round me, dear; let me lean my head on your shoulder; it will relieve me." I did not stir. "What do you mean by treating me so cruelly? I am your wife, and you promised to love and cherish me. Have you forgotten so soon, so soon?" I did not reply, and her voice grew more imploring. "When women suffer as I do, John, they need something to keep up their strength. Oh, this frightful sinking! I am sure a little brandy would do me good. Don't be shocked; I wouldn't ask for it if I wasn't certain it would remove this horrible pain."

"Otherwise," I said, with sad and bitter emphasis, "you would not touch it, you have such abhorrence of it."

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

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

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

"From me, Barbara, not one drop!"

"You won't?"

"No, I will not."

"Brute! Leave my room!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't know."

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

"Do you mean that truly?"

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

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

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

"I take your word, Barbara."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Produce the decanter! Certainly I will."

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

"Does monsieur find the account correct?"

"It is correct. Here is your money."

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

"Have I made myself beautiful, dear?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You will keep that promise faithfully, Barbara?"

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

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

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

[CHAPTER VII.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ours, Barbara?"

"Certainly, ours."

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

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

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

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

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

"You really kept nothing from me, Barbara?"

"Nothing, love."

"And you are keeping nothing from me now?"

"Nothing, love."

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

[CHAPTER VIII.]

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

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

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

The cunning hand was Barbara's.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Assuredly, it is I, monsieur."

"Of how many?"

"Of two, monsieur."

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

"Exactly, monsieur."

"From impressions in wax which you received."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Madame is out," said the manager.

"On foot?"

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

"Did she go alone?"

"No, monsieur; Annette accompanied her."

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

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

"Is Annette a good servant?"

"An excellent domestic."

"Trustworthy, honest, and sober?"

"Perfectly. Madame could not desire a better."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And only thirty-five pounds a year," my wife continued, and would have continued her prattle had I not interrupted her.

"I should like to speak to you alone, Barbara."

"We are alone, you dear boy." I looked towards the imperturbable woman she had engaged. "Oh, do you object to Annette? What difference can she make? She understands no language but her own."

"I should prefer to be alone with you."

"To say disagreeable things, I suppose, when there are no witnesses present. Oh, I know you. She shall not go."

"Do you think it right to oppose me in such a small matter? Surely we ought to keep our quarrels to ourselves."

"Who is quarreling?" she retorted. "I am not. And as to what is right and wrong, I am as good a judge as you."

"Annette," said I, addressing the woman in French, "leave the room."

"Oui, monsieur," she replied, with perfect submissiveness, and was about to go when my wife said:

"Annette, remain here."

"Oui, madame," she replied, without any indication of surprise at these contradictory orders. To outward appearance she was an absolutely passive agent, ready at a word to go hither or thither, to say yea or nay, without the least feeling or interest in the matter; but any one who judged her by this standard would have found himself grievously at fault.

"Very well," I said. "I will postpone speaking of a very serious subject till I can do so out of the hearing of strangers. I will only say now that you should not have engaged this woman without consulting me."

"Indeed, I shall not consult you," returned Barbara, "upon my domestic arrangements, and I am astonished at your interference. It is I who have to attend to them, and I will not be thwarted and ordered to do this or that. You think a wife is a slave; I will show you that she is not." She paused a moment, and then shrugged her shoulders. "What you have to say had best be said at once, perhaps. In heaven's name let us get it over." She stepped to Annette's side, and whispered a word or two in her ear; the next moment we were alone. "Now, John, what is it?"

"With the connivance of that woman you have had false keys made, with which, in my absence—artfully contrived by yourself—you have opened my trunks."

"Go on."

"You admit it."

"I admit nothing. Go on."

"With those false keys you ransacked my trunks, and stole certain articles from them."

"Stole?" she cried with a scornful laugh. "A proper word for you to use."

"Never mind the word——"

"But I shall mind the word. You will be dictating to me next how I shall express myself. If there is a thief here, it is you. I call you thief to your face. You ought to feel flattered that I followed your example, but nothing seems to please you. And you should consider, my dear—what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. You opened my trunks on the sly; I opened yours on the sly, and took possession of my property which you had stolen from me."

"I admit," I said, speaking without passion, "that I was wrong——"

"Oh, indeed! And that admission justifies you?"

"The end justified me; what I found justified me."

"In your opinion, because you can do no wrong. Seriously, my love, do you look upon me as a child, and do you think I will allow myself to be spied upon and robbed with impunity?"

"What I did was for your good."

"Allow me, if you please, to be the judge of what is good for me. Will it offend you to hear me say that no gentleman would act as you have done?"

It would have been wiser, perhaps, had I refrained from uttering the retort that rose to my lips.

"Would any lady act as you have acted?"

But who can control himself when he is brought face to face with an overwhelming and undeserved misfortune.

"Best leave ladies and gentlemen out of the question," she said, mockingly. "As you pay me the compliment of declaring that I am not a lady, pay me the further compliment of designating what I am."

I was silent.

"I will give you a little lesson in frankness, my dear. When I married you I believed I was marrying a man of honor, unfortunately I was mistaken. It has not taken me long to discover that my husband is a common spy—attached to the detective office, probably, the sort of man who listens at keyholes and searches his wife's pockets when she is asleep. Don't forget, love, that it was you who commenced it. If I were a milksop I should sit down and weep, as some poor creatures do, but I am not a milksop; I can protect myself. Therefore, John. I am not going to make myself unhappy; I am much too sensible. I am not an old woman yet, and I intend to enjoy my life. And now, my dear," she added, after a moment's pause, "I am waiting for your next insult."

"I am afraid it is useless to argue with you," I said, sadly.

"Upon this subject, quite useless," she replied. "Upon any other I am your humble servant. Have you finished, then? Thank you. Annette!"

The woman came in so promptly as to convince me that she had been listening in the passage.

"She waited outside by my orders," said my wife, laughing.

I left them together.

[CHAPTER IX.]

When I had left Barbara and Annette together, I took myself seriously to task. I asked myself whether I understood Barbara's character, and the answer seemed clear. I had not studied it; I did not understand it. She was a beautiful creature with whom I had fallen in love; it was surface love, and I had made no attempt to probe the inner life. In this respect I was no worse off than multitudes of men and women who marry without knowing each other. Was Barbara to blame for it? No. She was in a state of dependence upon a brother whose character I detested. I had offered myself and was accepted. For the fate in store for me I, and I alone, was to blame.

I would be lenient towards her; I would devise some wise plan by which she could be wooed from the wrong path. After all, she was, perhaps, to be pitied. Thus did I argue, thus did I manufacture excuses for her, thus did I school myself into a calmer frame of mind.

In this better mood I met her when Annette was not with her, and asked where she would dine.

"Where you please," she answered, meekly.

Her softened tone filled me with pity and remorse.

"My wish is to please you," I said.

She glanced at me in surprise.

"Are you setting a trap for me?" she asked.

"No, Barbara, only I have been thinking that we do not quite understand one another."

"It seems so," she admitted, in a mournful voice, "and it is making me very unhappy."

"Well, don't let it make you unhappy any longer. We both have faults, and we will try to correct them."

"You dear boy!" she cried, throwing her arms round my neck. "Then you confess you were in the wrong?"

"Yes, I confess it, Barbara."

"And I confess that I was in the wrong. Now, we are equal."

After a pause:

"No one is quite perfect, John."

"It is not within human limits, Barbara."

"We agree—we agree!" she danced about the room in delight. "Isn't it delightful? Oh, I was beginning to despair!"

There was really something childlike in her voice and manner, and I followed her movements with admiration. Suddenly she stopped, and throwing herself on the sofa, hid her face in the cushion, and began to sob.

It was the first time that an act of mine had caused a woman to sob, and it unmanned me. I sat by her side and soothed her with awkward, endearing words, and my efforts were rewarded; she became calmer.

"It is so sweet, so sweet, when you are like this!" she murmured, and dried her eyes. "You are my dear old boy again, just as you were before we were married. Oh, John, why did you go over my boxes on the sly?"

"It was wrong; I have confessed it."

"But I like to hear you say it. You were wrong!"

"Yes, I was wrong."

"You mean it, dear—you are not deceiving me?"

"No, Barbara, I am not deceiving you."

She pouted. "It is nothing but 'Barbara, Barbara.' 'Yes, Barbara,' 'No, Barbara.' Not so very long ago you would say, 'No, my love,' 'Yes, my darling.' Now, my dear, dear boy, say out of your very heart, 'I am not deceiving you, my darling.'"

I repeated the words; to have refused, to have hesitated, would have destroyed the good work, the better understanding, of which I seemed to see the promise.

"I am not deceiving you, my darling."

"Oh, how good it is to hear you speak like that! It is like waking out of a horrid dream to a delightful reality. And you truly, truly love me?"

Again I answered, under pressure. "I truly love you."

"Then I don't care for anything else in the wide, wide world, and I am the happiest woman in it. You had almost forgotten, had you not, John, that I was alone in this city, without a friend but you? I have only you—only you. I hardly cared to live, for what is life without love? But I was frightening myself unnecessarily—or were you doing it just to try me. You will be kind to me, will you not, dear?'

"Indeed, I have no other desire."

"See how a foolish woman can create shadows that terrify her. That is what I did; but they are gone now, all blown away by my dear boy's tender words. And you don't mind my little faults—you will put up with them."

I ventured a saving clause. "Yes, Barbara, and I will try to correct them."

"Of course you will; I expect you to. But you must do it in a nice way. Long lectures are horrid. When I try to correct yours—for that will be only fair play, John, will it, not?—you will see how gentle I will be."

"At the same time, Barbara, while we are correcting each other's faults, we must help ourselves by trying to correct our own."

"I promise, with all my heart; and when I make a promise in that way you may be perfectly sure that it will be performed. That is a virtue I really possess. And so we will go on correcting each other till we are old, old people, ready to become angels, when we sha'n't have any faults at all to correct. For angels are faultless, you know. I am deeply religious, John, dear. There are angels and devils. The good people become angels, the wicked people devils."

"You are mixing up things, rather, are you not, Barbara?"

"Well, it is full of mystery, and who does know for certain? But one can believe; there is no harm in that, is there?"

"None at all."

"And I believe there is a heaven and a hell. You believe it, too, of course?"

"Assuredly I believe there is a heaven, but not that there is a hell hereafter."

She pondered over the words. "A hell hereafter! Why the 'hereafter,' dear?"

"Because I have a firm conviction that we may suffer hell in this life, but not in the next."

"A hell in this life! That would be awful. We will not suffer it, love."

"I trust not, sincerely."

"'Trust not!' You mean you are sure we shall not, surely."

"I am sure we shall not, Barbara."

I was as wax in her hands, standing, so to speak, forever on the edge of a precipice of her creating, and compelled to the utterance of sentiments to which I could not conscientiously subscribe, in order to escape the wreck of a possible happiness.

"That I believe in hell fire and you do not," she said, thoughtfully, "shall not be a cause of difference between us. Everybody thinks his own ideas of religion are right. Perhaps bye and bye I will try to convert you, and if you feel very strongly on the subject of hell you shall try to convert me. Which do you think worse—a hell in this life, or a hell in the next?"

"I have never considered it. Don't let us worry ourselves about theological matters during our honeymoon."

"You are right, John; see how quickly I give in to you. I will tell you why, sir—because it is a wife's duty. You will never find me behindhand in that. Our honeymoon! How nicely you said it. There shall be nothing but sunshine and flowers, and the singing of birds, and love. Oh, what a happy, happy time! And you are no longer angry with me that I have engaged Annette?"

"I am not angry with you at all."

"John," she said, shaking her finger playfully at me, "that is an evasion, and you mustn't set me bad examples. Answer my question immediately, sir."

"Well, Barbara, so long as she does not bring discord between us——"

She stopped me with a kiss. "No, John, that will not do—it really will not do, you bad boy. You mustn't take unreasonable antipathies to people. A lady's-maid has a great deal to put up with, and mistresses are often very trying. There, you see, I don't spare myself—oh, no, I am a very just person, and I like every one to be justly treated. Say at once, sir, that you are no longer angry with me for engaging Annette."

Mistrusting the woman as I did, I was forced, for the sake of peace, to express approval of her. Barbara clapped her hands, and declared we should be quite a happy family.

It was after this interview that Barbara had a religious fit. Twice a day she went to the Madeleine, and spent an hour there upon her knees. Sometimes Annette accompanied her, sometimes I, upon her invitation. I asked her why she, a Protestant, frequented a Catholic place of worship.

"What does it matter, the place?" she asked, in return, speaking in a gentle tone. "It does one good to pray. Even to kneel in such a temple without saying a prayer strengthens one's soul. Through the solemn silence, broken now and then by a sob from some poor woman's broken heart, a message comes from God. Women are greatly to be pitied, John."

"Men, too, sometimes," I said.

"Oh, no," she answered, quickly, "there is no comparison."

A trifling incident may be set down here, in connection with the brooch, with its device of two hearts, which I had purchased as a present for Barbara on the first night we were in Paris, and which I afterwards determined not to give her. I was in the sitting-room clearing my pockets. Among the things I had taken out was the brooch, which I had almost forgotten. I was still of the opinion that it would be an unsuitable gift, and I was thinking what to do with it when Annette passed through the sitting-room to the bedroom, her eyes, as usual, lowered to the ground. In the course of the day I went to the jeweler of whom I had purchased the brooch, and he took it back at half the price I had paid for it. I thought no more of the matter.

[CHAPTER X.]

I had taken circular tickets for a two months' ramble through Switzerland and Italy, intending to visit Lucerne, Berne, Interlaken, Chamouni, and Geneva, then on to the Italian lakes, and I was studying the plan I had mapped out, and making notes of bye-excursions from the principal towns, when Barbara burst in upon me with the exclamation that she was sick of Paris. This surprised me. We had intended to remain for two weeks, only one of which had elapsed, and I had supposed that the busy, brilliant life of the gay city would be so much to Barbara's liking that I should have a difficulty in getting her away from it. For my own part I was glad to leave, glad to travel sooner than we intended to regions where we should be in closer contact with nature. Barbara had never visited Switzerland or Italy, and I hoped that association with the lakes and mountains of those beautiful countries would be beneficial to her, would help her to shake off the fatal habit which she had allowed to grow upon her.

"Very well, Barbara," I said, "we will leave for Lucerne to-morrow."

"How long does it take to get to Geneva?" she asked.

"From Lucerne?"

"No, from here."

"There is a morning train, which gets there in the evening."

"Then we will go to-morrow morning to Geneva."

"But that will make a muddle of the route I have mapped out, and jumble up the dates."

"What does that matter? You can easily make out another; our time is our own. I want to be in Geneva to-morrow night."

"For any particular reason?" I asked, rather annoyed, for I knew how difficult it was to divert her from anything upon which she had set her mind.

"For a very particular reason. Maxwell will be there."

"Did he tell you so before we left England?"

"No; he tells me in a letter, and says how nice it will be for us to meet there."

I thought otherwise. I had no wish to see Maxwell, but I did not say so.

"When did you hear from him?"

"This morning."

"His letter did not come to the hotel. They told me in the office that there were none for us."

"He doesn't address me at the hotel."

"Where then, for goodness sake? The hotel is the proper place."

"Perhaps I don't care about always doing what is proper," she retorted, lightly. "Besides, do I need your permission to carry on a correspondence with my brother?"

"Not at all; you are putting a wrong construction upon my words."

"Oh, of course. I don't do anything right, do I? Never mind, you may make yourself as unpleasant as you like, but you won't get me to join in a wrangle. Do I pry into your letters? Well, then, don't pry into mine."

"I have no desire to do so. Only, as I suppose this is not the first letter you have received from Maxwell since we have been in Paris——"

She interrupted me with "I have had three letters from him."

"Well, I thought you might have mentioned it—that's all."

"I didn't wish to annoy you."

"Why should it annoy me?"

"Now, John," she said, in a more conciliatory tone, "haven't I eyes in my head? Women, really, are not quite brainless. Do you think I didn't find out long ago that there was no love lost between you and Maxwell? Not on his side—oh, no; on yours."

I could have answered that, according to my observation of her, her feelings towards Maxwell were similar to mine, but I was determined to avoid, as far as was possible, anything in the shape of argument that might lead to contention.

"I do hope you will get to like him better," she continued, "and you will when you understand him. That is what we were talking about a few days ago, isn't it?—about the advisability of people understanding each other before they pronounce judgment. If they don't they are so apt to do each other an injustice. Maxwell is as simple as a child; the worst of it is, he takes a delight in placing himself at a disadvantage when he is talking to you, saying the wrong thing, you know, but never meaning the least harm by it—oh, no. He leaves you to find it out—so boyish, isn't it? He is inconsistent; it is a serious fault, but it is a serious misfortune, too, when one can't help it. It is a shame to blame us for our imperfections; we didn't make them; they are born with us."

"But, Barbara," I said, a feeling of bewildered helplessness stealing over me at the contradictions to which she was everlastingly giving utterance, "we are reasonable beings."

"Oh, yes, to a certain extent, but no farther. The question is to what extent. Take the son of a thief, now; how can he help being a thief? He was born one."

"You wouldn't punish him for stealing?"

"I don't think I would, for how can he help it? I would teach him—I would lead him gently."

I brightened up. "That is what we are trying to do."

"Yes; for it is so wrong to take what doesn't belong to us—and to take it on the sly, too! To go over boxes when one is ill and unconscious. Fie, John! I hoped we were not going to speak of that again."

"But it is you who brought it up."

"Oh, no, love, it was you. You shouldn't allow things to rankle in your mind; it is hardly manly. What was I saying about Maxwell? Oh, his inconsistency. I am glad I am not inconsistent, but I am not going to boast of it. Only you might take a lesson from me. The weak sometimes can help the strong. Remember the fable of the lion and the mouse."

I changed the subject.

"We will start for Geneva to-morrow morning. It is a delightful journey."

"Everything is delightful in your company, you dear boy. You are glad that we shall soon see Maxwell, are you not?"

"Yes, I am glad if it will give you pleasure."

"Thank you, dear. Could any newly-married couple be happier than we are? Give me a kiss and I will go and do my packing."

I recall these conversations with amazement. I was as a man who was groping in the dark, vainly striving to thread his way through the labyrinths in which he was environed. There was an element of masterly cunning in Barbara's character by the exercise of which I found myself continually placed in a wrong light; words I did not speak, motives I did not entertain, sentiments which were foreign to my nature, were so skillfully foisted upon me, that, communing afterwards with my thoughts, I asked myself whether I was not the author of them and had forgotten that they had proceeded from me. But Barbara's own conflicting utterances were a sufficient answer to these doubts. One day she informed me that Maxwell had a contempt for me, the next that he had a high opinion of me. Now she despised him, now she was longing for his society. One moment he was all that was bad, the next all that was good.

I did not allow these contradictions to weigh with me. My aim was to do my duty by my wife, and to save her from becoming a confirmed drunkard; to that end all the power that was within me was directed.

In order not to put temptation in Barbara's way I became a teetotaler, and from that day to this, except upon one occasion, have not touched liquor of any kind.

"No wine, John?" Barbara said, as we were eating dinner.

"No, Barbara; I am better without it."

"Turned teetotaler?" She looked at me with a quizzical smile.

"Yes."

"About the most foolish thing you could do. Wine is good for a man. Everything is good in moderation."

"I agree with you—in moderation."

"I said in moderation—the word is mine, not yours. You will alter your mind soon."

"Never," I said.

"It would be common politeness to ask if I would have some."

"Will you, Barbara?"

"No," she replied vehemently, "you know I hate it."

The next morning we were comfortably seated in the train for Geneva. Annette was knitting, I was looking through some English papers and magazines I had obtained at Brentano's, and Barbara was reading a French novel she had purchased at the railway stall. She appeared to be so deeply interested in it that I asked her what it was. She handed it to me. I started as I looked at the title. "L'Assoimmoir!" I handed it back to her, thinking it strange she should have selected the work, but drawing from it a happy augury, for there is no story in which the revolting effects of drink are portrayed with greater coarseness and power. It did not occur to me that I should have been sorry to see such a work in the hands of a pure-minded woman, and that the absence of the reflection was a wrong done to a woman who was but newly married—and that woman my own wife! My thought was: What effect will the story have upon Barbara? Will it show her in an impressive and personal way the awful depths of degradation to which drink can bring its victims, and will it be a warning to her?

"Have you read it?" she asked.

"Yes," I answered. "It is a terrible story; it teaches a terrible lesson."

"I have heard so," she said, "and I was quite anxious to read it myself. It opens brightly."

"Wait till you come to the end," I thought.

She went on with the reading, and was so engrossed in the development of the sordid, wretched tragedy that she paid but little attention to the scenery through which we were passing. I did not interrupt her. "Let it sink into her soul," I thought. "God grant that it may appall and terrify her!"

In the afternoon the book was finished. But she was loth to lay it aside. She read the last few pages, and referred to others which presumably had produced an impression upon her. Then she put the book down. I looked at her inquiringly.

"You are right," she said. "It does indeed teach a terrible lesson."

I did not pursue the subject. If the effect I hoped for had not been produced no words of mine would bring it about.

A fellow passenger engaged me in conversation, and we stood upon the landing stage awhile. When I returned to the carriage I detected that Barbara had been tippling; the signs were unmistakable. Later in the day she made reference to the story and expressed sympathy for the victims of the awful vice.

"Is that your only feeling respecting the story?" I asked.

"What other feeling can I have?" she replied, sorrowfully. "It was born in them. Poor Gervaise! Poor Coupeau! I don't know which I pity most."

"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."

"That's all right," said Barbara, gaily. "For goodness sake, don't let us have any quarreling on our house-warming day."

I felt as if I were in a hornets' nest.

A few minutes afterwards my stepmother and Louis were announced, and Barbara ran forward to welcome them.

"I am so glad you have come! There's no need of an introduction, is there? I am John's wife, Barbara. You must call me Barbara—yes, I insist upon it. This is my brother Maxwell. Maxwell, Mrs. Fordham—how funny there should be two of us! And this is your son, Mr. Louis Fordham, John's brother. I hate formality. You mustn't be shocked at my saying that I am a bit of a Bohemian. So is Maxwell, but he goes farther than I do, of course, as he is a man. I hope you are one, too, Mr. Louis?"

"I will become one," said Louis, gallantly, "under your instructions. How do you do, John? What a pretty house you've got!"

I shook hands with him and with my stepmother. Louis was cordial enough in his manner; my stepmother was frigid. Years had passed since I had seen her or Louis, but she had not forgotten, and never would forget. Only with her death would the old animosity die out. She was no older in appearance; Louis had grown into a well-built man, and she doted on him, as she had done since his birth. A good-looking man, too, but for the scar on his forehead. As I raised my eyes to it—with no evil meaning, I am sure—the blood rushed into it, and it became scarlet, while a dark look flashed into my stepmother's eyes.

"He will bear it with him to his grave," said my stepmother.

"What a pity!" said Barbara, who had observed this bye-play. "How did it happen?"

"John gave it him," said my stepmother, coldly.

"But they were boys then," said Barbara, defending me maliciously, "and boys are so cruel."

"The boy is father to the man," remarked my stepmother, with venomous emphasis.

"Now, John," said Barbara, "what have you to say to it?"

My impulse was to reply that the story was false, but I checked myself in time, and simply said:

"Nothing. Either my memory or yours"—to my stepmother—"is at fault."

"You have a shocking memory, John," said Barbara. "Not your fault, my dear—you were born with it. We all forgive you, don't we, Mrs. Fordham—and you, too, Louis? It would be dreadful if we nursed every little grievance, and saved disagreeable things for future use against one another. Let us talk of something pleasant."

"You have the temper of an angel, Barbara," ejaculated Maxwell.

"It runs in our family," returned Barbara, casting up her eyes, "and we won't boast of it. Whether we are married or single, we don't lie on beds of roses."

By the time the dinner came to an end the inuendoes, the sly thrusts, the holding up of my wife as a martyr to my disparagement had become unbearable. The ladies retired to the drawing-room, and I refused to stop and drink with Louis and Maxwell. Strolling from the house I lit a cigar, and upon my return the guests were preparing to take their departure.

"Such a pleasant evening," said my stepmother. "I hope you will turn over a new leaf, John, and be kind to your wife. You have a treasure in her. You must come and dine with us, soon."

I stood at the street door while she and the men entered a cab together. Barbara, standing by my side, waved her handkerchief to them. The moment the cab was out of sight she turned upon me like a fury.

"You beast!" she cried. "Is that the way you treat my friends?"

And she ran into the house.

Sadly enough I followed her, in doubt of the best course to pursue. She solved the doubt by saying:

"I am going to my room. You will find the spare room ready for you."

"This is a bad commencement, Barbara," I ventured to say.

"Thank yourself for it," she retorted, and disappeared.

I possessed a small library of books, which I had sent to the house, and I endeavored to while away the time by reading. But I could not fix my attention; I turned over page after page without any comprehension of the printed words. And so I passed the time in a dull, lethargic state until eleven o'clock struck. I left my book and set myself to the old task of reviewing the incidents of the day, with the same old result. If the fault were mine there must be some defect in my understanding of passing events in which I was concerned. My melancholy musings were interrupted by the sound of Barbara's voice in the room above. She was laughing and singing—a babble of unconnected lines, the laughter of a woman under the influence of drink. The door of her room was opened and shut, and I heard Annette descend the stairs. I intercepted her.

"What is the matter with your mistress?"

"Madame is unwell."

"What is your errand now?"

"Madame has left her medicine in the dining-room; I am fetching it for her."

I left her to fulfill her errand, but kept watch on the landing above. Again I intercepted her. In her hands, as I suspected, was the decanter of brandy.

"Is that the medicine you were sent for?"

"I could not find it, monsieur. I thought this would do her good; she is depressed, and needs something strengthening."

There was no sign of confusion on the woman's face; she was calm and composed.

"Go down again and search for the medicine you were sent for," I said, taking the decanter from her.

"But, monsieur, I have already sought for it, and cannot find it."

"To search again, then, would be useless?"

"Quite useless, monsieur."

"You can go to bed, Annette. I will attend to your mistress."

"It is impossible, monsieur. Madame requires me. Madame engaged me; I am her servant."

"You are my servant also."

"Oh, no, monsieur. It is madame who orders me."

"I am master here. Do as I bid you. Go to bed."

She did not move.

While this colloquy was proceeding there was silence in Barbara's room. Suddenly the door was dashed open, and my wife appeared, her dress disordered, her eyes inflamed, her face distorted by the hysterical passion of the habitual drunkard. As in a flash, I saw the inroads the bestial vice was making upon her beauty.

"Beast, beast, beast!" she shrieked, throwing herself upon me as I recoiled from the horrible sight. By engaging in a disgraceful struggle I might have retained the decanter of brandy, but I was not equal to it. She wrested it from me, and clutching Annette's arm, she dragged her into the room, the lock of which I heard turned a moment afterwards. Then came to my ears her mad laughter at the triumph she had achieved.

[CHAPTER XIII.]

If I have dwelt at greater length than I intended upon the incidents which made their fatal mark upon the early months of my married life, it is because I wish Barbara's character to be clearly understood, and because they supply a pregnant index to what followed. The first night I spent in our new home was a prelude to innumerable nights of the same nature. Safe from observation and free to indulge in her besotted habits, with a willing tool at her beck and call in the person of Annette, with a helpless protector chained to her by bonds which he could not break, she found herself absolute mistress of a drunkard's hellish heaven. She reveled in it, and gave her passions free play. Day after day, night after night, I had by my side a creature who had reached the lowest depths of bestial degradation, and whose one aim in life seemed to be to reach a lower still. She was a large-framed woman with a magnificent constitution, or she would soon have succumbed and become a driveling idiot. Throughout all, singular to say, she preserved her cunning, and the expedients by which she hedged herself in and kept her besetting vice from the knowledge of others except myself and Annette, were nothing short of marvelous in their ingenuity. The room she called her prayer room was her sanctuary, and it was there, attended by Annette, that she freely indulged. She acquired, indeed, a reputation for sanctity, and even our servants were deceived by her clever devices. Annette became housekeeper and the nominal mistress of the establishment, and from her they received their orders. They saw their real mistress only when she was sober, and then she spoke kindly and was liberal to them. When she secluded herself they were given to understand that she was ill or at her devotions. She was supposed to suffer from a mysterious disorder, and her driveling screams in the middle of the nights were attributed to pain. I subsequently learned that they were often attributed to my beating her and knocking her about.

I recall the day when she sat at the table with a livid bruise on her cheek, caused by her falling against the sharp corner of a piece of furniture. The parlor-maid assisted Annette to apply hot fomentations to the bruise, and when, later in the day, I noticed the frightened, horrified looks the girl cast at me, I knew that she had been told the lie that I had struck my wife. Against these calumnies I had no defense. In the kitchen I was regarded as a monster of cruelty, and the servants shrank aside as I passed them. Before the domestics Barbara invariably addressed me in frightened, humble tones. She kept her revilings for my private ear, the only witness of the scenes between us being Annette.

The character foisted upon me was not confined to the house. Our servants related shameful stories against me to their friends in the neighborhood, who, in their turn, poured these stories into their mistresses' ears. Wives and mothers looked darkly at me, and those with whom I had become acquainted did not return my bow. I was completely and effectually ostracised. Under these persecutions was it any wonder that I felt myself becoming hardened? My nature was changed. I grew habitually morose and savage, and by my manner defied my traducers. This made matters worse for me, and gave color to the stories of systematic cruelty laid to my charge. After awhile I slept in the spare room alone, and offered up prayers of thankfulness that we had no children. It was indeed a blessing for which I could not be sufficiently grateful.

One evening when we were at dinner, and Barbara was toying with her food and sighing in the presence of the maid who waited at table, I suggested that she should call in a doctor.

"It is not a doctor I require," she said, gazing at me with mournful significance. "Oh, John, if only you——" And then she checked herself, as if she would not say anything to my discredit before the servant.

"Finish the sentence," I said. "If I only what?"

"Do not force me to speak," she cried, in an imploring tone.

Bursting into tears she rose from the table and left the room.

What clearer evidence of my barbarity could be supplied? The maid would have been bereft of sense not to have understood the implication, and there is no doubt that she took the tale down to her fellow servants in the kitchen. Before them, at meals, she never drank, but it was a common practice with her when we and Annette were together at dinner, to help herself to copious draughts of brandy. I no longer remonstrated with her; she would have added to my distress by drinking deeper.

In all these tricks she was assisted by Maxwell and my stepmother. Louis, for the most part, was a passive spectator. Maxwell drank with her and laughed. My stepmother said:

"See what you are driving her to. You are breaking her heart. I always knew what would happen if you married."

"You are saying what is false, because you hate me," I replied.

"I am speaking the truth," she retorted, "and truly I have no cause to love you. It is my opinion you have some wicked scheme in view. But there will be a judgment upon you for all your cleverness. You robbed me; you robbed Louis of his patrimony. What good is the money doing you?"

It is well I had matters apart from my domestic affairs to occupy me, or my mind would have lost its balance entirely. In accordance with the plan Barbara had laid down for me, I took a small set of chambers in one of the streets leading from the Strand to the river—the locality she had herself proposed—consisting of three rooms, a sitting-room, bedroom, and bathroom; and there I pursued my literary labors. The chambers were at the top of the house, and the sitting-room looked out upon the river. How happy could I have been there, had it not been for the living weight which held me down! Gladly every morning did I leave my home, sadly every evening did I return to it.

At first I wrote a few short stories, which I sent to the magazines. They were refused. Every fresh rejection brought disappointment with it, but disheartened me only a short time. When my manuscripts came back to me I read them carefully, found faults in them, re-wrote them, and tried again, with the same result. Thus a year passed, and I had not advanced a step. Two or three times in the course of this year Barbara visited me.

"You are happy here," she said, and I did not gainsay her. "You like it better than your own home."

"It was your own proposition," I replied. "Will nothing satisfy you?"

"It was not my proposition," she said. "You chose this yourself, and you have assignations here with creatures you love better than me. Oh, I know why you spend the day in these rooms. Do you think I am blind to the life you are living."

She carried her venom to the length of tearing up manuscripts upon which I was engaged; I submitted to this awhile, but eventually I protected myself by locking up my papers when I heard her knock at the door. She was furious at my refusal to give her duplicate keys to the chambers.

"A clear proof," she cried.

On one of these occasions I proposed a separation, and offered to settle upon her half the money I possessed, so long as we remained apart.

"Will you give it me in a lump?" she asked.

"No," I answered, "there must be a guarantee that you will not violate the conditions of the deed, which would be drawn up and signed by both of us. You shall have the interest of the money. If I die before you it will all be yours without restriction."

"Thank you, my dear," she said. "I prefer things as they are. You will not get rid of me so easily. You would divorce me if it were in your power. Of course you won't answer that. But you will never get the chance, love. I am acquainted with the grounds upon which a divorce can be obtained. You shall have no reason to say that I am not a true and faithful wife to you."

And, indeed, upon the score of faithfulness—in its legal sense—I entertained no doubts. She had but one love—brandy.

While I was endeavoring to obtain a footing in the literary field by means of short stories, I was preparing a series of articles upon the curse of the land—drink—drawing upon actual facts and real life for my pen and ink pictures. By good fortune I obtained an introduction to the editor of a paper, the columns of which were open to social subjects, and I submitted a few of these articles to him. He approved of them, and suggesting certain alterations, which I agreed to make, consented to use them. His paper was one which did not admit of signed contributions, and had it been otherwise I should not have put my name to them, my domestic troubles on the same theme being a bar to such a course. The editor did not inquire into the source from which I obtained the facts for my descriptions of the effects of the awful vice; he was content with my method of treatment and with my literary style.

"Just one word of advice," he said, "don't shrink from speaking broadly and plainly. It is a burning question, and you can't put it too strongly. I am not so well up in the subject as yourself, but I should say, even if a man drew entirely upon his imagination, he could not paint more striking pictures than reality can supply. The successful artist paints from life and nature."

"What I describe," I replied, "is what I have seen. Nothing more horrible can be met in the Vision of Hell. This city of shame and sin is full of little hells, and if there is any truth in pulpit sermons and religious ministrations, in every little hell souls are daily being damned."

He threw a searching glance upon me. "I like that. Don't forget the metaphor; use it in one of the early articles. Some writers keep their big plums till the last; it is a mistake. Fairy tales can be written on a Swiss mountain or an Italian lake, but to do justice to such a subject as yours you must dig into Babylon's crust; you need the pest-houses of civilization, the hog-like natures of men and women familiar with crime and poverty."

"The evil is not confined to hovels," I remarked, "nor to the criminal classes. Mansions of the well-to-do supply fruitful material."

"Well, do your best," he said. "We shall create a sensation."

We did. My articles were quoted far and near. Writing under a burning sense of wrong I was not sparing of epithet and denunciation. I worked at fever heat, and was often appalled at what I wrote, but it went into print with scarcely the alteration of a word. Had I written under my own name I might have become a celebrity.

In one of my articles I touched upon the marriage tie in relation to the evil. I described a home—a type of many—in which the wife was a confirmed dipsomaniac; another, in which the husband was drunk every day of his life. They were cases which came under my own eye in the localities where I pursued my investigations. From the lips of the sufferers themselves I received the terrible details of the gradual sinking into the slough of despair. Here was the wretched husband, once a bright mechanic earning a fair wage, whose wife's filthy habits had brought ruin upon him—hopeless, irremediable ruin. Vainly had he striven to reform her, vainly had he pointed out to her the sure consequences of her dissipation. Coming home at night from his work he found his rooms in darkness, his hungry children lying almost naked on the bare boards, and his wife drunk in the nearest gin palace. It had become a common occurrence. She pawned the beds, the furniture, the children's clothes and his own, again and yet again, and when he dragged her from the public-house she lay through the night, gibbering at the awful sights her diseased imagination conjured up. He replaced the furniture, he bought new beds and clothing, he gave his children food, and when his wife was able to crawl out again, off she crept to the pawnbroker to repeat her evil work. The children had grown stunted and deformed, their rags hung loosely on their shrunken limbs, like starving dogs they nosed the gutters for offal. "My God, my God!" he cried, the tears streaming down his face. "What shall I do? How shall I save my children? How shall I save myself?" His voice sank to a whisper. "One night I shall kill her, and there will be murder on my soul!"

In the other case it was the husband who drank, who would not work, who starved his wife and children, and beat them till their flesh was covered with livid bruises. It was the wife who told me the story. "If it were not for my children," she moaned, "I would make a hole in the water." It was not my habit to make more than a passing comment upon my descriptions of real and suffering life as it is to be seen to-day in the fester-spots of London. I had wished to do so, but was requested by my editor to put some restriction upon myself in this respect. "Leave that," he said, "to the editorial pen." At the end of the article in which I narrated these two cases, I wrote: "And these poor creatures are, by the Church and the so-called laws of God, chained to a living curse which blights, destroys, and damns the innocent." The words were allowed to stand.

On the following day a powerful leading article was written by the editor, in which a change in the law of divorce was imperatively demanded.

"Confirmed drunkenness," he said, "is a crime against the true laws of God and man; it is far worse than adultery, and more than a sufficient cause for separation. It is not alone that humanity demands it, but could God make Himself heard in this sinful world there would be a Divine mandate to enforce it." Other papers took up the subject. One popular journal (the season being over, and the House not sitting) made it a theme for the usual yearly correspondence, and columns of letters were printed every day—from despairing husbands and wives approving, from the clergy protesting, from politicians shilly-shallying. Meanwhile my articles had come to an end.

There was no change in my home, except for the worse, and I grew to hate it, to hate all who visited it, to hate myself. I had as little authority in it as any chance guest. I breakfasted, dined, and slept there—and, for variation, there were the scenes I had with Barbara. The lies that were circulated as to my brutality towards her bore fruit, and I was shunned by every soul in the neighborhood. Not a person I met there had a smile or a cordial word for me, and not for one sober hour did Barbara relax her cunning. In her mad fits she was visible only to me and Annette; when she went about the house or was seen in the streets her sad, listless ways (she was always sad when sober) were apparent to all, and her conspicuous ill-health was attributed to my conduct. It was the popular belief that I was "killing her by inches." I heard the words uttered by one of our servants to a servant in the adjoining house, and the indignant comment upon them—"Brute!"

Maxwell tried to borrow money from me, but I was sufficiently incensed to refuse him. "Not another shilling while I live," I said, and he replied that I would live to repent it. Scoundrel as he was, he spoke the truth.

The cases of the two poor homes ruined by a drunken husband and a drunken wife, which I have just narrated, drove my thoughts upon my own—and indeed it may have been because of the position in which I stood that I sifted them to the bottom. They had a peculiar fascination for me.

But even if the law of divorce were so altered as to rescue those who are driven to despair, sometimes to crime, by this frightful vice—which I pray may soon be so—a man situated as I was would find no relief in it. The shame would have to be proved, and the web which had been spun around me was of so cunning a nature that proof was impossible in my case. On the contrary, indeed; all the evidence, except my bare statements, would be turned against myself.

As an instance of the base arts employed to still further entangle and incriminate me I recount the following circumstances. Whose devilish ingenuity first conceived the idea I never discovered.

The spare room in which I slept was at the back of the house, and its window faced the window of another house, used also, I believe, as a bedroom. I stood in front of this window, shaving, one morning; the blind was up and the day was bright. While the razor was at my cheek Barbara rushed into the room, crying at the top of her voice:

"John—John—John! For mercy's sake, don't!" And as she spoke she threw herself upon me.

Fearful lest the razor should cut her I threw it away, but not before I had gashed my cheek, causing blood to flow. Then, observing that she was in her nightdress and that the bosom was open, I quickly drew down the blind.

"What is the meaning of this?" I inquired, bitterly. "Do you fear that I intend to kill myself?"

Her only answer was a series of hysterical shrieks which could be heard a long distance off. For a few moments I thought she had gone mad, and I stooped to raise her from the floor, upon which she had fallen.

"For mercy's sake, for mercy's sake!" she screamed, and in the midst of the confusion Annette entered the room and led her mistress away. I followed her into the passage, the blood running down my face, and there upon the stairs were the servants, who had naturally been alarmed by Barbara's screams, and had run up to see what was the matter.

"Go down," said Annette, speaking to them in a tone of command. "Madame is ill—very, very ill. I will attend to her."

I did not see my wife again that day; the door of her room was locked against me. To all my inquiries after her Annette replied:

"She is more composed; she will recover in a few days, perhaps."

"I wish to see her, Annette."

"Madame will not be seen by any one but me. She ordered me to say so to you."

I had, perforce, to give up the attempt.

I thought of the scene during the day; it was of a different nature from those to which I was accustomed, but there was something strange in it which I could not unfathom. Finally I came to the conclusion that Barbara's malady was developing itself in a new direction, and the last thought in my mind was that anything more than generally prejudicial to my character would come of it.

[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.

At the end of the succeeding week I broke the vow I had made never to touch spirituous liquor. To my shame be it recorded.

I had eaten scarcely anything the previous two days, and was suffering from terrible depression. It was while I was in this state, pacing the dining-room, up and down, up and down, with nerves so sensitively attuned that any sudden noise made me start, that my eyes fell upon a bottle of brandy which had just been uncorked, and inadvertently left upon the sideboard. It fascinated me. I turned from it, was drawn to it again, and for several minutes gazed fixedly at it. Here was rest, here was forgetfulness, here was at least a transient relief. An enticing devil lurked in that bottle, inviting me, tempting me, luring me on. I laid my hand upon it.

My conscience smote me, but my moral strength was sapped. Character, reputation, happiness, all were lost. Let the last remnants of self-respect go with them. In all the wide world there was not one man or woman who cared what became of me, not one human being who entertained for me a spark of affection. Whether I died the death of a dog or a martyr would not affect the judgment which had been passed upon me. My epitaph was already written, and nothing could alter it. The fiend Insomnia held me in his grip. During the past week I had not had two consecutive hours' sleep. To save myself from going mad I must have a few hours' oblivion from the misery which encompassed me.

I poured the liquor into a tumbler, and drank it neat. It burnt my throat, but almost immediately I was conscious of a riotous revulsion of spirits. Again and again I drank, forcing the liquor down my throat till the bottle was empty, when I must have fallen to the ground in a drunken stupor. I recall that it was broad daylight when I yielded to the temptation, and put the final touch to my sorrows by this act of self-degradation.

[CHAPTER XVI.]

When I awoke all was dark. My throat was parched, there was a horrible racking pain in my head, a nauseating faintness at my heart. But worse than this was the torment of remorse which weighed me down. I had placed myself on a level with my curse, had proved myself worthy of it. There was no excuse for the shameful excess in which I had indulged. A hypocrite, self-convicted, I had become a willing slave to the vice I had condemned, and I could now take rank with the abandoned creatures from whom I had shrank in horror.

With difficulty I rose from the floor, upsetting furniture in the effort, and felt my way to my bedroom, where I plunged my head into a basin of cold water, keeping it there for some time, and sucking in the water like a dog. As I stood dripping, in the darkness, I heard a kind of sing-song proceeding from Barbara's room. Stealing into the passage, I listened to the drivel. "Beast John is drunk—dead, dead drunk! He preaches, preaches, preaches—Oh, the good man! Maxwell knows, his mother knows, Louis knows. Ha, ha, ha! How funny! Beast John is drunk—dead, dead drunk! Now let him preach—now let him write to the papers." There was no method in her singing, no rythmical arrangement of the insane song. The words dropped from her lips in disjointed fashion, and there was a taunting exultation in her utterance of them.

A frightful temptation assailed me—to kill her and myself, and be done with the world. "What matter?" I muttered. "There is no God! If there were He would not permit such women to live." Even at this distance of time—yes, even though I know that my days are numbered—I am thankful that some mysterious force within me leaped up to fight the demon that would have damned my soul. I was conscious of the inward conflict, the conflict of the two spirits, the good and the evil, which are said to be forever warring for supremacy in a man's heart. I hope I may say now (though I did not believe so then) that my suffering had not crushed all the good out of me, and that there was still some vitality in the better impulses of my being. I did not openly recant the impious words I had muttered; my mood was too sullen for that. I was ready for sin, but not for crime. My life was mine, and I could do with it as I pleased, but it was not within my right to dispose of the life of another mortal. Brooding upon this I fled from the house as from a pestilence.

Intent upon self-destruction, I bent my steps riverwards. It was a wretched night. Rain was falling heavily, and there was no light in the sky. The spirit of black death brooded over the city. It was as if nature favored my sinful purpose—or so I chose to interpret the signs.

There were but few persons about; I took no notice of them, nor they of me. Small incidents became unduly magnified. I had walked some three or four miles, and was in the immediate vicinity of Westminster Abbey when the cathedral clock began to strike. I paused and listened with extreme attention, standing quite motionless and counting the strokes till the hour was fully announced. It appeared to me a singular and unusual thing that it should be three o'clock; singular, also, that the rain should have ceased, and that a fog was creeping over the streets.

It was only when I was again in motion that the significance of time, in relation to the purpose I had in view, impressed me. "Three o'clock," I thought. "At four I shall be dead." Crossing the road at the top of Parliament Street a man, passing hastily, stumbled against me. In a spirit of fury I grappled and threw him to the ground—and stood over him, ready to stamp on him if he showed resistance. All my senses were alert for evil. The man did not stir, and I passed on. But I had not proceeded far before I stopped to consider whether I had killed him. I groped my way back to the spot upon which I had left him. The man was gone. I was neither glad nor sorry.

A woman—one of the misery's children—accosted me; appealed to me, for the love of God, to give her a penny for a cup of coffee. The coffee stall, which I had not seen, was within a dozen yards of us; its lights shone dim through the fog, and shadowy, ghost-like forms hung about it. I gave the woman a shilling, and continued on my way. I was now on Westminster Bridge. The fog was thickening. I could scarcely see the water. The dull reflection of the lamps on the Embankment added to the general despondency of the scene. I was enwrapped in gloom and silence. I walked to the end of the bridge, and stood on the steps leading down to the river.

Upon what a slight foundation rests a man's fate! A chance turning this way or that, a moment's hesitation, may make or mar, may lead to destruction or salvation. I heard the muffled tread of a policeman, and fearing that I had been seen, and my purpose discovered, I did not descend the steps, but crossing the road, walked slowly towards Kennington, intending presently to return and carry out my sinful design. The probability is that I had not been seen, and should not have been interrupted, for the policeman did not follow me, and the echo of his footsteps gradually died away. When I was assured of this I should have turned again towards the river had not a simple incident changed the whole current of my life. The sound of a woman's suppressed sobs fell upon my ear.

[CHAPTER XVII.]

She was standing at the door of a chemist's shop, endeavoring to arouse the proprietor by repeated pulling of the night bell, pausing between each summons, and vainly endeavoring to choke back her tears. I could not see her face, but so keen and poignant was her grief that I should have been less than human had I passed by without a word. The note of suffering in her voice touched a sympathetic chord in my heart, and awoke the dormant sense of good within me.

"What are you crying for?" I inquired, stepping to her side.

My question seemed to terrify her, and she made a movement as if about to fly. But the duty upon which she was bent gave her courage.

"Don't speak to me!" she implored. "For heaven's sake, leave me!"

I knew what she intended to convey by this appeal. She mistook me for one of the human ghouls who prowl the streets in the belief that every woman is frail.

"I will not harm you," I said, and I repeated my question. "What are you crying for?"

My sad voice reassured her—so she subsequently informed me—and after a pause she answered timidly. "I have been trying for a quarter of an hour to make the chemist hear, but he will not come down. It is life or death, and he will not come down!"

"Your life or death?" I asked.

"No," she replied, "not mine; my mother's—my dear mother's!"

"Let me see what I can do," I said, and I pulled the bell, and listened, with my ear close to the door.

There was no response, and I pulled again, and failed to hear the ring. I discovered then that the night bell was broken. There was another bell on the other side of the door, and this I pulled vigorously, and beat on the door with my fist.

"What is the matter with your mother?"

"She is very ill—she has been ill for months. Are you a doctor, sir?"

"No. What does the doctor who is attending her say?"

"We have none, sir."

"But why? Surely in a matter of life or death one is necessary." I continued to ring and beat on the door.

"I know, I know," she murmured. "Oh, will he never come?"

I gathered from this mournful reply that they were poor and could not afford a doctor, which was presently confirmed. My vigorous summons was successful in arousing the chemist, who, with a sleepy and unwilling air, opened the door and admitted us. Now, by the light in the shop, I saw that the woman was young, hardly yet out of her teens, and though grief was stamped too plainly upon her countenance, that she was fair and prepossessing. So modest and gentle was she that I was filled with pity for her. Her eyes were dim with tears, her hair had become loosened and hung in lovely disorder upon her white neck, her features bore traces of exhausting vigil. With a trembling hand she held out a prescription, saying in a wistful tone:

"I am sorry to disturb you, but my mother is much worse to-night. I will pay you to-morrow—I have some work to take back."

He grumbled a little and hesitated, and I, stepping back so that the young woman could not see my action, nodded to him and held up my purse. Understanding from this that I intended to pay him he made up the medicine and gave her the bottle, with which, after expressing her gratitude, she was about to depart, when I said to her:

"Will you wait for me a moment at the door? You may trust me."

The sincerity I felt must have made itself manifest in my voice, for she bent her head slightly, and waited for me outside.

"What is the matter with her mother?" I asked.

"I cannot say," replied the chemist. "She has been ill a long time and ought to have a doctor. This is an old prescription; I have made it up several times."

"Am I right in supposing that they cannot afford 'a doctor?"

"That is evident. They are very poor. They owe me for three bottles already."

"She appears to be respectable," I said, as I paid him what was due.

"No doubt of it. She works day and night, and I should say it is as much as she can do to keep body and soul together."

At my request he wrote the address of a doctor in the neighborhood, and instructed me how to find him. Then I joined the young woman.

"You must accept my escort," I said. "It is hardly safe for you to be out on such a night. I am sincerely sorry for your trouble. I may be able to lighten it."

She trembled so violently that I feared she would fall, but she did not accept my arm. We walked side by side, in silence, till we reached one of the poorest houses in one of the poorest streets. There she stopped, and wished me good night, and thanked me for my services.

"I am going to fetch a doctor to your mother," I said. "How shall we obtain admittance?"

"I am afraid I must refuse, sir," she said. "We are not in a position to pay him."

"Leave that to me," I replied. "When one dear to you is in peril you cannot refuse to accept assistance even from a stranger. I can sympathize with honest pride, but surely this would be carrying it too far. Your mother needs a doctor. She shall see one." I looked up at the windows, and in one at the top of the house I could faintly distinguish a glimmer of light. "Is that your room?"

"Yes, sir."

"Shall I knock or ring when I come back with the doctor?"

"If you will give a gentle knock, so as not to disturb the other lodgers, I will come down." Then, after a momentary pause, "I did not believe there was such goodness in the world."

"You overrate my services. If you knew what you have saved me from——" I did not finish, but asked her to give me the name of the street and the number of the house, which she did. "And your name?"

"Cameron, sir."

"Thank you. The trust you repose in me shall not be abused."

I waited till she had let herself in with a latch-key, and then I departed on my errand.

By this time the fog was so thick that I doubt whether I should have found the street to which I had been directed had it not been for the assistance of a policeman, who accompanied me to the doctor's house. The doctor himself answered my summons, an elderly gentleman, with a careworn, benignant face, who, when he learned what was required of him, said he would come with me at once. We conversed on the way, and he informed me that he had some knowledge of the Camerons, who had called him two or three months ago to prescribe for the mother. They were respectable people, he told me, who had, like numbers of others in the locality, a hard fight to keep the wolf from the door. They belonged to the class who slaved and suffered patiently and silently; everybody spoke well of them, and the daughter was specially modest and gentle in her manners. Except that they appeared to be superior in point of conduct and education, to their neighbors, he knew nothing more of them. He was surprised, the mother being so ill, that the daughter had not come to him; but yet, on second thoughts, he was not surprised, their peculiar delicacy in money matters stopping the way. It was often so with the poor, who were hyper-sensitive in their pride.

I then explained what it was I wished him to do—to attend to the sick woman regularly, and to prescribe what was necessary in the shape of food and medicine. He was to relieve their minds in respect of his fees, which, with all other expenses, I would pay. In token of my sincerity and ability to carry out my desire I begged him to accept a couple of sovereigns in advance, to which he very willingly consented.

"My patients are not quite regular in their payments," he said in a gentle tone, "and it is not in my nature to press them. So far as gratitude goes, I am richly repaid. You are, perhaps, a relative of the Camerons."

"I am not in any way related to them," I replied.

"A friend of long standing, then."

"I have never seen the mother, and scarcely an hour ago I saw Miss Cameron for the first time—by chance," I added.

"A singular hour," he observed, "and a strange night for a chance meeting."

"Yes—but so it happened." And I related how it came about, saying nothing of myself or of the circumstances which caused me to be perambulating the streets at such a time.

He was silent for a little while, and I fancied I heard him sigh. Then he said, "You are a gentleman."

"I hope I may lay claim to the title."

"In station, by which I mean worldly circumstances, far above the Camerons—at least, so I judge."

"Well?"

"They are poor and lowly. Miss Cameron is young, and not unattractive."

"I understand you. My motives are open to suspicion."

"Is it not natural?"

"Quite, and I do not blame you for doubting me, but you must not do Miss Cameron an injustice. She is absolutely blameless. I have related the simple truth, and were you acquainted with my story—which I do not consider myself free to disclose—your doubts would vanish. Can you not credit me with a sincere desire to serve two poor and deserving persons without harboring a base thought towards them?"

As my sad voice had won Miss Cameron's confidence, so it now won the confidence of the good doctor.

"It is a censorious world," he said, "and I spoke out of its mouth. Forgive me."

Miss Cameron must have been keeping watch for us, for my soft tap on the street door was almost immediately answered. Standing in the passage, her hand shading the candle from the night air, she seemed to hesitate whether to invite me in, and I, divining—which was the case—that she and her mother occupied but one room, resolved the difficulty by saying, "I will see you bye and bye, doctor," and pulling the street door to.

Left alone in the dark street, I fell to musing upon the events of the last twenty-four hours. I could scarcely see a dozen yards before me, and even at that distance a moving form would have presented the semblance of a shadow created by the spreading fog; not a sound but that of my own footsteps disturbed the stillness of the dreary scene. And yet, dismal as were my surroundings, I was conscious that my spirits had assumed a more healthy tone. I was devoutly grateful for the change that had come over me, and I did not stop to consider whether it was due to chance or to a merciful interposition of Providence at the most critical period in my life. A heavy weight was lifted from my heart. I had been saved by a woman's face, a woman's voice; she had set free the sealed springs of sympathy and pity—I once was more human.

Do not misunderstand me. The brief interview with Miss Cameron, the few words we had exchanged, had not inspired me with love for her—that was in the future, and to be reared upon a more reasonable foundation; but it had revealed to me that there was still some worthy work for me to do, that having sinned through self-indulgence in a vice I abhorred, and having contemplated a deed the thought of which now sent a shudder through me, I might work out my redemption by simple acts of kindness to beings even more forlorn than myself.

No, it was not love I felt, but deep gratitude that an example of self-sacrifice and devotion should have crushed forever out of me the impious doubt of the existence of a beneficent Creator. It was to this I owed my salvation, and as I paced the foggy street I thought of the daughter toiling for her sick mother. I saw her patient face of suffering, heard her wistful voice saying: "I will pay you to-morrow; I have some work to take back." Ah, what a story is here revealed! I dwelt upon the modesty which caused her to shrink from the compassionate advances of a stranger, and with tears in my eyes dwelt also upon the child-like confidence she had reposed in me. She became to me an incarnation of purity. There were good women in the world—thank God for that. Through her spirit my faith in human goodness was restored, and I saw my life in a clearer light, unstained and unclouded by vice and degradation. Peace, if not happiness, might yet be mine.

To one course I pledged myself, and vowed that nothing should turn me from it. I would never live with my wife again; her revolting duplicities, her shameful debasement, should no longer torture me. I would be done with her, so far as personal association went, and with those other relatives who had systematically persecuted me and maligned me. The infamous law—wickedly and falsely called the law of God—which bound me to a living curse, to a moral pest, could not compel me to inhabit the house in which she indulged in her depravities. Of so much of my fortune as was left she should have a share, and should receive it through an agent. One visit only would I pay to what was in mockery called my home, and that for the purpose of removing my private papers. Then would I shake the dust of that earthly hell from my feet, and turn my back upon it forever.

To this end I must efface myself, and must be known henceforth by another name than Fordham. That was easy, and I was stung by no reproach as to justification. If ever a man was justified in practising such a deceit it was I.

My musings were interrupted by the unclosing of the street door. The doctor was there, and Miss Cameron; he was bidding her take some repose.

"We must not have you break down," he said. "Ah, here is our friend. The fog has not swallowed him up."

"How can I thank you?" she said to me, holding out her hand. It trembled as it lay for a moment in mine, and her eyes shone with tears.

"By following the doctor's advice," I replied, "and by allowing me to call when I have had some rest myself. Your mother is no worse, I hope?"

The doctor—one of those sensible practitioners who help their patients to get well by bright words—answered for her.

"No, not worse, not at all, not at all. With heaven's help we'll set her up again. There, there, my dear, don't cry; and what are you about, stopping here in the cold? Go and lie down. I will send the medicine at nine o'clock."

As we walked away together he said: "It would be cruel to tell her the truth."

"Then there is no hope?" I said.

It seemed to me as if in those few words he had pronounced a sentence of death, and as if I were about to sustain a personal loss.

"Oh, yes, there is hope," he replied; "but for poor people the gates are closed."

I begged him to explain, and he did so. Mrs. Cameron was suffering not only from debility, brought on by want of nourishing food, but from a chest and throat complaint which would certainly result fatally if she remained in London. The pestilential air, the poisonous fog—they spelt death. She could not possibly live through the coming winter. She needed a purer air, wine, and better food, and these were out of her reach. By slaving day and night at her needle the mother and daughter earned eight or nine shillings a week. They had no rich friends. What could they do?

"It is a question of money?" I said.

"Yes, it is a question of money, though even then I do not say she will recover. The privations she has endured have made terrible inroads upon her constitution."

"But there would be a chance of recovery."

"Undoubtedly a chance of recovery. In fact, the only chance. It is painful to witness such cases, to stand by a bedside and see a life passing away which money would probably save; but there is no help for it. The poor girl will suffer terribly. I have seldom witnessed such love, such devotion. It is surprising how she keeps up."

"There is help for it, doctor," I said, "and I should like to see you to-morrow to speak about it."

"I am home for consultations till twelve. May I ask your name?"

"Fletcher," I replied.

Thus was the first stone in my self-banishment laid.

[CHAPTER XVIII.]

I passed the next few hours in a common lodging-house, and laid down on a bed without undressing. I dozed, but did not sleep, my mind being occupied in formulating a plan with regard to the Camerons. I rose at nine o'clock, washed, and had breakfast, and then went in search of apartments in a respectable house. I had little difficulty in finding what I required—three furnished rooms in a street inhabited by a decent class of people. The landlady murmured something about a reference, but I satisfied her with a month's payment in advance. The rent was moderate, and I arranged for breakfast, and the occasional cooking of a dinner if I desired. I gave, of course, the same name, Fletcher, retaining my Christian name. So I began my new life as John Fletcher.

At twelve o'clock I presented myself to the worthy doctor, and unfolded my plan. It was nothing less than the removal of Mrs. and Miss Cameron to Swanage, the climate of which place the doctor said would suit the invalid. I proposed that I should go down to Swanage to arrange where they were to stay, and that they should get out of London before the end of the week.

"All this will cost a great deal of money," said the doctor.

"Not so very much. They can live—perhaps in a farmhouse—for two or three pounds a week. I can afford it."

"Do you know what it means to them? They will look upon it as a fairy tale, and will be afraid of waking up and finding it a dream."

"As you see, it is no dream, and it is nonsense to talk of fairy tales. It is plain common sense. They will need warm clothing. Give them this—it will come better from you. I daresay there will be sufficient left to pay their fares down."

"Do you intend to accompany them."

"No, I shall remain in London; but there must necessarily be some correspondence between us."

"And still—pray don't be angry—I am puzzled and curious as to your motive."

"Let me put it to you in this way, doctor. You see now and then in the papers an acknowledgment from the Chancellor of the Exchequer of a parcel of bank notes from X. Y. Z., for unpaid income tax. It is called conscience money. The difference is that I have wronged neither man nor woman, yet what I am doing is an affair of the conscience. Will not this content you."

"It must." Then after a pause, "You have seen trouble?"

"Few men have had harder trials, bitterer disappointments."

"I regret to hear it. And now, who is to acquaint the Camerons with your scheme?"

"You."

"I decline. I will give them the money you have entrusted with me, and I will make Miss Cameron understand that it is imperatively necessary that her mother be removed without delay. The rest is in your hands."

"Very well—though I should prefer it otherwise."

"I am going now to see my patient, and I will prepare them for this change in their fortunes. You will probably see Miss Cameron in the course of the afternoon."

"Kindly tell her I will call at two o'clock. I shall leave for Swanage by the five o'clock train."

I make but brief reference to my interview with Miss Cameron. She was profoundly grateful for the services I was rendering them, but seemed, indeed, as the doctor had said, to fear that it was a dream from which she would presently awake, though the small sum of money I had sent her by the doctor's hands should have convinced her. I did not see her mother, our interview taking place in a lower room in the house, which the landlady placed at her disposal. It was difficult for her to understand why a stranger should step forward to befriend her, and my lame attempts at an explanation did not assist her to a better understanding of the matter.

Seeing her now in the daylight the impression I had formed of her was confirmed. Her features, without being handsome, were full of sensibility, and there was a pleasing refinement in her language and manners. What most attracted me in her were her eyes. Truth and resignation, and the strength which springs from a reliance upon the goodness of God, dwelt in their clear depths, and now, illumined by hope, they instilled in me a faith in her which from that hour has not been shaken. The faith she had in me touched me deeply. In contrast with the women it had been my ill-fortune to mix with she was an angel from heaven.

"You will hear from me in a day or two," I said. "Will your mother be strong enough to travel then?"

"The doctor says she will," she answered.

"Have you money enough to provide what is necessary for your journey?"

"More than enough," she said, bursting into tears.

I had to tear myself away.

The journey down to Swanage was one of the happiest I had ever taken; I had an object in life, and there was seldom absent from my thoughts the light of hope that shone in Miss Cameron's eyes. Suitable accommodation for her and her mother was easily obtained in a farmhouse near to the sea. The terms were exceedingly moderate, and in a letter to Miss Cameron, I bade her get ready, and requested her to meet me at the doctor's house on the following day. Then, for the first time, I signed myself, "John Fletcher."

At the appointed hour I met Miss Cameron, and giving her written particulars of the place I had taken for her, and instructions as to trains, I bade her good-bye and God-speed. I had debated whether I should accompany them to the railway station, and had decided not to do so. They were accustomed to look after themselves, and my presence would embarrass them, and add to their sense of obligation.

"Write to me as soon as you are settled," I said, "and let me know whether you are comfortable. If you are not, we will soon find another place for you. And mind, you are going down for your mother's health, and you are not to worry. Leave everything to me."

I pressed an envelope into her hand, and to cut short her thanks, hastily took my departure.

I had now plenty to occupy me. My first visit was to a solicitor, to entrust him with the execution of the plan I had laid down with respect to my wife—before doing which I had devoted some time to a careful survey of my pecuniary position. There had been much waste and extravagance on Barbara's part, and my little fortune had dwindled. I decided to allow her £300 a year, quite sufficient for her to live upon in comfort. That I should have to encroach upon my capital for the payment of this sum and for my own expenses did not cause me anxiety. I did not go beyond the next few years in my calculations; meanwhile I might be able to earn money. Whatever was my income, Barbara should have an equal share of it; she could not reasonably ask for more, having only herself to support. If a court of law were called upon to decide the matter she would probably have less. Upon £300 a year the house in Kensington could not be kept up, and I determined that it should be sold. All household debts contracted to date were to be discharged, and so much of the furniture as Barbara would not need in her new quarters was to be disposed of by auction. The solicitor undertook the management of this troublesome business, and I bound him down to absolute secrecy. Upon no consideration whatever was the slightest clue to my movements, and to the name I had assumed to be given to inquirers. I left him to prepare the necessary documents, and proceeded to my house, armed with written discharges of the servants in my employ. A cab I had engaged stood at the door, and a porter accompanied me into the house.

All the evil crew were there—Maxwell, my stepmother, Louis and Barbara. Her bloated face filled me with loathing. She gave me a sullen look.

"The prodigal son has returned," said Maxwell. "Where's the veal?"

I rang the bell, and the parlor-maid entered the room.

"Send all the servants up," I said to the girl, "and tell that woman, Annette, I wish to see her."

"What do you want the servants for?" demanded Barbara.

"You will see."

I heard them in the passage, and I opened the door for them, Annette coming in last.

"You sent for me madame?" she said in her smooth voice, gliding with catlike motion to Barbara's chair.

"I sent for you," I said.

"At your service, monsieur."

"It is like a scene in a drama," said Maxwell, with an attempt at jocularity. "Get to the action, John."

I handed the women their written notices of discharge, and gave them to understand that after the expiration of their month I would be no longer responsible for their wages.

"Take no notice of him," said Barbara, flushing up. "He is out of his senses."

With a nod she dismissed them, and they trooped out.

I turned to Annette and held out the discharge. She refused to take it, and it fluttered to the ground.

"I am in madame's service, monsieur."