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.