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."