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.