Twelve happy months passed by. We were still in Swanage, but had
removed farther inland. It was by Ellen's desire that we remained; she
wished to be near her mother's grave.
We lived in a small cottage, the walls of which were covered with
roses and flowering vines. The few acres of land which belonged to us
were rich in fruit-trees and bushes, which, with our flower and
kitchen gardens, kept us busy pretty well all the day. What
acquaintances we had--they were not many--were drawn from the ranks of
the poor, by whom Ellen was loved as few women are. A quiet, happy
life--if but the past could have been blotted out! I had not concealed
my story from Ellen's knowledge, but before it was told I knew that I
had won her love, and she knew that to live without her would be worse
than death to me. For me she sacrificed herself, and I, in the
selfishness of my heart, accepted the sacrifice only too gladly and
willingly. Questioning my conscience I did not reproach myself, though
sometimes I trembled for Ellen; and she, I am sure, never for one
moment reproached me, and did not tremble for herself. If a cloud was
on my brow she chased it away with tender words. Man's law prevented
me from giving her my name; God's law joined us and made us one. The
beauty of her character awoke all that was good within me; she was to
me like the sun and dew to the opening flower.
I was guilty of one act of duplicity, and I bitterly repented it. I
did not disclose to her my true name, but retained that by which I had
introduced myself to her. She knew me only as John Fletcher.
Twelve happy months, and I had almost taught myself to forget. One
morning Ellen whispered to me a secret which filled me with joy and
fear. Into her heart fear did not enter; it was pulsing with the joy
of motherhood; in a few months we should have a child.
I walked alone to the seashore deep in thought.
My sense of security was disturbed; I had now again to reckon with the
world. A father owes a duty to his child which the world will not
allow him to forget. And the mother!--yes, it was of Ellen I chiefly
thought, and it was to her, presently, that my thoughts were chiefly
directed. For, looking up, I saw within a dozen yards of me a man
whose mocking eyes were following my movements. Though there was a
change in his appearance I knew him immediately, and I caught my
breath in sudden alarm. The man was Maxwell.
The change I had observed was in his circumstances. His shabby clothes
and hat, his boots down at heel, his unshaven face, denoted that he
had not prospered lately. But there was a light in his face as our
eyes met resembling that of one upon whom had unexpectedly fallen a
stroke of good fortune.
"How are you, John?" he said, advancing with outstretched hand. "But
why ask? You look like a cherub--rosy, fat and sleek. I rejoice--and
you, too, eh? What is there so delightful as the renewal of old
affectionate ties, broken through a misconception? Do you see my hand
held out in friendship? Better take it, John. No? You are wrong,
brother-in-law, very wrong. You were always rash, always acting upon
impulse, always fond of romance, always being led away by false
notions of right and wrong. I frequently offered you advice which you
would not take. In effect I was constantly saying to you, 'Be worldly,
my boy; take the world as you find it, and make the best of it, not
the worst.' That is my way, though it has treated me scurvily since we
met. What do I do? Repine? Not a bit of it. 'Luck will turn,' said I
to myself, and here's the proof. Luck has turned."
During this speech, which was very heartily spoken, he walked close to
my side with a hateful affectation of cordiality. As I did not answer
him, he continued:
"Why so silent, my dear John? Are you overcome by your feelings? Ah,
yes, that must be it. Sudden joy confounds a man--makes it difficult
for him to express himself. Now, I am never at a loss for words, but
then I am older than you, more accustomed to ups and downs. I don't
mind confessing to you--with a proper knowledge of your sympathetic
nature--that I have had during the last twelve months any number of
'downs 'and no 'ups' worth mentioning. All my little ventures and
speculations have come to grief. Half-a-dozen times I have been on the
point of making my fortune and have been baulked by want of cash. You
don't play cards, I believe. I do. You don't care for racing. I do.
You don't tempt fortune by crying double or quits. I do. It's in my
blood. I give you my word I should have been as right as a trivet if
it hadn't been that just at the critical moment I found myself cursed
with an empty purse. Devilish hard, wasn't it, when a fellow has a
rich brother-in-law who would have said, 'Here's my purse, old boy; go
in and win.' The mischief of it was that this dear friend had run off
to lotus-land, to revel in the lap of beauty and virtue, the world
forgetting, but not by the world forgot. No, John, not by the world
forgot. We bore the absent one in mind; we talked of his excellencies;
we deplored his absence; we longed for his return to the fold."
He now went to the length of linking his arm with mine; I wrenched
myself free.
"What is it you want of me?" I demanded.
"The oracle speaks," he cried, gaily. "What do I want? What does every
one want?"
"Money?" I asked.
"Intelligence returns," he answered, "and we are getting into smooth
water. Yes, John; money."
"Did you track me here?"
"John, John," he said, reproachfully. "Do I look like a spy? Did you
ever know me to be guilty of a mean action?"
"Answer my question."
"Being in the witness box I use the customary formula. From
information received I was led to suppose that the lost one would be
found on this beautiful shore. I flew hither on the wings of love,
anxious to serve him, to show my interest in his welfare, to promote
his happiness."
"If I refuse to give you money?"
"It will be unwise, John, distinctly unwise, and will carry with it
certain consequences exceedingly disagreeable to--let us say to a lady
of spotless reputation. How pained I should be to set these
consequences in motion! Is it not man's privilege to protect the weak?
But, alas, John! alas! alas! necessity is a slave-driver, and compels
tender hearts to lay on the lash!"
With his old mocking smile upon his face, he went through the pretense
of drying his eyes.
"Speak plainly," I said. "If I disappoint your expectations, what will
you do?"
"I will deal honestly by you, brother-in-law, and speak, as you
desire, quite plainly. What will I do? Let me see. There is no place
on earth, be it ever so remote and secluded, in which character is not
at a premium. There are husbands who have wives, parents who have
daughters. A woman comes to live among them who poses as Madame
Virtue. She is good to the poor--it costs so little, John, to be good
to the poor; the clergyman's wife visits her; she goes to church; she
gives a basin of soup to an old woman. Cheap tricks, brother-in-law.
Madame Virtue leads a happy life; she is respected; people greet her
smilingly and affectionately, and say, 'There's an example for you!'
Suddenly a rumor is set afloat that Madame Virtue is no better than
she should be. Sad, very sad. The rumor is authenticated. A gentleman
comes from the city and verifies the rumor. Madame Virtue has, of
course, a reputed husband, who shares her popularity. The gentleman
says he knows the saintly couple very well indeed, and that they are
simply a pair of impostors. He offers to supply proof, and he does so
upon the invitation of the clergyman and the local gentry. He regrets
the necessity, but what can he do? He owes a duty to society. If there
is one thing, John, I pride myself upon more than another, it is that
I never shrink from the performance of a duty. What is the result in
this instance? The clergyman's wife turns her back upon Madame Virtue,
the local gentry likewise; the poor lose their respect for her, and
talk of her behind her back. In a word, the saint is turned into a
sinner. Judge the effect upon Madame Virtue, you, dear brother-in-law,
who know her so much better than I. Have I put the matter plainly?
There is even more to say which it might not be agreeable to you to
hear. Take a turn or two on these beautiful sands, and think it over.
I can wait."
I did not disguise from myself that for a time at least, I was in this
man's power, and that his malice would carry him even farther than he
had threatened. The effect upon Ellen would be serious. She valued the
respect in which she was held, and drew happiness from the affection
by which she was surrounded. Moreover, she was in a delicate state of
health, and I dreaded the consequences which would follow Maxwell's
malignity. At all risks, at all hazards, I must purchase his silence.
"You are in want of money," I said, "and you come to extort it from
me."
"I am in want of everything," he retorted, "but I am still a
gentleman. If you are not more particular in your language, I will set
my heel upon you and Madame Virtue."
"Name your price," I said.
"Ah, now we are getting sensible. My price? I must consider. For
to-day, fifty pounds--as an installment, John. This day week we will
have another chat, and come to terms."
I knew it was useless to argue or protest; he held me bound and would
show no mercy. I had not so much money about me, and I proposed to
bring it in a couple of days to any address he named.
"No, no," he said. "You can come with me to the private boarding-house
where I have engaged a bed, and can write me a cheque there. A man of
means always carries his cheque-book with him. Unless you prefer to
invite me to dinner at your lovers' nest."
"I will come with you," I said.
On our way he reproached me for not asking after Barbara, and I
replied that I received all the news I wished to hear through my
solicitor. He entertained me, however, with a long account of her,
which I knew to be false, and to which I listened in silence. She was
much better, he said, and was looking forward to the end of our
differences. She had become a convert to the Catholic Church, and was
held in the highest esteem by the priests and nuns; the children in
the schools doated on her; she deprived herself to provide them with
clothes and food; she prayed for me day and night, etcetera, etcetera.
And all the time he regaled me with this tissue of falsehoods he was
laughing at me in his sleeve. The truth about her was that her
excesses had become even more frightful than in my experiences of her;
she had not a sober hour, and was continually turned out of her
lodgings. Maxwell was curious to ascertain how much of the truth I
knew, but I did not satisfy him. At the boarding-house I wrote a
cheque for fifty pounds, and made an appointment to meet him that day
week, when we were to "come to terms."
I said nothing to Ellen of this meeting or of the misery into which I
was plunged. To have made her a sharer in my unhappiness would serve
me no good purpose. On the appointed day Maxwell and I met again, and
then he named a sum so large that I hesitated. It amounted, indeed, to
a third of what remained of my fortune.
"You refuse?" he said.
"I must," I replied. "I will not submit to be beggared by you."
"Sheer nonsense, John. I have made a calculation, and I know, within a
hundred or two, how much you are worth. Cast your eyes over these
figures."
To my surprise I discovered that his calculation was as nearly as
possible correct, and that by some means he was fairly well acquainted
with my pecuniary position.
"It is for you to decide," he said. "I have something to sell which
you are anxious to purchase. You can make either a friend or an enemy
of me, and you know whether it will be worth your while to buy. I
don't deny that I am hard up, and that in a certain sense you
represent my last chance. I am not fool enough to throw it away.
Understand clearly--I intend to make the best of it. You see, John, I
hold the reins, and I can tool you comfortably down a safe and
pleasant road, or I can send you headlong to the devil--and in your
company Madame Virtue. I have learned something since last week. You
are living here under an assumed name, and I have a suspicion that
Madame Virtue is not aware of it. Another trump card in my hand. It
rests with me whether I bring about an introduction between Barbara
and Madame Virtue, and whether I bring your excellent stepmother and
Louis down upon you. There's no escape for you, brother-in-law. Best
make a friend of me, my boy, and keep the game to ourselves."
In the end I consented, with some modification, to his terms, upon his
promise that he would never molest me again; and so we parted.
Months passed and I heard nothing more of him. Gradually I recovered
my peace of mind. We were living modestly within our means; peace had
been cheaply purchased.
Our child was born, a boy. The delight he brought in our home cannot
be described. He was a heavenly link in our love, and bound Ellen and
me closely together. I will not dwell upon that joyful time. This
confession is longer than I conceived it would be, and events of a
more exciting nature claim attention.
One evening upon my return home, after transacting some business in
Bournemouth in connection with my affairs, Ellen, speaking of what had
occurred during my absence, mentioned a gentlemanly beggar who had
solicited alms from her. He had told her a plausible tale of unmerited
misfortune, and of having been brought down in the world by trusting a
friend who had deceived and robbed him. She described the man, and my
heart was like lead; I recognized the villain.
"He was so nice to baby," said Ellen, "and spoke so beautifully of our
home. Poverty is much harder to gentlefolk who have been used to
comfort than it is to poor people. I pitied him from my heart."
"Beggars do not always say what is true," I observed.
She looked at me in surprise. "He could hardly be called a beggar,
John. Did I not do right in relieving him?"
"Quite right, dear," I said, with an inward prayer that I was mistaken
in the man.
"I am quite sure he spoke the truth," she said, and there, as between
us, the matter ended.
Before many hours had passed my fears were confirmed. I kept watch
from the cottage, and saw Maxwell in the distance, coming in our
direction. I went to meet him.
"This is friendly of you, John," he said. "Where shall we talk? In the
society of the charming Madame Virtue and her sweet babe, or alone?"
"Alone," I replied. "I forbid you to present yourself in my house
again."
"A tall word, John, forbid. It depends, my boy, upon you. Keep a civil
tongue in your head, and be amenable to reason, and you shall continue
to tread the path of righteousness and peace. Defy me, and up the
three of you go. A pretty piece of goods, Madame Virtue, mild-tempered
and long suffering, a different kind of character from my adorable
sister. I can imagine a scene between them--Madame Virtue soft,
pleading, reproachful; Barbara hot, flaming, revengeful. But perhaps I
mistake. When a woman discovers that she has been betrayed and
deceived she occasionally turns into a fury. I know something of the
sex."
"You promised not to molest me again."
"Am I molesting you? I come in brotherly love to lay my sorrows at
your feet. John, I am broke."
"That is not my business."
"Pardon me, it is. We are partners in goodness, mutually bound to
spare a charming lady and her sweet babe from a sorrow worse than
death. It is a mission I love; it appeals to my tenderest feelings. I
feel good all over."
"You are a devil!"
"In humility I bow my head. Revile me, John, pour burning coals upon
me; I shall enjoy it all the more. Here I stand prepared for the
martyr's stake."
My blood boiled; I gave him a dangerous look. "You are trying my
patience too far. Drive me to desperation, and I will not answer for
the consequences."
"Drive me to desperation," he said, pausing to light a cigarette, "and
I will hunt her into the gutter. I will make her life a living misery,
and when the end comes she shall curse you with her dying breath.
Nothing like frankness, dear John. Behold me, an epitome of it."
If I had not turned from him I should have committed some act of
violence. It was thought of Ellen alone that restrained me, that
enabled me to regain my self-command. He struck at her, not at me, and
well did he know his power. When I was living with Barbara, I believed
that suffering had reached its limit; I was to learn that I was
mistaken. Hitherto I had suffered for myself, a selfish feeling
affecting only my life and future, but now that another being had
wound herself into my heart, a sweet and loving woman whose happiness
was in my hands, my former misery seemed light indeed. And her
babe--my own dear child! To allow passion to master me would have been
unpardonable.
"Are you cooler, John?" asked Maxwell.
"In God's name," I cried, "tell me why you continue to persecute me."
"In God's name, I will. I regret to say, I am suffering from the old
complaint, John. Misfortune pursues me, and if I don't have a couple
of hundred pounds----"
I would hear no more. I went with him to a public-house, and wrote a
cheque for the amount.
"You are a trump," he said, pocketing the cheque. "Upon my soul, if
you had a better knowledge of me you would find I am not such a bad
fellow, after all; but when needs must, John, the devil drives."
That night I told Ellen that we must remove from Swanage.
"I shall be very sorry, John, dear," she said. "Is it really
necessary?"
"It is imperative, Ellen."
She sighed. "We have been so happy here."
"We can be happy elsewhere, dearest."
"Why, truly," she said, brightening up, "so long as we are together
what does it matter where we live?"
My idea was to escape from my enemy; to hide ourselves in some corner
in England, where we should be safe from his cruel persecution. After
much study and cogitation I fixed upon Cornwall, and thither we went,
and established ourselves in a cottage on the outskirts of Penzance. I
was in a fever of alarm during the removal, and kept unceasingly on
the watch, but observed nothing to cause me apprehension. When we were
settled I breathed more freely; here, surely, in this remote place, we
should be secure. Ellen was cheerful and bright, and she made me so.
Her time was fully occupied; she had not an idle moment; she did not
allow herself one. Our child, the garden, the home, kept her busy. Her
consideration for me, the loving attention she paid to my slightest
wish, even anticipated it, touched me deeply. Tenderness was expressed
in every word she spoke, in every movement she made. It would be
impossible for me to describe how dear she was to me. It is such as
she who have raised woman to the position she holds in the scale of
humanity.
What troubled me greatly was the state of my finances. The inroads
made upon my purse by Maxwell's exactions were so serious that I
foresaw the time when, if my wife's allowance was to be continued, I
should find myself penniless. We were living at a moderate rate, our
expenses being under three pounds a week. The money I had left, apart
from the allowance to Barbara, capitalized, would bring in a little
over fifty pounds a year, and I felt that I was daily jeopardizing
Ellen's future and the future of our child, as well as my own. I was
not a business man, and had no trade to which I could turn my hand; in
England my only weapon was my pen--a poor weapon to most who have to
live by it. The difficulty was solved presently by events of which I
was not the originator. Meanwhile I wrote a short story which I read
to Ellen, and was pleased with myself. Needless to say, she was
delighted with it, and elevated me immediately upon the pinnacle of
fame. Under a nom de plume, I sent it to a magazine; it was declined.
I sent it to another magazine, with the same result. This second
refusal came when we had been four weeks in Cornwall, and I went from
my house to post it to a third editor when, almost at the door, I saw
Maxwell.
"Again, John," he cried with brazen effrontery, "like a bad penny
returned. I can't afford to lose sight of you. What a sly dog you are!
but I am a slyer. It is an amusing game. Set a thief to catch a thief,
you know."
"It is you who are the thief," I said, all my fears returning, "but
you have had your journey for nothing this time. You can get nothing
more out of me for the best of reasons; you have robbed me of almost
my last penny."
"We shall see. So you thought to give me the slip. You may thank your
stars you did not succeed. I have come to see you not on my account,
but on Barbara's."
"You might have spared yourself the trouble," I said, coldly. "I have
nothing to say to her; she can have nothing to say to me."
"That is where you are mistaken. Passion blinds you, John. Mind, I
don't mean to say you have nothing to complain of. I see now that you
were not suited to one another, and I dare say I was to blame in not
opening your eyes before you married her. There were reasons. In the
first place--I admit it frankly--I wanted to get rid of her. I am no
saint, but she tired me out; honestly, I was sick of her. In the
second place, she bound me down. 'It is my last chance,' she said.
Why, she was engaged three times before you met her, and was found out
in time by her lovers, who were not slow in beating a retreat. You
were the unlucky one to fall into the trap, and though I've been hard
on you I am sorry for you. In running away from her and taking up with
another woman you did what I should have done if I had been in your
place. However, it is all at an end now."
"At an end!" I echoed, regarding him with amazement
"At an end," he repeated, gravely. "You will soon be free, and then I
suppose you will wash your hands of me. Well! Perhaps I shall have a
bit of luck in another quarter. I don't mind telling you that I had a
man watching you all the time you were in Swanage. I knew when you
left and where you ran to. I could have been here three weeks ago if I
wished, and I have only come to bring you the news. Barbara is dying."
God forgive me, the exclamation that escaped me was not one of horror,
but of relief; and the next moment I was shocked at myself.
"She has behaved abominably," he continued, "but after all, she is
your wife, and you can hardly refuse to see her, and whisper a word of
forgiveness--supposing we are in time. I left her this morning; the
doctor was with her, and said he doubted whether she would live over
to-morrow."
"It is so sudden," I said, and still my thoughts continued to dwell
upon Ellen and our child. "Has she been long ill?"
"She has not been ill at all in that sense," he replied. "It was an
accident. Yesterday morning, when she was in her usual state--you
understand, John--she slipped from the top of the stairs to the
bottom, and broke her spine. The moment the doctor saw her he said
there was no hope. Will you come?"
It was my duty; I should have been less than man had I hesitated.
"Yes," I said, "I will come. When is the train?"
"It starts in an hour if you can get ready by that time."
"I will meet you at the station," I said, and went at once to Ellen to
inform her of what had occurred. She approved of my going, and
hastened my departure. For Barbara she had only words of pity, and her
eyes overflowed in commiseration for the wasted life so near its end.
In this crisis it would have been contrary to nature had we not
thought of ourselves, and of what Barbara's death meant to us, but it
was a subject we avoided. I breathed a blessing over our sleeping
child, and promising to write to Ellen directly I got to London, I
bade her good-bye.
Maxwell was at the station.
"Plenty of time, John," he said, "the train doesn't start for half an
hour. You'll stand me a brandy and soda and a sandwich, I suppose. I
haven't had a bite or a drink since the morning. I'm shipwrecked
again. Serve me right, you'll say. So say I. I shall have to turn over
a new leaf. Would you believe I had to travel third-class, and didn't
have money enough to pay for a return ticket? Hard lines for a
gentleman; but such is life."
"You'll have to travel back third-class," I said. "I have no money to
waste."
He grumbled at this, but I paid no heed to him. After disposing of his
brandy and soda he asked for another, which I refused. He laughed, and
complimented me upon displaying a strength of character which he had
not given me credit for. If I had not hurried him we would have missed
the train.
Few people were traveling by it, and we had a compartment to
ourselves. Such conversation as we had on the journey was of his
seeking; meeting with no encouragement from me he leant back moodily
and closed his eyes. Quite two hours passed without a word being
exchanged, when suddenly he said:
"John, after Barbara's death you will marry Madame Virtue, of course.
How soon after? I shall expect an invitation, old fellow."
I did not answer him, and he made no further attempts at conversation.
At the end of our journey I asked him where Barbara lived.
"Islington way," he said, sulkily, and calling a cab, gave the driver
the address.
The cab pulled up at the door of a wretched house in a narrow street
between "The Angel" and the Agricultural Hall. I paid the man and
followed Maxwell to the second floor, where, opening a door, he fell
back, motioning me to enter first.
The room was in semi-darkness, the window-curtains being drawn down.
"Is that you, John?" a voice asked, and at the same moment the
curtains were drawn aside.
It was the voice of my stepmother. From an inner room came the sound
of driveling laughter.
As I turned and saw Maxwell standing with his back against the door,
and an insolent smile on his face, suspicion entered my mind. It was
to some extent confirmed when I observed the insolent smile reflected
on the face of my stepmother.
"Barbara is still alive, dear brother-in-law," said Maxwell, laughing
quietly to himself. "You are in time, you see. Oh, yes, you are in
time."
I threw open the door of the adjoining room. A strange woman was
there, standing by a chair in which Barbara was lolling. Except that
she had grown more unwieldy, that her eyes were bleared and dim, and
that her driveling mouth and hanging jaws gave her the appearance of a
besotted hag, she bore no traces of a mortal illness such as Maxwell
had described. The truth rushed upon me with convincing force. I had
been tricked.
"Neat, wasn't it?" exclaimed Maxwell, as I closed the door upon the
disgusting sight. "Would you believe," addressing my stepmother, "that
our dear John was actually calculating the time when he would be free
to marry the low woman for whom he deserted his lawful wife?"
"I would believe anything of him," said my stepmother.
"I warn you," I said. "Another such allusion, and I will thrash you
within an inch of your life."
"Oh! I'm not to be frightened by threats," he blustered, "and I'm not
going to quarrel with you."
"You will gain nothing by the trick you have played me," I said. "I am
already making your sister an allowance which my means do not warrant,
and which no court of law would compel me to pay."
"A pretense of poverty for which we are prepared. And we are prepared
also to make your affairs public property unless you listen to
reason."
"You are in the plot against me," I said to my stepmother.
"That is a lie," she replied, composedly. "I am not in any plot
against you, but I am ready to give evidence when called upon."
"We are here, John, in the presence of a witness," said Maxwell, "for
the purpose of coming to an understanding. You have had sufficient
experience of me to be aware by this time that you are no match for
me. If you wish to be left in peace, to lead any life you choose, you
will have to pay for it. Shall I name the price?"
"It will be quite useless. You will never obtain another shilling from
me."
"You shall have the opportunity to consider it, John. For one thousand
pounds--a sum you can well afford to pay--you shall be left forever at
peace, to go your own way to the devil. I will bind myself never to
molest you again by any legal document you may lay before me. Consider
it well, brother-in-law. What I offer is worth the price."
"It needs no consideration. You have my answer."
"I give you a week to think it over," he continued. "If then you
persist in your refusal, I will dog you like your shadow--and not only
you but the lady; observe how polite I am--in whom you take an
interest. I will hunt you down and make your life and hers a daily
misery. You may be able to stand it for a time. If I am any judge of
appearances she will not. You have a gift of imagination. Imagine the
worst I can do, and you will fall short of the reality. If not for
your own sake, John, for hers, think it over."
"You have my answer," I repeated; and brushing him aside, I left the
house.