The Betrayal of John Fordham. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold
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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