The Betrayal of John Fordham. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold
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You had almost forgotten, had you not, John, that I was alone in this city, without a friend but you? I have only you – only you. I hardly cared to live, for what is life without love? But I was frightening myself unnecessarily – or were you doing it just to try me. You will be kind to me, will you not, dear?'
"Indeed, I have no other desire."
"See how a foolish woman can create shadows that terrify her. That is what I did; but they are gone now, all blown away by my dear boy's tender words. And you don't mind my little faults – you will put up with them."
I ventured a saving clause. "Yes, Barbara, and I will try to correct them."
"Of course you will; I expect you to. But you must do it in a nice way. Long lectures are horrid. When I try to correct yours – for that will be only fair play, John, will it, not? – you will see how gentle I will be."
"At the same time, Barbara, while we are correcting each other's faults, we must help ourselves by trying to correct our own."
"I promise, with all my heart; and when I make a promise in that way you may be perfectly sure that it will be performed. That is a virtue I really possess. And so we will go on correcting each other till we are old, old people, ready to become angels, when we sha'n't have any faults at all to correct. For angels are faultless, you know. I am deeply religious, John, dear. There are angels and devils. The good people become angels, the wicked people devils."
"You are mixing up things, rather, are you not, Barbara?"
"Well, it is full of mystery, and who does know for certain? But one can believe; there is no harm in that, is there?"
"None at all."
"And I believe there is a heaven and a hell. You believe it, too, of course?"
"Assuredly I believe there is a heaven, but not that there is a hell hereafter."
She pondered over the words. "A hell hereafter! Why the 'hereafter,' dear?"
"Because I have a firm conviction that we may suffer hell in this life, but not in the next."
"A hell in this life! That would be awful. We will not suffer it, love."
"I trust not, sincerely."
"'Trust not!' You mean you are sure we shall not, surely."
"I am sure we shall not, Barbara."
I was as wax in her hands, standing, so to speak, forever on the edge of a precipice of her creating, and compelled to the utterance of sentiments to which I could not conscientiously subscribe, in order to escape the wreck of a possible happiness.
"That I believe in hell fire and you do not," she said, thoughtfully, "shall not be a cause of difference between us. Everybody thinks his own ideas of religion are right. Perhaps bye and bye I will try to convert you, and if you feel very strongly on the subject of hell you shall try to convert me. Which do you think worse – a hell in this life, or a hell in the next?"
"I have never considered it. Don't let us worry ourselves about theological matters during our honeymoon."
"You are right, John; see how quickly I give in to you. I will tell you why, sir – because it is a wife's duty. You will never find me behindhand in that. Our honeymoon! How nicely you said it. There shall be nothing but sunshine and flowers, and the singing of birds, and love. Oh, what a happy, happy time! And you are no longer angry with me that I have engaged Annette?"
"I am not angry with you at all."
"John," she said, shaking her finger playfully at me, "that is an evasion, and you mustn't set me bad examples. Answer my question immediately, sir."
"Well, Barbara, so long as she does not bring discord between us – "
She stopped me with a kiss. "No, John, that will not do – it really will not do, you bad boy. You mustn't take unreasonable antipathies to people. A lady's-maid has a great deal to put up with, and mistresses are often very trying. There, you see, I don't spare myself – oh, no, I am a very just person, and I like every one to be justly treated. Say at once, sir, that you are no longer angry with me for engaging Annette."
Mistrusting the woman as I did, I was forced, for the sake of peace, to express approval of her. Barbara clapped her hands, and declared we should be quite a happy family.
It was after this interview that Barbara had a religious fit. Twice a day she went to the Madeleine, and spent an hour there upon her knees. Sometimes Annette accompanied her, sometimes I, upon her invitation. I asked her why she, a Protestant, frequented a Catholic place of worship.
"What does it matter, the place?" she asked, in return, speaking in a gentle tone. "It does one good to pray. Even to kneel in such a temple without saying a prayer strengthens one's soul. Through the solemn silence, broken now and then by a sob from some poor woman's broken heart, a message comes from God. Women are greatly to be pitied, John."
"Men, too, sometimes," I said.
"Oh, no," she answered, quickly, "there is no comparison."
A trifling incident may be set down here, in connection with the brooch, with its device of two hearts, which I had purchased as a present for Barbara on the first night we were in Paris, and which I afterwards determined not to give her. I was in the sitting-room clearing my pockets. Among the things I had taken out was the brooch, which I had almost forgotten. I was still of the opinion that it would be an unsuitable gift, and I was thinking what to do with it when Annette passed through the sitting-room to the bedroom, her eyes, as usual, lowered to the ground. In the course of the day I went to the jeweler of whom I had purchased the brooch, and he took it back at half the price I had paid for it. I thought no more of the matter.
CHAPTER X
I had taken circular tickets for a two months' ramble through Switzerland and Italy, intending to visit Lucerne, Berne, Interlaken, Chamouni, and Geneva, then on to the Italian lakes, and I was studying the plan I had mapped out, and making notes of bye-excursions from the principal towns, when Barbara burst in upon me with the exclamation that she was sick of Paris. This surprised me. We had intended to remain for two weeks, only one of which had elapsed, and I had supposed that the busy, brilliant life of the gay city would be so much to Barbara's liking that I should have a difficulty in getting her away from it. For my own part I was glad to leave, glad to travel sooner than we intended to regions where we should be in closer contact with nature. Barbara had never visited Switzerland or Italy, and I hoped that association with the lakes and mountains of those beautiful countries would be beneficial to her, would help her to shake off the fatal habit which she had allowed to grow upon her.
"Very well, Barbara," I said, "we will leave for Lucerne to-morrow."
"How long does it take to get to Geneva?" she asked.
"From Lucerne?"
"No, from here."
"There is a morning train, which gets there in the evening."
"Then we will go to-morrow morning to Geneva."
"But that will make a muddle of the route I have mapped out, and jumble up the dates."
"What does that matter? You can easily make out another; our time is our own. I want to be in Geneva to-morrow night."
"For any particular reason?" I asked, rather annoyed, for I knew how difficult it was to divert her from anything upon which she had set her mind.
"For a very particular reason. Maxwell will be there."
"Did he tell you so before we left England?"
"No; he tells me in a letter, and says how nice it will be for us to meet there."
I thought otherwise. I had no wish to see Maxwell, but I did not say so.
"When did you hear from him?"
"This morning."
"His letter did not come to the hotel. They told me in the office that there were none for us."
"He doesn't address me at the hotel."
"Where then, for goodness sake? The hotel is the proper place."
"Perhaps