The Betrayal of John Fordham. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold
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I don't care about always doing what is proper," she retorted, lightly. "Besides, do I need your permission to carry on a correspondence with my brother?"
"Not at all; you are putting a wrong construction upon my words."
"Oh, of course. I don't do anything right, do I? Never mind, you may make yourself as unpleasant as you like, but you won't get me to join in a wrangle. Do I pry into your letters? Well, then, don't pry into mine."
"I have no desire to do so. Only, as I suppose this is not the first letter you have received from Maxwell since we have been in Paris – "
She interrupted me with "I have had three letters from him."
"Well, I thought you might have mentioned it – that's all."
"I didn't wish to annoy you."
"Why should it annoy me?"
"Now, John," she said, in a more conciliatory tone, "haven't I eyes in my head? Women, really, are not quite brainless. Do you think I didn't find out long ago that there was no love lost between you and Maxwell? Not on his side – oh, no; on yours."
I could have answered that, according to my observation of her, her feelings towards Maxwell were similar to mine, but I was determined to avoid, as far as was possible, anything in the shape of argument that might lead to contention.
"I do hope you will get to like him better," she continued, "and you will when you understand him. That is what we were talking about a few days ago, isn't it? – about the advisability of people understanding each other before they pronounce judgment. If they don't they are so apt to do each other an injustice. Maxwell is as simple as a child; the worst of it is, he takes a delight in placing himself at a disadvantage when he is talking to you, saying the wrong thing, you know, but never meaning the least harm by it – oh, no. He leaves you to find it out – so boyish, isn't it? He is inconsistent; it is a serious fault, but it is a serious misfortune, too, when one can't help it. It is a shame to blame us for our imperfections; we didn't make them; they are born with us."
"But, Barbara," I said, a feeling of bewildered helplessness stealing over me at the contradictions to which she was everlastingly giving utterance, "we are reasonable beings."
"Oh, yes, to a certain extent, but no farther. The question is to what extent. Take the son of a thief, now; how can he help being a thief? He was born one."
"You wouldn't punish him for stealing?"
"I don't think I would, for how can he help it? I would teach him – I would lead him gently."
I brightened up. "That is what we are trying to do."
"Yes; for it is so wrong to take what doesn't belong to us – and to take it on the sly, too! To go over boxes when one is ill and unconscious. Fie, John! I hoped we were not going to speak of that again."
"But it is you who brought it up."
"Oh, no, love, it was you. You shouldn't allow things to rankle in your mind; it is hardly manly. What was I saying about Maxwell? Oh, his inconsistency. I am glad I am not inconsistent, but I am not going to boast of it. Only you might take a lesson from me. The weak sometimes can help the strong. Remember the fable of the lion and the mouse."
I changed the subject.
"We will start for Geneva to-morrow morning. It is a delightful journey."
"Everything is delightful in your company, you dear boy. You are glad that we shall soon see Maxwell, are you not?"
"Yes, I am glad if it will give you pleasure."
"Thank you, dear. Could any newly-married couple be happier than we are? Give me a kiss and I will go and do my packing."
I recall these conversations with amazement. I was as a man who was groping in the dark, vainly striving to thread his way through the labyrinths in which he was environed. There was an element of masterly cunning in Barbara's character by the exercise of which I found myself continually placed in a wrong light; words I did not speak, motives I did not entertain, sentiments which were foreign to my nature, were so skillfully foisted upon me, that, communing afterwards with my thoughts, I asked myself whether I was not the author of them and had forgotten that they had proceeded from me. But Barbara's own conflicting utterances were a sufficient answer to these doubts. One day she informed me that Maxwell had a contempt for me, the next that he had a high opinion of me. Now she despised him, now she was longing for his society. One moment he was all that was bad, the next all that was good.
I did not allow these contradictions to weigh with me. My aim was to do my duty by my wife, and to save her from becoming a confirmed drunkard; to that end all the power that was within me was directed.
In order not to put temptation in Barbara's way I became a teetotaler, and from that day to this, except upon one occasion, have not touched liquor of any kind.
"No wine, John?" Barbara said, as we were eating dinner.
"No, Barbara; I am better without it."
"Turned teetotaler?" She looked at me with a quizzical smile.
"Yes."
"About the most foolish thing you could do. Wine is good for a man. Everything is good in moderation."
"I agree with you – in moderation."
"I said in moderation – the word is mine, not yours. You will alter your mind soon."
"Never," I said.
"It would be common politeness to ask if I would have some."
"Will you, Barbara?"
"No," she replied vehemently, "you know I hate it."
The next morning we were comfortably seated in the train for Geneva. Annette was knitting, I was looking through some English papers and magazines I had obtained at Brentano's, and Barbara was reading a French novel she had purchased at the railway stall. She appeared to be so deeply interested in it that I asked her what it was. She handed it to me. I started as I looked at the title. "L'Assoimmoir!" I handed it back to her, thinking it strange she should have selected the work, but drawing from it a happy augury, for there is no story in which the revolting effects of drink are portrayed with greater coarseness and power. It did not occur to me that I should have been sorry to see such a work in the hands of a pure-minded woman, and that the absence of the reflection was a wrong done to a woman who was but newly married – and that woman my own wife! My thought was: What effect will the story have upon Barbara? Will it show her in an impressive and personal way the awful depths of degradation to which drink can bring its victims, and will it be a warning to her?
"Have you read it?" she asked.
"Yes," I answered. "It is a terrible story; it teaches a terrible lesson."
"I have heard so," she said, "and I was quite anxious to read it myself. It opens brightly."
"Wait till you come to the end," I thought.
She went on with the reading, and was so engrossed in the development of the sordid, wretched tragedy that she paid but little attention to the scenery through which we were passing. I did not interrupt her. "Let it sink into her soul," I thought. "God grant that it may appall and terrify her!"
In the afternoon the book was finished. But she was loth to lay it aside. She read the last few pages, and referred to others which presumably had produced an impression upon her. Then she put the book down. I looked at her inquiringly.
"You are right," she said. "It does indeed teach a terrible lesson."
I did not pursue the subject. If the effect I hoped for had not been produced no words of mine would bring it about.
A fellow passenger engaged me in conversation, and we stood upon the landing stage awhile. When I returned to the carriage I detected that Barbara had been tippling; the signs were unmistakable. Later in the day she made reference to the story and expressed sympathy for the victims of the awful vice.
"Is that your only feeling respecting the story?" I asked.
"What other feeling can I have?" she replied, sorrowfully. "It was born in them. Poor Gervaise! Poor Coupeau! I don't know