The Betrayal of John Fordham

CHAPTER IV

The next day we were in Paris. We had a miserable crossing and two miserable railway journeys. On neither of the lines could I get a compartment to ourselves, both the French and English trains being crowded to excess. On the steamboat Barbara was very ill, and I gave her into the charge of the stewardess, being too unwell myself to attend to her. We were not, as may be imagined, a very cheerful couple, nor was this a cheerful commencement of our honeymoon. I did my best, however, to keep up Barbara's spirits, but she continued to be sad and despondent, and did not rally till we reached the gay city. The bright sunshine and the animation of the streets did wonders for us. I held her hand in mine as we drove to the hotel in which I had engaged rooms, and life assumed a joyful aspect. The color came again to Barbara's cheeks, the sparkle to her eyes.

"The worst is over, dearest," I said, "and we are together – and alone."

She pressed my hand fondly.

Was I really in love? I cannot answer. The fire of youth was in my veins, the light of hope was in my heart. Call it what you will – love, passion, desire – Barbara was all in all to me, and our fond endearments caused the hours to fly at lightning speed. The embarrassments and mortifications of yesterday were forgotten; to-day was ours, to enjoy. We dined at the hotel, by Barbara's plate a caraffe of iced water, by mine a bottle of old Burgundy. At nine o'clock, knowing that Barbara had some unpacking to do – for it was my intention to remain in Paris a week – I said that I would take a stroll in the streets, and would return at ten.

"It will take me quite two hours," she said, with a trembling eagerness in her voice, "to get my boxes in order."

"I will return at eleven," I said gaily, kissing her.

I strolled through the brilliantly lighted streets in a dream of delight. There was no Maxwell near to disturb me with his mocking laughter. Barbara was her bright self again, and she and I were "man and wife."

"Man and wife," I murmured. "Nothing can come between us now, nothing can separate us. She is mine forever. I am really a married man."

I saw in the window of a jeweler's shop a brooch with two hearts entwined. It was emblematical of Barbara's heart and mine, and I went in and purchased it, and purchased also at a florist's a bouquet of the loveliest flowers. It was now ten o'clock, and I had still an hour to myself. A long time to carry a large bouquet of flowers amidst a throng of people, but what cared I? Why should I hide my happiness? Was I not proud of my beautiful Barbara, whose pure and innocent heart I had won, and whose sweet companionship would brighten my days till we were both old and white-haired? Let the whole world know that the flowers were for my bride – let the whole world know that I was in love. Was not this the city of love? The hum of merry voices proclaimed it – the myriad stars, the soft air, the brilliant lights, the animated gestures of men and women, all proclaimed it. There were no dark shadows to blot the bright picture; joy was universal; there was no sadness, no death, no cankered care to wither the glad hopes of the future – all was light and love.

At a quarter to eleven I hastened to the hotel of which she was the sun, and paced the boulevard a few yards this way, a few yards that, and strolled into the courtyard, and looked at my watch, and impatiently counted the seconds, and fretted and fumed until the minute hand reached eleven. Then I eagerly mounted the stairs, and entered our sitting-room.

The lights were burning, and the room had a cheerful appearance. A communicating door led to the bedroom, and I listened at this door a moment, but heard no sound from within. I arranged the bouquet of flowers in a vase, which I filled with water, and then I turned out the lights, with the intention of entering our bridal chamber. But the door was fast. I tried very softly again and again to open it, and then with greater force, but it would not yield.

"Barbara," I called in a low tone, "it is I. Why have you locked the door?"

No answer reached my ears. I called several times, with the same result. Long before this I had become alarmed, and had re-lit the gas in the sitting-room. Stories of dark crimes committed in this city of light flashed through my mind. The door was locked, but that might be a blind. It was scarcely possible that Barbara could be in the room; she had been decoyed from the hotel upon some pretense, perhaps by the delivery of a false message from me. If so, what would be her fate? And even supposing her to be in her room, how to account for the frightful silence? Fool, criminal that I was to leave her alone, a hapless woman in a strange city! It was I, and I alone, who had brought the woman I loved into this perilous position.

I rushed down to the manager of the hotel, and asked if any visitors had been admitted into my rooms during my absence, or any message delivered to my wife. The manager, who was the soul of politeness, and who was smoking a cigarette after the labors of the day, made inquiries of the concierge and of the servants who had not retired to rest. No person had called to see madame; no message had been taken to her; she had not been seen to leave the hotel. Had she rung for refreshment or assistance? No. Had any sounds of disturbance been heard in her apartment? No, the apartment had been perfectly quiet. Were they certain that madame could not have left the hotel without being seen? It was not possible. She would have had to pass through the courtyard, and the concierge or an assistant was constantly on the watch, noting who came and who went. Then, how to account for the facts of her bedroom door being locked and of her not answering to my call? The servants could not account for it; the manager could not account for it. With profuse apologies he hazarded a question. Was madame subject to fainting fits? Was it that she had swooned? With my permission he would accompany me to the apartment, and together we could ascertain.

We ascertained nothing; we discovered no clue to the mystery. The door defied all our efforts to open it, and no reply was given to our summons. The suspense was maddening.

"See, monsieur," said the manager, stooping, and putting his eye to the key-hole, "the door is locked from within. The key is in the lock. Be tranquil; madame is safe; she has fallen into a sound sleep. I myself sleep so soundly that – "

I interrupted him impatiently.

"If my wife has fallen asleep she must be awakened."

He did not see the necessity; if I would be patient madame would herself awake when she had slept enough; then all would be well.

"My wife must be awakened," I repeated vehemently.

"Undoubtedly," he then said, falling complacently into my humor. "If you insist, monsieur, madame must be awakened."

"But how?" I cried, in a fever of anxiety, which with every passing moment grew more intense.

"As monsieur says," he replied, with exasperating coolness, "but how?"

"The lock must be forced."

"A million pardons, monsieur. The lock of the door is of a particular kind. It is not a common lock – no, no. It was put on especially for a distinguished visitor, who frequently occupies this apartment. It is what is called a patent lock, and is the property of our distinguished visitor. I cannot consent that it shall be forced."

"Then we will have a piece cut out of the door. By that means we can reach the key, and turn the lock from within."

"Again a million pardons. The door is of oak; it was made for our distinguished visitor. I cannot consent, monsieur, that the door shall be destroyed."

"Hang you! Stand aside!"

I pushed him away, and applied my shoulder to the door. I was young, I was strong, but I might as well have set myself against a rock. The door held firm and fast, and the noise I made did not arouse Barbara. Even in the midst of my despair I heard the manager remark, "These eccentric English!" Finding my efforts vain, I beat the panels with my fists. A servant entered, and whispered to the manager.

"Desist, monsieur," he said, stepping forward, "you are disturbing our visitors. It cannot be permitted. In the adjoining apartment is a sick gentleman. He has already inquired whether there is a fire or an earthquake. If monsieur pleases, there is another way.'

"What is it? Quick – quick!"

"The window of madame's room looks out upon a courtyard at the back. It is easily reached by a ladder. The night is warm; madame may have left her window unfastened – "

I stopped any further explanation by hurrying him to the courtyard at the back. On the way he insisted upon informing me that the hotel was of the highest character and eminently respectable. No robbery had ever taken place in it; no crime had ever been committed within its walls. Madame was fatigued by her journey, and had probably taken an opiate. I should find her asleep in her bed quite safe – quite safe.

"The ladder – the ladder!" I cried, in a frenzy. "Where is the ladder?"

It was soon brought – though I thought it an age before it was fixed against the wall – and a porter commenced to ascend. But I pulled him back with a rough hand, and said I would go up myself. "These eccentric English!" I heard the manager again remark to those assembled around him.

His surmise was correct. The window was closed but not fastened; I pushed it open and stepped into the room.

It was dark, but by the light admitted through the open window I saw the form of my wife huddled upon the bed. I laid my hands upon her and called, "Barbara – dear Barbara!" A faint moan was the only response.

"Great God!" I cried. "She is dying!"

I swiftly lighted the gas, and the room was flooded with light. Then I discovered the horrible truth. An empty brandy bottle rolled from the bed to the floor, and on the dressing table was a corkscrew with the cork still in it. The cork was new, and the bright capsule by its side denoted that the bottle must have been full when it had been opened. I bent over Barbara's stupefied form, the fumes of liquor which tainted her hot breath were sickening. My wife was not dying. She was drunk!

The whole room was in a state of disorder; the bed curtains were torn, articles of feminine attire were scattered about, brushes and combs and other toilet requisites had been swept from the table, a chair had been upset; but at that moment I took little note of these signs, my attention being centred upon the degrading human spectacle which lay before me on the bed – my wife, the woman I had idealized as an embodiment of purity and simplicity.

I was not allowed to remain long undisturbed; I heard a smart rapping at the bedroom door, and I became instantly conscious that I had a new part to play. I closed and fastened the window, and drew the curtains across it, I lowered the gas almost to vanishing point, and then, turning the key in the lock, I opened the door just wide enough to see the manager's face.

"Madame is safe?" he inquired.

"Quite safe," I replied.

"As I said. Asleep?"

"Yes, asleep."

"As I said. There has been no crime or robbery?"

"There has been no crime or robbery."

"And madame is well?"

"Quite well."

"I trust you are satisfied, monsieur."

"Perfectly satisfied."

"Is anything more required?"

"Nothing more."

"No assistance of any kind? The chambermaid is here. Shall she attend to madame?"

"Her assistance is not needed. Good-night."

"Good-night, monsieur."

As he and the attendants left the adjoining room, I heard him remark for the third time, "These eccentric English!"

CHAPTER V

The first thing I did was to securely bolt and lock every door, to darken every window that gave access to our rooms. I must be alone with my shame and my grief. No one must know – the secret of this vile, this unutterable disgrace must not escape, must not be whispered, must not be suspected. From the friends who had been present at the wedding ceremony I could not expect sympathy after the way in which they had been treated; from strangers I could hope for none; by friends and strangers alike I should be pointed at and derided. I must wear a false face to all the world – as false as the face my wife had worn to me during our courtship. For in the first flush of the frightful discovery I did not stop to palter with myself, I did not attempt to disguise the truth, to delude myself with the hope that this was a new experience in Barbara's character. The fatal truth fastened itself in my heart. Signs which had borne no baneful significance in the past were now suddenly and rightfully interpreted. I understood Maxwell's mocking words and laughter:

"You want hardening, my boy, and you'll get it," he had said, Again, "Barbara is not in a condition to see anybody. When she is in that state, best leave her, old fellow. There's a hint for you in your matrimonial campaign." And then his last derisive exclamation, "What a jolly wedding day!" The meaning of the looks he and Barbara had exchanged on that day when we three were together after the ceremony, was now clear to me, as clear and withering as a blasting lightning stroke. She was a drunkard, and he was keeping the joke from me. His look conveyed the threat, "Be careful, or I will betray you." Aye, betray her before she betrayed herself! The momentary defiance in her eyes died away, and she trembled in his presence.

"I will betray you!" Good God, how I had been betrayed! Barbara was mine forever; as Maxwell had said, she was all my own. We were linked together; our fates were united. There were no separate paths which each could tread apart from the other. Hand in hand we must take our way, and death alone could tear us asunder. On my honor as a man there died within me during those few moments of torturing reflection all the love I had borne for Barbara. I awoke to the fact that it was not true love, but animal passion for her beauty, that had led me into this pit of shame and despair.

Some men arrive, by slow and devious roads, at a belief that shakes their faith to its foundations. Not so I. As surely as I knew that I lived and moved did I know that I was wedded to a drunkard, and that there was no civilized law that could divorce me from her. I was Barbara's shield and protector, her lord, her master, her victim. Her claim upon me was not to be evaded; even to dispute it would cover me with ignominy, would make my name a bye-word. I could not break the fetters of the law which bound us together and made us one. Had Barbara not been a confirmed drunkard, she could never have drank a full bottle of brandy in so short a time. Three or four glasses would have overcome her, and she could not have continued to tipple.

Think what you will of me, I declare that I had no compassion for the woman I had married. No pity for her stirred my heart. Perfect in its devilish cunning was the duplicity she had practised. "You do not like wine?" I had said to her. "I detest it," she had answered; and never in my presence had she drank anything except water. Most artfully had she concealed from me a secret which was to wreck all my hopes of happiness, which was to shut out from me all the pure and innocent pleasures which a man at my time of life might naturally look forward to. What pity could I have for one who had done this evil?

I made no attempt to rouse my wife, not because I feared I should not succeed, but because I had no desire to restore her to consciousness and to hold converse with her. I needed time to review more calmly the position in which I was placed and to decide upon my course of action in the future. Meanwhile I applied myself to an examination of the bedroom. One of Barbara's trunks was unlocked; the lid was down, but a litter of feminine apparel on the floor denoted that it had been hurriedly opened and the articles of clothing as hurriedly snatched from the top, with no intention, as Barbara had indicated, of putting her things in order, but rather of getting quickly at something which lay beneath. Had I the right to search this trunk? was the question I mentally put to myself. I did not, however, stop to discuss it. Right or wrong, I raised the lid, and taking out the garments which first met my eyes I found beneath them damning proofs of Barbara's degradation. Five bottles of brandy were brought to light – the one she had emptied made the sixth. She had provided herself liberally, sufficient for six days at the rate she had commenced.

My first impulse was to throw them out of the window, but I checked myself in time. The noise of the broken glass would have brought the manager and his staff buzzing about me. What should I do with the cursed things? Leave them in her trunk? No; it would be inviting a series of disgraceful exhibitions such as that which lay within my view. From me she would receive no assistance to reach a lower depth than that into which she had fallen. I could at least make it difficult for her to obtain her next supply of liquor without my knowledge, so I carried the bottles to the outer room, and secreted them in one of my own trunks, determining to get rid of them by some means in the course of the next few hours. Then I huddled Barbara's clothes into her trunk, and closed the lid. Without casting another glance at my wife, who was now beginning to breathe more heavily, I returned to the sitting-room, and sinking into a chair, burst into a passionate fit of weeping.

Thus did I pass my bridal night.

CHAPTER VI

At seven in the morning I heard my wife shifting restlessly and moaning in her bedroom. I had not had a moment's sleep during the night. My eyes closed occasionally from weariness, but sleep did not come to me; nor did I woo it, for I felt the necessity of keeping awake, lest Barbara should create a disturbance. Her condition was a new and bitter experience to me, and I did not know what form it might take. In whatever form it presented itself I must be prepared to cope with it; and it behoved me, therefore, to keep on the watch.

I paid no attention to Barbara's moans, but went to my dressing-room and bathed my face with cold water which refreshed and strengthened me. In the front courtyard the birds were singing and the fountain was playing. I threw the window open; the air was sweet and fresh, and I was grateful for the relief it afforded me.

My wife continued to groan and toss about, and still I did not go to her. At length she called my name in a fretful voice.

"Well?" I said, standing by the bedside.

"Why did you not come to me before?" she asked, querulously. "Did you not hear me?"

"Yes, I heard you."

"And you kept away! How could you, love, how could you, when I am suffering so?" She paused for a sympathetic word from me, which she did not receive. "I am so ill, dear John, so very, very ill! My head is on fire. Give me your hand."

I made no responsive movement, and she looked at me from beneath her half-closed lids.

"You are not looking well yourself, John. Have you had a bad night?"

"A most horrible night."

"I am so sorry, dear. Watching by my side for so many hours has tired you."

"I have not been watching by your side."

"You bad boy – what could you have been doing; and why do you speak to me so unfeelingly? I am sure I have done nothing to deserve it. Oh, my poor head! You did not know I was accustomed to these headaches."

"No, I did not know."

"I ought to have told you, dear."

"Yes, you ought to have told me. It would have been better for both of us."

"I don't see that; unless you have deceived me, it could have made no difference in your feelings, and I believed every word you said – yes, I did, John, dear." She shuddered and moaned, as though seized with an ague. "Get me something, or I shall go mad with pain!"