The Betrayal of John Fordham. B. L. Farjeon
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 happiest woman in it. 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