The Betrayal of John Fordham. B. L. Farjeon
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 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