The Betrayal of John Fordham. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

reply was:

      "Do let me manage! What can you know about domestic affairs? Leave them to me; I will soon put things to rights."

      Seeing that her idea of putting things to rights would cost a large sum of money, I said:

      "Remember, Barbara, I am not a millionaire."

      "Perhaps not," she answered, "but you have thousands and thousands of pounds, you stingy fellow, and we must commence comfortably. Our whole happiness depends upon it. I sha'n't ruin you, my dear. Besides, are you not going to coin money out of your books?"

      "They have to be written first."

      "Of course. And to write striking stories you must have a cosy study. Do you think it is my comfort I am looking after? My dear old boy, you shall have the snuggest den in London."

      "When they are written – if they ever are" – I was tortured by a doubt whether my mind would be sufficiently at ease for literary work – "they may not find favor with the publishers."

      "I will manage them, John. Don't meet troubles half way. There is a clever song – did you ever hear it? – 'Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you.' That is what I call common sense."

      The result was that she had her way. My one desire was for peace. Love held no place in my heart The utmost I could hope for was that I should not be plunged into disgrace.

      I had very little to do with the new arrangements of the house. Finding that every suggestion I made was received with opposition, I became wearied with the whole affair, my share in which was limited to paying the bills. This exactly suited Barbara, who now and then rewarded me by declaring that she was having a delightful time. During these few weeks we lived in a furnished flat in Bloomsbury, and having nothing else to do, I spent the greater part of the day in the reading-room of the British Museum, for which I had held a ticket since I left my stepmother's house. Barbara and I would breakfast together in the morning, and make arrangements for a late dinner. Then we would separate; Barbara for West Kensington, accompanied by Annette, I for the British Museum, or for a lonely walk or ride. Once or twice a week, when the weather was fine, I would ride on the top of an omnibus to its terminus, and return to my starting-point by the same conveyance. My favorite ride was eastward, through Whitechapel, and occasionally I would alight in the centre of that wonderful thoroughfare – where a greater variety of the forms of human life can be met than in any other part of the modern Babylon – and plunge into the labyrinth of narrow streets and courts with which the district abounds. What made the deepest impression upon me in my wanderings thereabouts was the poverty of the residents and the immense number and the magnificence of the gin palaces, in the immediate vicinity of the most flourishing of which were usually congregated groups of wretched men, women and children – chiefly the latter during the midday hours of my visits – whose one idea of life and life's duties was drink. The subject had a fascination for me, and my heart sank as I noted the hideous degradation to which it brings its victims. The soddened, bestial faces, the shameless lasciviousness, the frightful language, the hags of forty who looked seventy, the young children with preternatural cunning stamped on their features, and from whose ready tongue familiar blasphemies proceeded; girl-mothers with exposed breasts putting glasses of gin to their babies' lips – these were horrible and common sights. I was standing watching such a scene in a narrow, squalid street, flanked at each corner by a gorgeous, shining palace of gin, when I noticed a policeman at my side. We entered into conversation, and I learned that he had placed himself near me as a protection.

      "A famous thieves' quarter this, sir," he said; "I thought you mightn't know."

      "Thank you for the warning," I replied; "the people are very poor; all the houses seem to be tumbling down."

      "They belong to a big swell."

      "Does he not come to inspect them?"

      The policeman – an intelligent man, evidently with some education – laughed. "He may have seen them once in his lifetime, and that was enough for him. The property is managed by an agent, in the employ of the steward of the estate, who walks through it perhaps once a year."

      "The rents must be very low."

      "Not low enough for them that live here. There isn't a house in the street with less than three or four families in it."

      I pointed to two girls whose ages could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen, each with a baby at her breast, "What becomes of them when they grow old?"

      "They never grow old," was his significant reply.

      "Are you a reporter for a newspaper, sir?"

      "No; I am here merely out of curiosity."

      "Don't come at night – alone," he said, as he turned away.

      His question had put an idea into my head which I thought might be carried into effect for the benefit of that half of the world that does not know how the other half lives.

      I make no excuse for introducing this episode into my story; the sights I saw had an indirect bearing upon my own life.

      In the evening Barbara and I would meet in our Bloomsbury flat, and go out to dinner, generally to a foreign restaurant, and sometimes afterwards to a theatre or a music hall, the latter being always of Barbara's choosing. I followed in her wake; the least resistance or reluctance to carry out her wishes only brought fresh misery upon me. She continued to tipple, but not in my presence; it seemed to be a principle of her life to do everything in secret. On Sundays she went to church, and professed to be much edified by the discourse. She would pray at home, too. Once when I entered our sitting-room I discovered her on her knees before a couch, her face buried in the cushion. She remained there so long that I put my hand on her shoulder. She did not move. Looking down I found she was asleep, with a vacuous smile on her countenance. I moved to another part of the room, and soon afterwards she staggered to her feet, and stood, reeling to and fro. "Annette!" she called querulously. The woman entered, and supported her to her bedroom. The next day she complained of her heart.

      "I was very ill yesterday," she said. "I fainted while I was praying. My prayers were for you, John."

      I did not answer her, and she asked me whether I ever thought of the future world.

      "It is our duty, my dear," she said. "Life in this is very sad."

      CHAPTER XII

      While the house was being prepared for our reception, I heard nothing of Maxwell. I thought of him often, and I sometimes fancied that Barbara was not so ignorant as myself of his whereabouts and doings – a supposition which proved to be true, but his name was not mentioned by either of us. In looking back upon those days I can see that I was acting a part as well as Barbara. I was miserably conscious of it at the time, but it did not strike me as it strikes me now. Words of affection had no meaning, and we knew it – and knowing it, nursed in our hearts the belief that the other was a hypocrite. I have no desire to show myself in a favorable light to Barbara's disadvantage. Her judgment of me was warped by her passion for drink, and my judgment of her was perhaps harsher than it should have been because of the bitter disappointment under which I labored. I could not always be patient, I could not always endure in silence; she stung me by her sly cunning, by the artful entanglements she wove for me, by the detestable assumption of religious fervor which she used to mask the degrading vice which made my life a hell. I had to be continually on the alert to avoid public exposure, and in this endeavor Annette was useful, for she did what she could to shield her mistress. Self-interest was her motive, for Barbara was continually making her presents of money and articles of jewelry and dress. I was quite aware that she was my enemy, that when she spoke of me she lied and traduced me, but I could find no fault with her when she was in my presence. It may be that she held me in contempt because I did not beat or kill my wife.

      We gave up our flat, and took up our quarters in the home in which before my marriage I had hoped to live an honorable and happy life. That hope was dead, and in my contemplations of the future I could see no ray of light. There was but one source of relief – work. Hard toil, exhausting manual labor would have done me good; failing that, I had my pen. My visits to the vice-haunted haunts of London had supplied me with a theme.

      "What does my dear boy think of it?"