The Betrayal of John Fordham. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

on the morning we entered the house.

      "It looks very clean and new," I replied, as we walked through the rooms.

      "It is what I aimed at, dear. We are going to commence a new life. No more wrangles or disagreements, no more misunderstandings, everything that is unpleasant wiped off the slate. I am never going to worry you again. Can I say more than that?"

      "We shall be all the happier, Barbara, if you keep that in mind."

      '"Of course I shall keep it in mind. And you, too, John – you will keep it in mind, and not worry me. Fair play's a jewel. This is my morning room. Isn't it sweet? And this," opening a communicating door, "is my prayer room, my very, very own. I shall come here whenever I feel naughty, and pray to be good. Oh, what a consolation there is in prayer!"

      The walls were lined with pictures of sacred subjects and moral exordiums in Oxford frames. There was an altar with prayer books ostentatiously arranged, and a cushion for her to kneel upon when at her devotions. She looked at me for approval, and I said that prayer chastened and purified.

      "It is what it will do for me, dear John. However earnest and wishful to do right one may be there are always little crosses. I intended this room for your study, but I felt that you would rather I put it to its present use."

      "Then there is no study in the house for me?"

      "No, dear. We can't have everything we wish. I thought you might take a room elsewhere for your literary work. You can go and scribble there whenever you feel inclined; it will be so much better for you. There will be nothing to disturb you – no sweeping and scrubbing of floors and difficulties with servants, which put men out so. You see how I thought of you while I was arranging things. There are some nice quiet streets off the Strand where you can take chambers and be comfortable and cosy. If you had a business in the city you would have to go to it every morning, so it is just as if you were a business man. We shall dine at home at half-past six. I shall expect you to be very punctual, or the cooking will be spoilt and the cook will give notice. Oh, the worry of servants! But I take all that on myself."

      I was not displeased at the arrangement. Had it been left to me I should have chosen it, so I said I was quite satisfied, and she clapped her hands and kissed me.

      "I have an agreeable surprise for you," she then said. "Maxwell is in London."

      "You have seen him?"

      "Oh, yes, every day almost. He has been of immense assistance to me in choosing furniture and wall paper, and managing the people who did the work. If it hadn't been for him I should have been dreadfully imposed upon, and it would have been ever so much out of your pocket. You will be glad to hear that he will dine with us this evening."

      I said I should be glad to see him; and indeed it was a matter of indifference to me, but I determined to be on my guard against him.

      "I was angry with him," she continued, "for not meeting us in Geneva, as he promised; but he couldn't, poor fellow. He met with an accident, and had to lay up in a poky little village in Italy. It is such a comfort to me that he is near us. There is no one like our own."

      "Is he living in London?"

      "For the present. He has been unfortunate and has lost a lot of money – the stupid fellow is so trustful. He went security for a friend and was taken in. Don't you go security for people, John, it's a mistake. I have another surprise for you. 'Our first dinner in our dear little home shall be an unexpected pleasure to John,' I said to myself, when I was looking over my letters, and came across one from your mother."

      "My stepmother, Barbara."

      "It's all the same. Such a pretty, friendly letter; so full of good advice! Young wives need advice, and old wives can give it them."

      "But when did you hear from her?" I asked.

      "Don't you remember? It was when we were engaged."

      "I remember that I wrote to her of our engagement, and that she did not reply to me. She wrote to you instead. Is that the letter you refer to?"

      "Yes."

      "You told me that you tore up the letter the moment you read it, and that she must be an awful woman. I distinctly recollect your saying that we could do without her and her beautiful son."

      "What a memory you have, John! Or are you making it up?"

      "I am not making it up. You did not tear up the letter?"

      "No," she said with a beaming smile, "I kept it by me, and I am sure you are mistaken in what you think I said. I did not show it to you because I knew you had some feeling against her and Louis, and I didn't want to annoy you. I am not the woman to make mischief between such near relations. Little differences will arise, and it is our duty to try and smooth them over. That is what I did, and you will be delighted to hear that they are content to let byegones be byegones, and are burning to see you."

      "I will think over it."

      "I have thought over it for you, dear. They are coming to dinner this evening."

      "Do you consider it right, Barbara, to invite them without consulting me?"

      "I do, my dear. I am a peacemaker. Our housewarming will be quite a family party."

      I submitted, wondering to what length Barbara would go in her duplicity, and whether she or I was mistaken in our recollection of the circumstances in connection with this particular letter. I did not wonder long. I knew that I was right.

      Maxwell made his appearance an hour before dinner, and – having made up my mind – I received him with a cordiality which I did not feel.

      "Well, here you are," he said, with a searching glance at me, "a regular married man after your lovely holiday tour. Enjoyed yourself?"

      "Barbara has given you a full account, no doubt," I replied, all the evil that was in my nature aroused by his mocking voice; "judge from that."

      "You must be a model husband, then," he said, laughing quietly to himself, "and she a model wife. I owe you an apology for not joining you on the Continent. The fact is" – he looked to see that Barbara was out of hearing – "I was not traveling alone, and upon considering the matter I came to the conclusion that our company might not suit you. A question of morals, you know."

      "I am obliged to you."

      "For keeping away? Good. One to you. Where are you going, Barbara?"

      "Domestic affairs," she replied. "To do the cooking." And she left the room.

      "Was your accident very serious?" I asked.

      "Accident!" he exclaimed. "What accident?"

      "Then you did not meet with one?"

      "Not that I am aware of. I had the jolliest time."

      I dropped the subject, and we talked of other matters, with a lame attempt at civility on both sides, until Barbara re-entered the room, when he cried out:

      "I say, Barbara, what is this about my meeting with an accident on the Continent?"

      "You did meet with an accident," she said, boldly.

      "Did I? Well, then, I did." He looked me full in the face, and laughed.

      "I am disgusted with you, Maxwell," Barbara exclaimed. "Don't pay any attention to him, John; you can't believe a word out of his mouth."

      Thereupon he laughed still more boisterously, winding up with, "Don't expect me to take a hand in your matrimonial squabbles; you must settle them yourselves."

      "We don't have any, do we, John?" said Barbara, in her sweetest tone.

      Maxwell appeared to be immensely amused, and they had a bantering bout, in which I took neither share nor interest. When they appealed to me I replied in monosyllables, until Barbara said:

      "There, you have offended him. Ask his pardon immediately. I won't have my dear boy annoyed."

      His eyes twinkled as he held out his hand, which I was compelled to take to avoid an open rupture. "I ask your pardon, John."

      "That's all right," said Barbara, gaily. "For goodness sake, don't let us have any quarreling