The Betrayal of John Fordham. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

was uneventful. I lived much alone, and made a few friends, with one or another of whom I took a holiday every year on the Continent. Then an event occurred which gave birth to the startling incidents and experiences of my life.

      Ten years ago this month Barbara Landor and I were married. I was twenty-four, and Barbara was three years my senior. To a young man in love – as I must have been at that time, though my feelings for my wife soon underwent change, and I look back upon them now with amazement – such a disparity is not likely to cause uneasiness. It did not cause me any. I was swayed entirely by my passionate desire to make the woman with whom I was infatuated my wife.

      I had known her only a short time before I proposed, and was accepted. Our engagement was of but a few weeks' duration, and during our courtship I observed nothing in Barbara's manner to disturb me. No one warned me; no friend bade me pause before I bound myself irrevocably to a woman who was to be my ruin. Occasionally her face was rather flushed, and she was eager and nervous, which I ascribed to the excitement of our engagement. Her sparkling eyes, her rapid speech, the occasional trembling of her hands – all this I set down to love. She confided to me that she had no fortune, and that she had thought of seeking employment as a governess or as a companion to a lady. She possessed great gifts, which, of course, I magnified; she was a good musician, could speak French, German and Italian fluently, and sang to me in those languages with a rich contralto voice.

      "Had it not been for you," she said, "I might even have got into the chorus at the opera."

      "Is not this better?" I asked, embracing her.

      "Much better," she replied, returning my embrace.

      She was a handsome woman, dark, tall, and commanding, and her nearest relative was a half-brother, Maxwell, much older than she, for whom I had no special liking. Naturally, after I had drawn from Barbara an avowal of her love, I addressed myself to him. He stood towards her in the light of a guardian, and she was living in his house. In reply to his questions I was very candid as to my worldly position and prospects, and he professed himself satisfied; but I remembered afterwards that when I came courting his sister he would look at me with an expression of amusement on his features, as though he was enjoying a joke he was keeping to himself. He was in the habit of boasting that he was a man of the world, and knew every trick on the board. It was chiefly at his urging that the marriage was precipitated.

      "Long engagements are a mistake," he said. "Don't you think so?"

      I replied that I was entirely of his opinion.

      "That simplifies matters," he said, "because I am going abroad. I shall not take a sister with me, you may depend upon that."

      It was a plain hint, and the wedding day was fixed. Soon after this, when I called to do my wooing, he told me that Barbara was not well enough to see me.

      "She has a frightful headache," he said, "and is not in a condition to see anybody."

      I was much distressed, and I asked if she had a doctor.

      "Not necessary," he said. "She will get over it. When she is in that state best leave her alone, old fellow. There's a hint for you in your matrimonial campaign. Barbara hates the sight of doctors; she is a delicate creature, very highly strung, something of the full-blooded racer about her, the kind of woman that requires managing."

      "I shall be able to manage her," I said confidently.

      "I should think you would," he said, with a mocking smile. "Barbara and you are going to have a high old time of it. By the way, can you lend me a tenner for a few days?"

      It was not the first time he had asked me for a loan, which was always to be paid in a few days; but he never returned a shilling of the money he borrowed from me. I gave him the ten pounds, and inwardly resolved to have as little as possible to do with him after my marriage.

      I debated with myself whether I should communicate the news of my engagement to my stepmother and Louis, and acting upon the advice of Barbara – to whom I gave a truthful relation of my child-life – I wrote to them in affectionate terms. To me no answer was returned, but Barbara received a letter which she told me she tore up the moment she read it.

      "Your stepmother must be an awful woman," she said, "but we can do without her and her beautiful son."

      It was very considerate of Barbara, I thought, not to show me the letter, the tenor of which it was not difficult to guess, but I could not help looking grave.

      "No long faces, you dear boy," cried Barbara. "Do you think I believe a word she says? Do you think I care for any one but you? If she hadn't been the meanest creature living she would at least have sent a wedding present."

      The wedding was a very quiet one. A friend acted as my best man, and a few other of my friends were present. On Barbara's side there was only Maxwell, who gave his sister away. She looked beautiful, and was in high spirits. The ceremony over we hastened to Maxwell's house, where I and my friends expected to sit down to a wedding breakfast. To my surprise there was nothing on the table but the bridecake and a couple of bottles of wine. It was not a time to ask for an explanation of this inhospitable welcome to the wedding guests, but I was deeply mortified, and I saw that my friends were angry and offended. Maxwell made light of the matter; he filled the glasses, and in a florid speech proposed the health of bride and bridegroom, to which I responded very briefly.

      "There is nothing else to wait for, I suppose," said my best man, in a sarcastic tone.

      No one answered him, and with shrugs and halfhearted wishes for happiness he and the other guests took their departure, leaving Barbara and me and Maxwell alone.

      "Don't quarrel with him," Barbara whispered to me; "he has the most awful temper."

      For her sake I put the best face I could upon the slight that had been passed upon me. Maxwell appeared to be unconscious that he had behaved in any way offensively; he drank a great deal of wine, and urged Barbara to drink, but she refused.

      "A glass with me, darling," I said. "To our future."

      She raised the glass to her lips, and set it down, untasted, with a shudder. I had noticed at the meals we three had together that she drank nothing but water.

      "You do not like wine?" I said.

      "I detest it," she replied.

      "I'll drink your share whenever you call upon me," shouted Maxwell. "She is quite right, isn't she, John? Milk for women, wine for men."

      He was getting intoxicated, and began to troll out a song about wine and women. I strove to quiet him, but he went on laughing hilariously. Excited and enraged, I quickly emptied my glass, and was about to drink again, when Barbara laid her hand upon my arm. I put the full glass upon the table, at which Maxwell, who had been observing us, laughed louder still.

      "Maxwell!" cried Barbara, angrily.

      "Barbara!" cried Maxwell, with his bold eyes upon her. "Well, my lady?"

      They looked strangely at one another, and it was Barbara who first lowered her eyes. There was something threatening in Maxwell's glance, and she seemed to be frightened of him. I was not sorry, for I accepted it as an indication that she would side with me in my desire not to court his society when we returned from our honeymoon trip. We were to start for the Continent in the evening, and there were still two or three hours before us. To pass this interval of time in Maxwell's company was not a pleasant prospect, but I scarcely knew how to avoid it. He evinced no disposition to leave Barbara and me together, and I felt awkward and out of place, and really as if it was I who was intruding. The house was his, and in a certain sense we were his guests. A bright idea occurred to me. I proposed that Barbara should dress for our journey, and that we should go and lunch at an hotel. Barbara, however, said she could not eat, and Maxwell cried boisterously:

      "What are you thinking of, brother-in-law? A newborn bride sitting down to eat at an hotel on her wedding day. She would sink to the ground in shame, wouldn't she, Barbara? But I accept your invitation with pleasure, my boy. I am famished, and you must be. I insist upon you fortifying yourself; it is a duty you owe to Barbara and to society at large. With what is before you, it is absolutely necessary that you should keep up your strength. Take my word for it; I'm an older bird than you. Let us go. Barbara