.

presence.

      "I will betray you!" Good God, how I had been betrayed! Barbara was mine forever; as Maxwell had said, she was all my own. We were linked together; our fates were united. There were no separate paths which each could tread apart from the other. Hand in hand we must take our way, and death alone could tear us asunder. On my honor as a man there died within me during those few moments of torturing reflection all the love I had borne for Barbara. I awoke to the fact that it was not true love, but animal passion for her beauty, that had led me into this pit of shame and despair.

      Some men arrive, by slow and devious roads, at a belief that shakes their faith to its foundations. Not so I. As surely as I knew that I lived and moved did I know that I was wedded to a drunkard, and that there was no civilized law that could divorce me from her. I was Barbara's shield and protector, her lord, her master, her victim. Her claim upon me was not to be evaded; even to dispute it would cover me with ignominy, would make my name a bye-word. I could not break the fetters of the law which bound us together and made us one. Had Barbara not been a confirmed drunkard, she could never have drank a full bottle of brandy in so short a time. Three or four glasses would have overcome her, and she could not have continued to tipple.

      Think what you will of me, I declare that I had no compassion for the woman I had married. No pity for her stirred my heart. Perfect in its devilish cunning was the duplicity she had practised. "You do not like wine?" I had said to her. "I detest it," she had answered; and never in my presence had she drank anything except water. Most artfully had she concealed from me a secret which was to wreck all my hopes of happiness, which was to shut out from me all the pure and innocent pleasures which a man at my time of life might naturally look forward to. What pity could I have for one who had done this evil?

      I made no attempt to rouse my wife, not because I feared I should not succeed, but because I had no desire to restore her to consciousness and to hold converse with her. I needed time to review more calmly the position in which I was placed and to decide upon my course of action in the future. Meanwhile I applied myself to an examination of the bedroom. One of Barbara's trunks was unlocked; the lid was down, but a litter of feminine apparel on the floor denoted that it had been hurriedly opened and the articles of clothing as hurriedly snatched from the top, with no intention, as Barbara had indicated, of putting her things in order, but rather of getting quickly at something which lay beneath. Had I the right to search this trunk? was the question I mentally put to myself. I did not, however, stop to discuss it. Right or wrong, I raised the lid, and taking out the garments which first met my eyes I found beneath them damning proofs of Barbara's degradation. Five bottles of brandy were brought to light – the one she had emptied made the sixth. She had provided herself liberally, sufficient for six days at the rate she had commenced.

      My first impulse was to throw them out of the window, but I checked myself in time. The noise of the broken glass would have brought the manager and his staff buzzing about me. What should I do with the cursed things? Leave them in her trunk? No; it would be inviting a series of disgraceful exhibitions such as that which lay within my view. From me she would receive no assistance to reach a lower depth than that into which she had fallen. I could at least make it difficult for her to obtain her next supply of liquor without my knowledge, so I carried the bottles to the outer room, and secreted them in one of my own trunks, determining to get rid of them by some means in the course of the next few hours. Then I huddled Barbara's clothes into her trunk, and closed the lid. Without casting another glance at my wife, who was now beginning to breathe more heavily, I returned to the sitting-room, and sinking into a chair, burst into a passionate fit of weeping.

      Thus did I pass my bridal night.

      CHAPTER VI

      At seven in the morning I heard my wife shifting restlessly and moaning in her bedroom. I had not had a moment's sleep during the night. My eyes closed occasionally from weariness, but sleep did not come to me; nor did I woo it, for I felt the necessity of keeping awake, lest Barbara should create a disturbance. Her condition was a new and bitter experience to me, and I did not know what form it might take. In whatever form it presented itself I must be prepared to cope with it; and it behoved me, therefore, to keep on the watch.

      I paid no attention to Barbara's moans, but went to my dressing-room and bathed my face with cold water which refreshed and strengthened me. In the front courtyard the birds were singing and the fountain was playing. I threw the window open; the air was sweet and fresh, and I was grateful for the relief it afforded me.

      My wife continued to groan and toss about, and still I did not go to her. At length she called my name in a fretful voice.

      "Well?" I said, standing by the bedside.

      "Why did you not come to me before?" she asked, querulously. "Did you not hear me?"

      "Yes, I heard you."

      "And you kept away! How could you, love, how could you, when I am suffering so?" She paused for a sympathetic word from me, which she did not receive. "I am so ill, dear John, so very, very ill! My head is on fire. Give me your hand."

      I made no responsive movement, and she looked at me from beneath her half-closed lids.

      "You are not looking well yourself, John. Have you had a bad night?"

      "A most horrible night."

      "I am so sorry, dear. Watching by my side for so many hours has tired you."

      "I have not been watching by your side."

      "You bad boy – what could you have been doing; and why do you speak to me so unfeelingly? I am sure I have done nothing to deserve it. Oh, my poor head! You did not know I was accustomed to these headaches."

      "No, I did not know."

      "I ought to have told you, dear."

      "Yes, you ought to have told me. It would have been better for both of us."

      "I don't see that; unless you have deceived me, it could have made no difference in your feelings, and I believed every word you said – yes, I did, John, dear." She shuddered and moaned, as though seized with an ague. "Get me something, or I shall go mad with pain!"

      "What will you have? A cup of tea?"

      An expression of disgust spread over her features. "Tea! It is the worst thing I could take. You do not understand – of course you do not understand. Put your arm round me, dear; let me lean my head on your shoulder; it will relieve me." I did not stir. "What do you mean by treating me so cruelly? I am your wife, and you promised to love and cherish me. Have you forgotten so soon, so soon?" I did not reply, and her voice grew more imploring. "When women suffer as I do, John, they need something to keep up their strength. Oh, this frightful sinking! I am sure a little brandy would do me good. Don't be shocked; I wouldn't ask for it if I wasn't certain it would remove this horrible pain."

      "Otherwise," I said, with sad and bitter emphasis, "you would not touch it, you have such abhorrence of it."

      "Why, of course I have. I take it only as a medicine." I picked up the empty brandy bottle, and placed it on the dressing table. "Oh, that," she exclaimed. "It was filled with lemonade, and I drank it every drop while you were away last night. What kept you so long? Oh, my head is racked! I hope no pretty Frenchwoman – "

      "Be silent!" I cried, sternly. "Of what use is this subterfuge? You cannot deceive me."

      "I never tried to r I would not be so wicked. It is cruel of you to pick a quarrel with me the moment we are married. People wouldn't believe it if they were told. For God's sake, get me a little brandy!"

      "From me, Barbara, not one drop!"

      "You won't?"

      "No, I will not."

      "Brute! Leave my room!"

      I was glad to obey her, feeling how idle it was to pursue the conversation. The moment I was gone I heard her scramble from the bed and lock the door. Then I heard the sound of things being violently tossed about, and presently the door was unlocked, and she stood before me with a flaming face.

      "You are a thief!" she screamed. "You are a sneak and a spy – "

      "Hush, Barbara! The people in the hotel will hear you."

      "Let