There was no difficulty in obtaining accommodation at another hotel. The choice rested with me, for I was not particular as to terms, I had no scruple in spending part of my capital, my intentions having always been to adopt a profession, and not to pass my days in idleness. My inclination was for literature; I was vain enough to believe that I had in me the makings of a novelist, and I had already in manuscript the skeleton of a work of fiction upon which I intended to set to work when I was settled down in life. Before our marriage I had confided my ambitious schemes to Barbara.
"Delightful!" she exclaimed. "My husband will be a famous author. What a proud woman I shall be when I hear people praise his books!"
I brought away from the hotel letters which had arrived for me, and Barbara carried the bouquet I had purchased for her on the previous night. The moment we were in our new quarters she called for a vase, and placed the flowers in water. The brooch I had purchased at the same time was still in my pocket; the device of two hearts entwined was a mockery now in its application to Barbara and myself.
"How sweet of you to buy these flowers," she said, with tender glances at me. "You will always love me, will you not—you will always buy flowers for me? I have heard people say that marriage acts upon love like cold water on fire—puts it out, but I should die with grief if I thought that would be so with us. What are your letters about, dear?"
They were from agents, giving me particulars of two houses, either of which would be a suitable residence for us when we returned to London, and set up housekeeping. Barbara and I had made many pleasant journeys in search of a house, and we had selected two in the neighborhood of West Kensington. One was unfurnished, the other had been the residence for a few months of a gentleman who had furnished it in good style, and was desirous of selling the furniture and his interest in the lease. I preferred the former, Barbara the latter, and I now gave her the letters to read. The furnished house was offered to me for a sum which I considered moderate, and an answer had to be given immediately, as another likely purchaser was making inquiries about it.
"Now sit down, like a good boy," said Barbara, "and send the agent a cheque, and settle it at once. It will be the dearest little home, and we shall be as happy as the day is long."
I had no heart to argue the matter; after the experiences of the last twenty-four hours one house was as good to me as another. A home we must have, and I earnestly desired to avoid contention, so for the sake of peace I did as Barbara wished, and wrote to the agent to close the bargain. While I was attending to my correspondence Barbara was bustling about and chatting with a chambermaid with whom she appeared to be already on confidential terms.
"What delightful rooms these are," she said, looking over my shoulder as I was writing, "and what a clever business man my dear boy is! I am ever so glad we moved from that disagreeable hotel. You must consult me in these things for the future; I have an instinct which always guides me right. The moment I entered the place I knew we should not be comfortable there. Go on with your letters while Annette assists me to unpack. You must not look on, sir; I shall not let you into the secrets of a lady's wardrobe till we have been married a year at least. When you have finished your letters you can arrange your private treasures while I am arranging mine, or if you are too tired you can lie on the sofa and smoke a cigar. Would it shock you very much if I smoked a cigarette? It is quite the fashionable thing for ladies to do."
I replied that I did not like to see women smoke.
"Then you shall not see me do it," she said, vivaciously. "I would die rather than give you one moment's annoyance."
Annette was the chambermaid, a tall, thin-faced, spare woman of middle age; and a stranger, observing her and my wife together, would have supposed they had been long acquainted. Barbara was given to sudden and violent likings and dislikings, and had once said to me, "I love impulsive people. They are ever so much better and so much more genuine than people who hum and ha, and want time to consider whether they are fond of you or not. They resemble spiders who, after watching for days and days, creep out of their corners when you least expect it, and bind you tight so that you can't move, and say, 'I have made up my mind; I am going to eat you bit by bit.'" I thought this speech very clever when I first heard it, and I became immediately a worshiper of impulsiveness. That Barbara should strike up a sudden friendship with the new chambermaid did not, therefore, surprise me. Together they proceeded with the unpacking of Barbara's wardrobe, Barbara darting in upon me now and then to give me a kiss, "on the sly," she whispered, "for she mustn't see." Then she would return to Annette, and they would laugh and talk. My letters written, I lit a cigar and took up a French newspaper. Once Barbara brought a peculiar flavor into the room, and I asked her what it was.
"Cloves," she replied. "I dote on them." She popped one into my mouth, and said, "Now we are equal and you can't complain. Oh, John, promise me never, never to eat onions alone. I am passionately fond of them. You are beginning to find out all my little failings."
She ran into the bedroom to tell Annette the joke, and there was much giggling between them.
"How provoking!" she cried, darting in for the twentieth time. "I have mislaid the key of my small trunk. Lend me your keys; perhaps one of them will fit."
I gave her my bunch of keys, and she was a long time trying them. I took no notice of this, being engrossed in a feuilleton, and taking from the style in which the exciting incidents were described a lesson for the novel I contemplated writing.
"Not one of them will fit," said Barbara, throwing the keys into my lap. Shortly afterwards she called out, "Congratulate me, John, I have found my key. It was in my pocket all the time. See what a simple little woman you have married; and you thought me clever, you foolish boy!"
So far as I can recall my impressions I am endeavoring to describe them faithfully. I went through many transitions of feeling in those days, now hoping, now despairing, now accusing myself of doing my wife an injustice, now sternly convinced that I was right. On this day I was comforted, Barbara was so bright, so ingenuous, and I firmly believed she would keep the promise she had given me. She brought into play all the arts and fascinations by which she had beguiled me in our courting days. She ordered me to take her for a drive, to buy her violets, to drive to the Magazin de Louvre to make purchases (where she selected a number of things she did not need), to take her to a famous restaurant to dine—"it is so dull," she said, "to dine in a stuffy little room all by ourselves"—and, dinner over, she invited me to accompany her to a theatre where a comedy was being played which Annette had told her was very amusing.
"I can't live without excitement," she said. "I love theatres, I love bright weather, I love flowers, I love handsome men—why do you look so grave, sir? Do you not love handsome women? You are a ninny if you don't, and if you don't, sir, why did you marry me?"
"Barbara," I said gravely, "it is a strange question, I know, but do you think we are suited to one another?"
"It is a strange question," she replied, laughing. "My dear, we were made for one another. Fie, love! Do you forget that marriages are made in Heaven?"
"Ours, Barbara?"
"Certainly, ours."
Wonderful were the inconsistencies of her utterances; one moment questioning whether she had not made a mistake in marrying me, the next declaring that our marriage was made in heaven.
"I have not a secret from you," I said.
"Nor I from you," she returned. "I hope you agree with me, John, that there should be perfect confidence between man and wife, that they should hide nothing from one another."
"I do agree with you; not even the smallest matter should be hidden."
"Yes, John, love, not even the smallest matter. Little things are often very important, and it is so awkward to be found out. I am so glad we are of one mind about this. When we first engaged I said to Maxwell, 'John shall know everything about me—everything. All my faults and failings—nothing shall be hidden from him. Then he can't reproach me afterwards. I will be perfectly frank with him.' Maxwell called me a fool, and said there were lots of things people ought to keep to themselves, and that I should be horrified if I were told all the dreadful things you had done. He spoke of wild oats, and bachelors living alone, and the late suppers they had in their chambers with girls and all sorts of queer company. But I was determined. You might deceive me, but I would not deceive you. I would not have that upon my conscience."
"You really kept nothing from me, Barbara?"
"Nothing, love."
"And you are keeping nothing from me now?"
"Nothing, love."
I did not press her farther. Her smiling eyes looked into mine, and I had received incontestible proof that she was lying to my face.
I was an inveterate smoker, and at this period my favorite habit was a consolation to me. I smoked at all hours of the day, and Barbara had encouraged me, saying that she loved the smell of a cigar. But on the morning following the conversation I have just recorded she complained that my cigar made her ill, and I went into the boulevard to smoke it. When I had thrown away the stump I returned to the hotel to attend to my trunks, which were not yet unpacked. These trunks were in a small ante-room, the key of which I had put in my pocket. I had adopted this precaution in order that they should not be in Barbara's sight, that she should not be left alone with them, and that when I unpacked them she should not see what they contained. Upon my return to the hotel Barbara was in her bed-room, attending to her toilet, and Annette was with her. It was Barbara's first visit to Paris, and we had arranged to make the round of its principal attractions.
The first trunk I opened was that in which I had deposited the five bottles of brandy I had found among Barbara's dresses. To my astonishment they were gone.
I was positive I had placed them there, but to make sure I searched my second trunk, with the same result. The bottles had been abstracted. By whom, and by what means?
The cunning hand was Barbara's.
What kind of a woman was I wedded to who spoke so fair and acted so treacherously, who could smile in my face with secret designs in her heart against my peace and happiness? I could go even farther than that, and say against my honor. Fearful lest my indignation might cause me to lose control over myself and lead to a scandalous scene, I locked the trunk and left the hotel. In the open air I could more calmly review the deplorable position into which I had been betrayed.
It is the correct word to use. Treacherously, basely, had I been betrayed.
It was long before I was sufficiently composed to apply myself to the consideration of the plan by means of which Barbara obtained the bottles of brandy. The lock of the trunk had not been tampered with, and no force had been used in opening it. She must have had a duplicate key. How did she become possessed of it?
I examined my keys, and I fancied I discerned traces of wax upon them. I inquired my way to the nearest locksmith, and giving him the bunch asked whether an impression in wax had been taken of any of them.
"Of a certainty, monsieur," he said, "else I could not have made them."
"It is you, then, who made the duplicates?"
"Assuredly, it is I, monsieur."
"Of how many?"
"Of two, monsieur."
"Of these two?" indicating the keys of my two trunks.
"Exactly, monsieur."
"From impressions in wax which you received."
"Yes, yes, monsieur," he said, redundantly affirmative. "Have you come to ask for them? But they were delivered and paid for last night."
"By a thin-faced, middle-aged woman, with gray eyes and a white face?"
"The description is perfect. I trust the keys are to your satisfaction, and that they fit the locks."
"They fit admirably," I said, and I gave him good morning.
Annette! She was in my wife's pay; together they had conspired against me. The first practical step towards obtaining access to my boxes was taken when Barbara informed me that she had mislaid one of her keys, and borrowed my bunch; then the impressions in wax, and Annette going to the locksmith to give the order; then the packet containing the keys which Annette had secretly conveyed to my wife while my back was turned; then Barbara's complaint this morning that my cigar made her ill, and my going out to smoke. During my absence my trunk was opened and rifled. The petty little mystery was solved.
It was late when I returned to the hotel. I expected a stormy scene, it being now two hours after the time I had appointed to take Barbara to see the sights of Paris; but she was not in our rooms to reproach me. In the bedroom I noticed that two padlocks had been newly fixed to each of her trunks. I went into the office to make inquiries.
"Madame is out," said the manager.
"On foot?"
"No, monsieur; in the carriage that was ordered."
"Did she go alone?"
"No, monsieur; Annette accompanied her."
"Annette!" I exclaimed. "Has she not her duties to attend to here?"
"She is no longer in our service," was the reply. "She is engaged by madame. It was sudden, but she begged to be allowed to leave. Your wife implored also, monsieur, and as another woman who had been with us before as chambermaid was ready to take her place, we consented—to oblige madame."
"Is Annette a good servant?"
"An excellent domestic."
"Trustworthy, honest, and sober?"
"Perfectly. Madame could not desire a better."
Every word he spoke was in Annette's favor, and I felt that another burden was on my life. If I could not cope with Barbara alone, how much less able was I to cope with her now that she had such an ally as this sly creature?
At five o'clock they came in together, my wife flushed and elated, Annette quiet and placid as usual.
"I have had a lovely day," said Barbara, as Annette assisted her to disrobe. "I suppose my dear boy has been running all over the city in search of me."
"You are mistaken," I replied. "I have not searched for you at all."
"I am not going to believe everything you say, you bad boy," she said, darting into the bedroom.
I divined the reason; it was to ascertain whether the padlocks on her boxes had been tampered with. Reassured on this point, she resumed her chatter.
"How lonely my dear boy must have been! I declare he has been smoking. Annette, give me my cloves. Will you have one, John? No? Is it not good of Annette to accept the situation I offered her? She will travel with us to Switzerland and Italy, and will tell us all we want to know about the hotels there, and what is worth seeing, and what not. She will save you no end of money. And what a perfect lady's maid she is! I wonder what possessed me to leave England without one; but I am glad now that I did not engage one there, for I could not have got anybody half so handy and clever as Annette."
While my wife was speaking Annette made no sign, and nothing in her manner indicated that she understood what was being said in her praise. Had she been a stone image she could not have shown less interest. This was carrying acting too far, for her name being frequently mentioned, she would naturally have exhibited some curiosity.
"And only thirty-five pounds a year," my wife continued, and would have continued her prattle had I not interrupted her.
"I should like to speak to you alone, Barbara."
"We are alone, you dear boy." I looked towards the imperturbable woman she had engaged. "Oh, do you object to Annette? What difference can she make? She understands no language but her own."
"I should prefer to be alone with you."
"To say disagreeable things, I suppose, when there are no witnesses present. Oh, I know you. She shall not go."
"Do you think it right to oppose me in such a small matter? Surely we ought to keep our quarrels to ourselves."
"Who is quarreling?" she retorted. "I am not. And as to what is right and wrong, I am as good a judge as you."
"Annette," said I, addressing the woman in French, "leave the room."
"Oui, monsieur," she replied, with perfect submissiveness, and was about to go when my wife said:
"Annette, remain here."
"Oui, madame," she replied, without any indication of surprise at these contradictory orders. To outward appearance she was an absolutely passive agent, ready at a word to go hither or thither, to say yea or nay, without the least feeling or interest in the matter; but any one who judged her by this standard would have found himself grievously at fault.
"Very well," I said. "I will postpone speaking of a very serious subject till I can do so out of the hearing of strangers. I will only say now that you should not have engaged this woman without consulting me."
"Indeed, I shall not consult you," returned Barbara, "upon my domestic arrangements, and I am astonished at your interference. It is I who have to attend to them, and I will not be thwarted and ordered to do this or that. You think a wife is a slave; I will show you that she is not." She paused a moment, and then shrugged her shoulders. "What you have to say had best be said at once, perhaps. In heaven's name let us get it over." She stepped to Annette's side, and whispered a word or two in her ear; the next moment we were alone. "Now, John, what is it?"
"With the connivance of that woman you have had false keys made, with which, in my absence—artfully contrived by yourself—you have opened my trunks."
"Go on."
"You admit it."
"I admit nothing. Go on."
"With those false keys you ransacked my trunks, and stole certain articles from them."
"Stole?" she cried with a scornful laugh. "A proper word for you to use."
"Never mind the word——"
"But I shall mind the word. You will be dictating to me next how I shall express myself. If there is a thief here, it is you. I call you thief to your face. You ought to feel flattered that I followed your example, but nothing seems to please you. And you should consider, my dear—what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. You opened my trunks on the sly; I opened yours on the sly, and took possession of my property which you had stolen from me."
"I admit," I said, speaking without passion, "that I was wrong——"
"Oh, indeed! And that admission justifies you?"
"The end justified me; what I found justified me."
"In your opinion, because you can do no wrong. Seriously, my love, do you look upon me as a child, and do you think I will allow myself to be spied upon and robbed with impunity?"
"What I did was for your good."
"Allow me, if you please, to be the judge of what is good for me. Will it offend you to hear me say that no gentleman would act as you have done?"
It would have been wiser, perhaps, had I refrained from uttering the retort that rose to my lips.
"Would any lady act as you have acted?"
But who can control himself when he is brought face to face with an overwhelming and undeserved misfortune.
"Best leave ladies and gentlemen out of the question," she said, mockingly. "As you pay me the compliment of declaring that I am not a lady, pay me the further compliment of designating what I am."
I was silent.
"I will give you a little lesson in frankness, my dear. When I married you I believed I was marrying a man of honor, unfortunately I was mistaken. It has not taken me long to discover that my husband is a common spy—attached to the detective office, probably, the sort of man who listens at keyholes and searches his wife's pockets when she is asleep. Don't forget, love, that it was you who commenced it. If I were a milksop I should sit down and weep, as some poor creatures do, but I am not a milksop; I can protect myself. Therefore, John. I am not going to make myself unhappy; I am much too sensible. I am not an old woman yet, and I intend to enjoy my life. And now, my dear," she added, after a moment's pause, "I am waiting for your next insult."
"I am afraid it is useless to argue with you," I said, sadly.
"Upon this subject, quite useless," she replied. "Upon any other I am your humble servant. Have you finished, then? Thank you. Annette!"
The woman came in so promptly as to convince me that she had been listening in the passage.
"She waited outside by my orders," said my wife, laughing.
I left them together.
When I had left Barbara and Annette together, I took myself seriously to task. I asked myself whether I understood Barbara's character, and the answer seemed clear. I had not studied it; I did not understand it. She was a beautiful creature with whom I had fallen in love; it was surface love, and I had made no attempt to probe the inner life. In this respect I was no worse off than multitudes of men and women who marry without knowing each other. Was Barbara to blame for it? No. She was in a state of dependence upon a brother whose character I detested. I had offered myself and was accepted. For the fate in store for me I, and I alone, was to blame.
I would be lenient towards her; I would devise some wise plan by which she could be wooed from the wrong path. After all, she was, perhaps, to be pitied. Thus did I argue, thus did I manufacture excuses for her, thus did I school myself into a calmer frame of mind.
In this better mood I met her when Annette was not with her, and asked where she would dine.
"Where you please," she answered, meekly.
Her softened tone filled me with pity and remorse.
"My wish is to please you," I said.
She glanced at me in surprise.
"Are you setting a trap for me?" she asked.
"No, Barbara, only I have been thinking that we do not quite understand one another."
"It seems so," she admitted, in a mournful voice, "and it is making me very unhappy."
"Well, don't let it make you unhappy any longer. We both have faults, and we will try to correct them."
"You dear boy!" she cried, throwing her arms round my neck. "Then you confess you were in the wrong?"
"Yes, I confess it, Barbara."
"And I confess that I was in the wrong. Now, we are equal."
After a pause:
"No one is quite perfect, John."
"It is not within human limits, Barbara."
"We agree—we agree!" she danced about the room in delight. "Isn't it delightful? Oh, I was beginning to despair!"
There was really something childlike in her voice and manner, and I followed her movements with admiration. Suddenly she stopped, and throwing herself on the sofa, hid her face in the cushion, and began to sob.
It was the first time that an act of mine had caused a woman to sob, and it unmanned me. I sat by her side and soothed her with awkward, endearing words, and my efforts were rewarded; she became calmer.
"It is so sweet, so sweet, when you are like this!" she murmured, and dried her eyes. "You are my dear old boy again, just as you were before we were married. Oh, John, why did you go over my boxes on the sly?"
"It was wrong; I have confessed it."
"But I like to hear you say it. You were wrong!"
"Yes, I was wrong."
"You mean it, dear—you are not deceiving me?"
"No, Barbara, I am not deceiving you."
She pouted. "It is nothing but 'Barbara, Barbara.' 'Yes, Barbara,' 'No, Barbara.' Not so very long ago you would say, 'No, my love,' 'Yes, my darling.' Now, my dear, dear boy, say out of your very heart, 'I am not deceiving you, my darling.'"
I repeated the words; to have refused, to have hesitated, would have destroyed the good work, the better understanding, of which I seemed to see the promise.
"I am not deceiving you, my darling."
"Oh, how good it is to hear you speak like that! It is like waking out of a horrid dream to a delightful reality. And you truly, truly love me?"
Again I answered, under pressure. "I truly love you."
"Then I don't care for anything else in the wide, wide world, and I am the happiest woman in it. You had almost forgotten, had you not, John, that I was alone in this city, without a friend but you? I have only you—only you. I hardly cared to live, for what is life without love? But I was frightening myself unnecessarily—or were you doing it just to try me. You will be kind to me, will you not, dear?'
"Indeed, I have no other desire."
"See how a foolish woman can create shadows that terrify her. That is what I did; but they are gone now, all blown away by my dear boy's tender words. And you don't mind my little faults—you will put up with them."
I ventured a saving clause. "Yes, Barbara, and I will try to correct them."
"Of course you will; I expect you to. But you must do it in a nice way. Long lectures are horrid. When I try to correct yours—for that will be only fair play, John, will it, not?—you will see how gentle I will be."
"At the same time, Barbara, while we are correcting each other's faults, we must help ourselves by trying to correct our own."
"I promise, with all my heart; and when I make a promise in that way you may be perfectly sure that it will be performed. That is a virtue I really possess. And so we will go on correcting each other till we are old, old people, ready to become angels, when we sha'n't have any faults at all to correct. For angels are faultless, you know. I am deeply religious, John, dear. There are angels and devils. The good people become angels, the wicked people devils."
"You are mixing up things, rather, are you not, Barbara?"
"Well, it is full of mystery, and who does know for certain? But one can believe; there is no harm in that, is there?"
"None at all."
"And I believe there is a heaven and a hell. You believe it, too, of course?"
"Assuredly I believe there is a heaven, but not that there is a hell hereafter."
She pondered over the words. "A hell hereafter! Why the 'hereafter,' dear?"
"Because I have a firm conviction that we may suffer hell in this life, but not in the next."
"A hell in this life! That would be awful. We will not suffer it, love."
"I trust not, sincerely."
"'Trust not!' You mean you are sure we shall not, surely."
"I am sure we shall not, Barbara."
I was as wax in her hands, standing, so to speak, forever on the edge of a precipice of her creating, and compelled to the utterance of sentiments to which I could not conscientiously subscribe, in order to escape the wreck of a possible happiness.
"That I believe in hell fire and you do not," she said, thoughtfully, "shall not be a cause of difference between us. Everybody thinks his own ideas of religion are right. Perhaps bye and bye I will try to convert you, and if you feel very strongly on the subject of hell you shall try to convert me. Which do you think worse—a hell in this life, or a hell in the next?"
"I have never considered it. Don't let us worry ourselves about theological matters during our honeymoon."
"You are right, John; see how quickly I give in to you. I will tell you why, sir—because it is a wife's duty. You will never find me behindhand in that. Our honeymoon! How nicely you said it. There shall be nothing but sunshine and flowers, and the singing of birds, and love. Oh, what a happy, happy time! And you are no longer angry with me that I have engaged Annette?"
"I am not angry with you at all."
"John," she said, shaking her finger playfully at me, "that is an evasion, and you mustn't set me bad examples. Answer my question immediately, sir."
"Well, Barbara, so long as she does not bring discord between us——"
She stopped me with a kiss. "No, John, that will not do—it really will not do, you bad boy. You mustn't take unreasonable antipathies to people. A lady's-maid has a great deal to put up with, and mistresses are often very trying. There, you see, I don't spare myself—oh, no, I am a very just person, and I like every one to be justly treated. Say at once, sir, that you are no longer angry with me for engaging Annette."
Mistrusting the woman as I did, I was forced, for the sake of peace, to express approval of her. Barbara clapped her hands, and declared we should be quite a happy family.
It was after this interview that Barbara had a religious fit. Twice a day she went to the Madeleine, and spent an hour there upon her knees. Sometimes Annette accompanied her, sometimes I, upon her invitation. I asked her why she, a Protestant, frequented a Catholic place of worship.
"What does it matter, the place?" she asked, in return, speaking in a gentle tone. "It does one good to pray. Even to kneel in such a temple without saying a prayer strengthens one's soul. Through the solemn silence, broken now and then by a sob from some poor woman's broken heart, a message comes from God. Women are greatly to be pitied, John."
"Men, too, sometimes," I said.
"Oh, no," she answered, quickly, "there is no comparison."
A trifling incident may be set down here, in connection with the brooch, with its device of two hearts, which I had purchased as a present for Barbara on the first night we were in Paris, and which I afterwards determined not to give her. I was in the sitting-room clearing my pockets. Among the things I had taken out was the brooch, which I had almost forgotten. I was still of the opinion that it would be an unsuitable gift, and I was thinking what to do with it when Annette passed through the sitting-room to the bedroom, her eyes, as usual, lowered to the ground. In the course of the day I went to the jeweler of whom I had purchased the brooch, and he took it back at half the price I had paid for it. I thought no more of the matter.
I had taken circular tickets for a two months' ramble through Switzerland and Italy, intending to visit Lucerne, Berne, Interlaken, Chamouni, and Geneva, then on to the Italian lakes, and I was studying the plan I had mapped out, and making notes of bye-excursions from the principal towns, when Barbara burst in upon me with the exclamation that she was sick of Paris. This surprised me. We had intended to remain for two weeks, only one of which had elapsed, and I had supposed that the busy, brilliant life of the gay city would be so much to Barbara's liking that I should have a difficulty in getting her away from it. For my own part I was glad to leave, glad to travel sooner than we intended to regions where we should be in closer contact with nature. Barbara had never visited Switzerland or Italy, and I hoped that association with the lakes and mountains of those beautiful 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 and power. It did not occur to me that I should have been sorry to see such a work in the hands of a pure-minded woman, and that the absence of the reflection was a wrong done to a woman who was but newly married—and that woman my own wife! My thought was: What effect will the story have upon Barbara? Will it show her in an impressive and personal way the awful depths of degradation to which drink can bring its victims, and will it be a warning to her?
"Have you read it?" she asked.
"Yes," I answered. "It is a terrible story; it teaches a terrible lesson."
"I have heard so," she said, "and I was quite anxious to read it myself. It opens brightly."
"Wait till you come to the end," I thought.
She went on with the reading, and was so engrossed in the development of the sordid, wretched tragedy that she paid but little attention to the scenery through which we were passing. I did not interrupt her. "Let it sink into her soul," I thought. "God grant that it may appall and terrify her!"
In the afternoon the book was finished. But she was loth to lay it aside. She read the last few pages, and referred to others which presumably had produced an impression upon her. Then she put the book down. I looked at her inquiringly.
"You are right," she said. "It does indeed teach a terrible lesson."
I did not pursue the subject. If the effect I hoped for had not been produced no words of mine would bring it about.
A fellow passenger engaged me in conversation, and we stood upon the landing stage awhile. When I returned to the carriage I detected that Barbara had been tippling; the signs were unmistakable. Later in the day she made reference to the story and expressed sympathy for the victims of the awful vice.
"Is that your only feeling respecting the story?" I asked.
"What other feeling can I have?" she replied, sorrowfully. "It was born in them. Poor Gervaise! Poor Coupeau! I don't know which I pity most."
"And the terrible lesson, Barbara?"
"Everything in moderation," she said, and after a little pause, added, "Besides, it isn't true; it isn't possible. Novel writers are compelled to draw upon their imaginations, and they invent unheard-of things—as you will do, I suppose with your stories. Make them hot and strong, John, and you will stand a greater chance of success. People like to have their blood curdled. If I had the talent to write a novel I should stick at nothing. Look at——," she mentioned the name of a living English author whose stories were wonderfully successful—"he deals in nothing but blood; in every novel he writes he kills hundreds and hundreds of people, and slashes them up dreadfully. His pages absolutely reek with gore. Now, you can't convince me that he is describing real life; he is describing things that never occurred, that never could have occurred. It is just the same with this story that I have been reading. Very clever, of course, and very horrible, but absolutely untrue."
That was her verdict, and I knew it was useless to argue with her.
We arrived at Geneva between eight and nine o'clock. In accordance with Barbara's wish, we took the omnibus of the Hotel de la Paix, where Maxwell was to meet us. She was disappointed that he was not at the station; we looked out for him, but we did not see him.
It happened that the lady and gentleman of whom I have spoken took the same omnibus and were seated when we entered. They drew into a corner of the omnibus, and the gentleman shifted his place so that he sat between his companion and Barbara. He seemed to be desirous that the ladies should not sit next to each other.
A disappointment awaited Barbara at the hotel. Maxwell was not there. When I gave my name to the proprietor and was speaking about the rooms we were to occupy, he said, "There is a letter for madame," and handed it to her. It was from Maxwell. She read it with a frown.
"It is a shame—a shame!" she cried.
"What does he say?" I asked.
"He will not be here till the end of the week," she replied, fretfully. "He may not be here at all."
"I am sorry," I said.
"You are not," she retorted, fiercely. "You are glad."
And certainly it was she who spoke the truth.
We went up in the lift to look at our rooms, and then I came down again to order dinner. Returning to inform Barbara that it would be ready in twenty minutes, I found the door locked.
"Let me alone," Barbara cried from within. "I don't want any dinner. You can have it without me. It won't spoil your appetite."
I turned to go downstairs and met Annette.
"Is my wife unwell?" I asked.
"Madame is disturbed that her brother has not arrived," the woman answered. "She does not require me any longer to-night. I am to get something to eat and go to bed. Good-night, monsieur."
"Good-night, Annette."
She had spoken sulkily, as though vexed at not being allowed to wait upon her mistress.
I had my dinner alone, and afterwards strolled along the banks of the beautiful lake, smoking a cigar. There was no moon, but the sky was bright with stars. I was in no hurry, knowing that when Barbara was in one of her passionate fits it was best to give her plenty of time to get over it. My presence irritated her, and I did not care to be the butt of her unreasonable anger.
There was still no news of Maxwell, and I was pleased to be spared his presence.
Now, I cannot say whether the scene which took place later in the day between me and Barbara was inspired by a communication which she had just received from Annette, or whether she had been already enlightened upon the subject, and had stored up the pretended grievance for use against me when she was in the humor for it. It matters little either way, and perhaps it would have been wiser of me to treat the accusation with contempt; but there are limits to a man's patience, and I could not always keep control of myself. It was commenced by Barbara inquiring whether my lady friend had followed us to Geneva, and by her answering the question herself.
"But of course she has. You have laid your plans artfully. Keep her out of my way, or I'll strangle her."
"You are mad," I muttered, and indeed, I must either have believed so, or that she was at her devil's tricks again.
"Not yet," she screamed, and then I knew that she had been drinking. "Not yet. You may drive me to it in the end, but the end hasn't come yet. No, not by many a long day, Johnnie, my dear! Only don't let me get hold of her, or there'll be murder done."
"Tell me what you mean," I said, closing the doors and windows, for I was anxious that the people in the hotel should not hear, "and I may be able to answer you."
"Where is the lady's brooch you bought in Paris?" she asked. "Show it to me, and I'll be satisfied. Well, where is it?"
Then I recollected that Annette had passed through the room of the hotel in Paris when I emptied my pockets there; I was looking at the brooch, debating what I should do with it.
"You are thinking what to say," Barbara continued. "I will save you the trouble of inventing a lie. Say that you bought it for me."
"It would be the truth. I did buy it for you."
"Give it me, then; it belongs to me."
"I cannot give it to you; I have parted with it."
"I knew it without your telling me. You gave it to the other woman."
"There is no other woman in the case. Be reasonable, Barbara. Things are bad enough, God knows, but I can honestly say you have no cause for jealousy. The brooch was intended for you, but I changed my mind, and returned it to the jeweler."
"Not thinking it suitable for me."
"Exactly. I did not think it suitable for you."
"The device was not appropriate, eh?"
"It was not appropriate."
"I wonder you are not ashamed to look me in the face. It was a device of two hearts entwined—yours and another woman's—and it was not a suitable device to offer to me, whom you had married but the day before!" (I thought with dismay that Annette must have sharp eyes to have seen it in that brief moment when she passed me, looking slyly on the ground.) "You are a clumsy liar, John. If you want to know, it was because I was maddened by your shameful conduct that I left you last night. I was sorry for it afterwards. I reasoned with myself, saying, He is my husband, and it is my duty to be by his side. That is why I was not sorry when you found me this morning. You may break my heart, but I will never leave you again, never, never! Now that I have found you out don't presume to lecture me again upon any little faults I may have—but keep your women out of my sight, my dear."
I argued no longer; my heart was filled with bitterness; the smallest of my actions was turned against me with such ingenuity as to render me powerless.
I will not dwell upon the incidents that enlivened the remaining weeks of this mockery of a honeymoon. Again and again did I find Barbara under the influence of drink, and again and again did I seek refuge in silence, for every word I spoke was twisted into an accusation against myself. We saw nothing of Maxwell, and after a month's tour Barbara declared she was tired of foreign countries and foreign people, and yearned to take her proper place in our dear little home in London. "Where you will discover," she said (she was in one of her amiable moods), "that I am a model wife, and a perfect treasure of a housekeeper."
We were in London nearly two months before we settled in our new home, which, as I have stated, was situated in West Kensington. Immediately upon our return Barbara and I drove to the house, and took a tour of inspection through the rooms. It seemed to me that a few days would suffice for the necessary alterations and additions, but Barbara was of a different opinion. This piece of furniture did not suit her, that would not do, the other was altogether out of place. She did not like the paper on the walls, the ceilings were frightful, the patterns of the carpets horrible. Before our marriage we had come to London to see the house, and then she was satisfied with everything, now she is satisfied with nothing. If I ventured to make a remonstrance her 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."
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?" Barbara asked, 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 on our house-warming day."