Kitabı oku: «The Betrayal of John Fordham», sayfa 10

"Beggars do not always say what is true," I observed.

She looked at me in surprise. "He could hardly be called a beggar, John. Did I not do right in relieving him?"

"Quite right, dear," I said, with an inward prayer that I was mistaken in the man.

"I am quite sure he spoke the truth," she said, and there, as between us, the matter ended.

Before many hours had passed my fears were confirmed. I kept watch from the cottage, and saw Maxwell in the distance, coming in our direction. I went to meet him.

"This is friendly of you, John," he said. "Where shall we talk? In the society of the charming Madame Virtue and her sweet babe, or alone?"

"Alone," I replied. "I forbid you to present yourself in my house again."

"A tall word, John, forbid. It depends, my boy, upon you. Keep a civil tongue in your head, and be amenable to reason, and you shall continue to tread the path of righteousness and peace. Defy me, and up the three of you go. A pretty piece of goods, Madame Virtue, mild-tempered and long suffering, a different kind of character from my adorable sister. I can imagine a scene between them – Madame Virtue soft, pleading, reproachful; Barbara hot, flaming, revengeful. But perhaps I mistake. When a woman discovers that she has been betrayed and deceived she occasionally turns into a fury. I know something of the sex."

"You promised not to molest me again."

"Am I molesting you? I come in brotherly love to lay my sorrows at your feet. John, I am broke."

"That is not my business."

"Pardon me, it is. We are partners in goodness, mutually bound to spare a charming lady and her sweet babe from a sorrow worse than death. It is a mission I love; it appeals to my tenderest feelings. I feel good all over."

"You are a devil!"

"In humility I bow my head. Revile me, John, pour burning coals upon me; I shall enjoy it all the more. Here I stand prepared for the martyr's stake."

My blood boiled; I gave him a dangerous look. "You are trying my patience too far. Drive me to desperation, and I will not answer for the consequences."

"Drive me to desperation," he said, pausing to light a cigarette, "and I will hunt her into the gutter. I will make her life a living misery, and when the end comes she shall curse you with her dying breath. Nothing like frankness, dear John. Behold me, an epitome of it."

If I had not turned from him I should have committed some act of violence. It was thought of Ellen alone that restrained me, that enabled me to regain my self-command. He struck at her, not at me, and well did he know his power. When I was living with Barbara, I believed that suffering had reached its limit; I was to learn that I was mistaken. Hitherto I had suffered for myself, a selfish feeling affecting only my life and future, but now that another being had wound herself into my heart, a sweet and loving woman whose happiness was in my hands, my former misery seemed light indeed. And her babe – my own dear child! To allow passion to master me would have been unpardonable.

"Are you cooler, John?" asked Maxwell.

"In God's name," I cried, "tell me why you continue to persecute me."

"In God's name, I will. I regret to say, I am suffering from the old complaint, John. Misfortune pursues me, and if I don't have a couple of hundred pounds – "

I would hear no more. I went with him to a public-house, and wrote a cheque for the amount.

"You are a trump," he said, pocketing the cheque. "Upon my soul, if you had a better knowledge of me you would find I am not such a bad fellow, after all; but when needs must, John, the devil drives."

That night I told Ellen that we must remove from Swanage.

"I shall be very sorry, John, dear," she said. "Is it really necessary?"

"It is imperative, Ellen."

She sighed. "We have been so happy here."

"We can be happy elsewhere, dearest."

"Why, truly," she said, brightening up, "so long as we are together what does it matter where we live?"

My idea was to escape from my enemy; to hide ourselves in some corner in England, where we should be safe from his cruel persecution. After much study and cogitation I fixed upon Cornwall, and thither we went, and established ourselves in a cottage on the outskirts of Penzance. I was in a fever of alarm during the removal, and kept unceasingly on the watch, but observed nothing to cause me apprehension. When we were settled I breathed more freely; here, surely, in this remote place, we should be secure. Ellen was cheerful and bright, and she made me so. Her time was fully occupied; she had not an idle moment; she did not allow herself one. Our child, the garden, the home, kept her busy. Her consideration for me, the loving attention she paid to my slightest wish, even anticipated it, touched me deeply. Tenderness was expressed in every word she spoke, in every movement she made. It would be impossible for me to describe how dear she was to me. It is such as she who have raised woman to the position she holds in the scale of humanity.

What troubled me greatly was the state of my finances. The inroads made upon my purse by Maxwell's exactions were so serious that I foresaw the time when, if my wife's allowance was to be continued, I should find myself penniless. We were living at a moderate rate, our expenses being under three pounds a week. The money I had left, apart from the allowance to Barbara, capitalized, would bring in a little over fifty pounds a year, and I felt that I was daily jeopardizing Ellen's future and the future of our child, as well as my own. I was not a business man, and had no trade to which I could turn my hand; in England my only weapon was my pen – a poor weapon to most who have to live by it. The difficulty was solved presently by events of which I was not the originator. Meanwhile I wrote a short story which I read to Ellen, and was pleased with myself. Needless to say, she was delighted with it, and elevated me immediately upon the pinnacle of fame. Under a nom de plume, I sent it to a magazine; it was declined. I sent it to another magazine, with the same result. This second refusal came when we had been four weeks in Cornwall, and I went from my house to post it to a third editor when, almost at the door, I saw Maxwell.

"Again, John," he cried with brazen effrontery, "like a bad penny returned. I can't afford to lose sight of you. What a sly dog you are! but I am a slyer. It is an amusing game. Set a thief to catch a thief, you know."

"It is you who are the thief," I said, all my fears returning, "but you have had your journey for nothing this time. You can get nothing more out of me for the best of reasons; you have robbed me of almost my last penny."

"We shall see. So you thought to give me the slip. You may thank your stars you did not succeed. I have come to see you not on my account, but on Barbara's."

"You might have spared yourself the trouble," I said, coldly. "I have nothing to say to her; she can have nothing to say to me."

"That is where you are mistaken. Passion blinds you, John. Mind, I don't mean to say you have nothing to complain of. I see now that you were not suited to one another, and I dare say I was to blame in not opening your eyes before you married her. There were reasons. In the first place – I admit it frankly – I wanted to get rid of her. I am no saint, but she tired me out; honestly, I was sick of her. In the second place, she bound me down. 'It is my last chance,' she said. Why, she was engaged three times before you met her, and was found out in time by her lovers, who were not slow in beating a retreat. You were the unlucky one to fall into the trap, and though I've been hard on you I am sorry for you. In running away from her and taking up with another woman you did what I should have done if I had been in your place. However, it is all at an end now."

"At an end!" I echoed, regarding him with amazement

"At an end," he repeated, gravely. "You will soon be free, and then I suppose you will wash your hands of me. Well! Perhaps I shall have a bit of luck in another quarter. I don't mind telling you that I had a man watching you all the time you were in Swanage. I knew when you left and where you ran to. I could have been here three weeks ago if I wished, and I have only come to bring you the news. Barbara is dying."

God forgive me, the exclamation that escaped me was not one of horror, but of relief; and the next moment I was shocked at myself.

"She has behaved abominably," he continued, "but after all, she is your wife, and you can hardly refuse to see her, and whisper a word of forgiveness – supposing we are in time. I left her this morning; the doctor was with her, and said he doubted whether she would live over to-morrow."

"It is so sudden," I said, and still my thoughts continued to dwell upon Ellen and our child. "Has she been long ill?"

"She has not been ill at all in that sense," he replied. "It was an accident. Yesterday morning, when she was in her usual state – you understand, John – she slipped from the top of the stairs to the bottom, and broke her spine. The moment the doctor saw her he said there was no hope. Will you come?"

It was my duty; I should have been less than man had I hesitated. "Yes," I said, "I will come. When is the train?"

"It starts in an hour if you can get ready by that time."

"I will meet you at the station," I said, and went at once to Ellen to inform her of what had occurred. She approved of my going, and hastened my departure. For Barbara she had only words of pity, and her eyes overflowed in commiseration for the wasted life so near its end. In this crisis it would have been contrary to nature had we not thought of ourselves, and of what Barbara's death meant to us, but it was a subject we avoided. I breathed a blessing over our sleeping child, and promising to write to Ellen directly I got to London, I bade her good-bye.

Maxwell was at the station.

"Plenty of time, John," he said, "the train doesn't start for half an hour. You'll stand me a brandy and soda and a sandwich, I suppose. I haven't had a bite or a drink since the morning. I'm shipwrecked again. Serve me right, you'll say. So say I. I shall have to turn over a new leaf. Would you believe I had to travel third-class, and didn't have money enough to pay for a return ticket? Hard lines for a gentleman; but such is life."

"You'll have to travel back third-class," I said. "I have no money to waste."

He grumbled at this, but I paid no heed to him. After disposing of his brandy and soda he asked for another, which I refused. He laughed, and complimented me upon displaying a strength of character which he had not given me credit for. If I had not hurried him we would have missed the train.

Few people were traveling by it, and we had a compartment to ourselves. Such conversation as we had on the journey was of his seeking; meeting with no encouragement from me he leant back moodily and closed his eyes. Quite two hours passed without a word being exchanged, when suddenly he said:

"John, after Barbara's death you will marry Madame Virtue, of course. How soon after? I shall expect an invitation, old fellow."

I did not answer him, and he made no further attempts at conversation. At the end of our journey I asked him where Barbara lived.

"Islington way," he said, sulkily, and calling a cab, gave the driver the address.

The cab pulled up at the door of a wretched house in a narrow street between "The Angel" and the Agricultural Hall. I paid the man and followed Maxwell to the second floor, where, opening a door, he fell back, motioning me to enter first.

The room was in semi-darkness, the window-curtains being drawn down.

"Is that you, John?" a voice asked, and at the same moment the curtains were drawn aside.

It was the voice of my stepmother. From an inner room came the sound of driveling laughter.

As I turned and saw Maxwell standing with his back against the door, and an insolent smile on his face, suspicion entered my mind. It was to some extent confirmed when I observed the insolent smile reflected on the face of my stepmother.

"Barbara is still alive, dear brother-in-law," said Maxwell, laughing quietly to himself. "You are in time, you see. Oh, yes, you are in time."

I threw open the door of the adjoining room. A strange woman was there, standing by a chair in which Barbara was lolling. Except that she had grown more unwieldy, that her eyes were bleared and dim, and that her driveling mouth and hanging jaws gave her the appearance of a besotted hag, she bore no traces of a mortal illness such as Maxwell had described. The truth rushed upon me with convincing force. I had been tricked.

"Neat, wasn't it?" exclaimed Maxwell, as I closed the door upon the disgusting sight. "Would you believe," addressing my stepmother, "that our dear John was actually calculating the time when he would be free to marry the low woman for whom he deserted his lawful wife?"

"I would believe anything of him," said my stepmother.

"I warn you," I said. "Another such allusion, and I will thrash you within an inch of your life."

"Oh! I'm not to be frightened by threats," he blustered, "and I'm not going to quarrel with you."

"You will gain nothing by the trick you have played me," I said. "I am already making your sister an allowance which my means do not warrant, and which no court of law would compel me to pay."

"A pretense of poverty for which we are prepared. And we are prepared also to make your affairs public property unless you listen to reason."

"You are in the plot against me," I said to my stepmother.

"That is a lie," she replied, composedly. "I am not in any plot against you, but I am ready to give evidence when called upon."

"We are here, John, in the presence of a witness," said Maxwell, "for the purpose of coming to an understanding. You have had sufficient experience of me to be aware by this time that you are no match for me. If you wish to be left in peace, to lead any life you choose, you will have to pay for it. Shall I name the price?"

"It will be quite useless. You will never obtain another shilling from me."

"You shall have the opportunity to consider it, John. For one thousand pounds – a sum you can well afford to pay – you shall be left forever at peace, to go your own way to the devil. I will bind myself never to molest you again by any legal document you may lay before me. Consider it well, brother-in-law. What I offer is worth the price."

"It needs no consideration. You have my answer."

"I give you a week to think it over," he continued. "If then you persist in your refusal, I will dog you like your shadow – and not only you but the lady; observe how polite I am – in whom you take an interest. I will hunt you down and make your life and hers a daily misery. You may be able to stand it for a time. If I am any judge of appearances she will not. You have a gift of imagination. Imagine the worst I can do, and you will fall short of the reality. If not for your own sake, John, for hers, think it over."

"You have my answer," I repeated; and brushing him aside, I left the house.

CHAPTER XXII

Before the expiring of the month from the date of the deception practiced upon me I had put into execution a plan I formed while Maxwell was threatening me. To continue to live in England persecuted by his malignant ingenuity would have been an act of folly; to purchase intervals of peace at the cost of being reduced to beggary in a year or two would have been no less. At all hazards I was determined that some small sum should be secured to Ellen, to shield her and our child from penury, and to this end I made over to her the balance of my fortune, securely invested in Consols, the interest on which she would receive monthly from my solicitor, the principal reverting to her at my death. I take this opportunity of expressing my heartfelt thanks to this gentleman for the faithful manner in which he has carried out my instructions and executed the delicate business I entrusted to him. For my own immediate necessities I took one hundred pounds, which indeed was all that remained after the investment which secured to Ellen one pound a week during my lifetime. It was my desire at first, that she should accompany me to Australia, but my solicitor argued against it; and his arguments were strengthened by a medical opinion that neither the voyage nor the Australian climate would be good for my dear Ellen's health.

In the winding up of this business and the preparations for my departure, I exercised the greatest caution and secrecy, in order that my enemies should have no suspicion of the locality in which it was determined that Ellen should reside. We chose London as offering the greatest security for her, and because she would be within hail of my solicitor, to whom she was to apply for protection in the event of molestation. The knowledge that I had baffled my pursuers was a satisfaction to me, and more than once I put successfully into practice the tactics I adopted when I first discovered I was being watched and followed. With respect to our correspondence I arranged that my letters to Ellen, and Ellen's to me, should be sent under cover to my solicitor, who would forward them to their correct address. It was probable that I should be shifting from place to place in Australia, and Ellen might have occasion to remove. During the month a number of communications from Maxwell reached me through my solicitor. Some contained threats, some invited me to a meeting in which a modification of his terms could be discussed. I did not acknowledge one of these letters, and in the last I received Maxwell wrote: "I have discovered that it is your intention to leave England with Madame Virtue and your precious infant. If you think you will escape me you are mistaken. Go where you will you will be shadowed and not allowed to rest until you come to terms. Be wise in time, dear John." This threat did not alarm me; the discovery he announced was probably mere guesswork; even if it were not, my departure would strengthen the chances of Ellen's safety. Before I left there was still a neglected duty to perform – to inform Ellen that I had deceived her as to my real name. She evinced no surprise, and did not reproach me, nor did it shake her faith in me. From the hour we met my dear Ellen has never uttered a word to cause me pain. Humbly do I ask forgiveness for the sorrows I have brought upon her.

At length the day of our separation arrived. I had put off my departure to the latest moment, and was to travel by the night train to meet my ship.

We sat together in Ellen's humble room, her head on my shoulder, our child in my arms. Though he could not yet speak an intelligible word he had, thank God, learned to love me. What Ellen and I had to say was but a repetition of the fond assurances we had exchanged that we would be true to each other to the last hour of our lives. She was outwardly more cheerful than I; such women as she have a strength of endurance denied to man, whose courage often deserts him at the supreme moment of a moral crisis.

Ellen rose to spread the cloth for our last meal together, and it touched me to observe how she had consulted my tastes in what she had placed upon the table. To please her I forced myself to eat, and supper ended, she gave her babe the breast, her eyes shining with tenderness and love.

"You must be brave, dear," she said. "You must never lose heart – never for one single moment."

"And you, Ellen, you must also be brave."

"I am – I shall be; and cheerful, too. If I were to mope, dear, baby would suffer – and that would never do, would it, darling?"

I see her now a picture of sweetest motherhood, as she sat crooning to the little fellow, who was drawing life and goodness from nature's fount. In the dark watches of my lonely life the picture rose before me, and I saw the dear woman with her baby at her breast, her tender eyes shining upon me. It taught me patience, and never failed to comfort me. Across the seas a heart was throbbing with love for the wanderer, a mother was whispering to her babe of the absent father; an invisible link stretched from the quiet bush to the fevered city, along which, in hours of unrest, sped the spiritual message: "I am thinking of you. Dear love, dear love, do not lose heart; I am thinking of you."

And so we parted. The last words were spoken, the last kiss given. I turned and saw, through tears, Ellen standing at the door, a blessing on her lips, her soul in her eyes. "Farewell, dear heart, farewell!"