The Betrayal of John Fordham. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      CHAPTER XI

      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. СКАЧАТЬ