BETRAYAL OF JOHN FORDHAM.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXIII, Issue 10070, 4 March 1896, Page 3

BETRAYAL OF JOHN FORDHAM.

NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.

.. — ♦ BY 1!. L. FARJHON, Author of "No. 119, Great Porter Square," " Qrif," "The March of Fate," "For the Defence," " Aaron the Jew," etc. [all Rights Reserved.) ' CHAPTER XII. We were in London nearly two months before we settled in our new home, which, as I havo stated, was situated in West Kensington. Immediately upon our return Barbara and I drove to the house, and took a tour of inspection through therooms. It seemed to me thab a tew days would suffice for the necessary alterations and additions, but Barbara was of a different opinion. This piece of furniture did nob suit her, that would not do, the other was altogether out of place. She did nob 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 was satisfied with nothing. If I ventured to make a remonstrance her reply was, "Do let me manage? Whab can you. know about domestic affairs ? Leave their to me, I will soon pub things to rights."

Seeing that her idea of putting things to rights would cost a large sum of monoy, I said, "Remember, Barbara, I'm nob a millionaire."

" Perhaps nob," she answered, " bub you have thousands and thousands of pounds, you stingy follow, and we must commence comfortably. Our whole happiness depends upon it, I shan't ruin you, my dear. Besides, are you nob 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 ib is my comfort I am looking after ? My dear old boy, you shall have the snuggest don in London." " When they are written—if they ever are"—l was tortured by a doubt whether my mind would be sufficiently at ease for literary work—" they may nob find favour with the publishers." "1 will manage them, John, Don't meet troubles half way. There is a clever song— 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 dosiro was for peace. Love held no place in my heart. The utmost I could hope for was that 1 should not be plunged into disgrace. I had very little to do with the now arrangements of tho 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 tirno. During these low -weeks we lived in a furnished flat in Bloorasbury, and having nothing else to do I spent the greater part of tho day in the reading-room of the British Museum, for which I had held a ticket since I left my stepmother's house. Barbara ana 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 lonoly walk or ride. Once or twice a week, wlion the whether was fine, I would ride on the top of an omnibus toils terminus, and return to my starting point by the same conveyance. My favourite rido 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— plunge into tho labyrinth of narrow streets and! courts with which the district abound. What made the deepest impression upon me in my wanderings thereabouts was the poverty of tho residents and the immense number and tho magnificence of the gin palaces, in the immediate vicinity of the most nourishing of which were usually congregated groups of wretched men, , women and children— the latter during the mid-day hours of my visits— whoso one idea of life and life's duties wan drink. The subject had a fascination for me, and my heart sank as I noted the hideous degradation to which it brings its victim?, The soddened bestial face, the shameless lasciviousness, the frightful language, tho 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 himsolf near me as a protection. " A famous thieves' quarter this, sir." he said ; " I thought you mightn't know." " Thank you for tho warning," I replied ; "the poople are very poor; all the houses seem to bo tumbling down," " Thoy belong to a big swell." " Does he not come to inspect them ?" The policeman— intelligent man, evidently with some education — laughed. " Ho may have seen them once in his lifetime, and that was enough for him. The property is managed by an agent, in the omploy of the steward of tho estato, 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 whoso ages cou'd not have been more than fifteen or sixteen, each with a baby at her breast. " What becomes of them when they grow old ?" "Tlioy never grow old," was his significant reply. " Are you a reporter for a newspaper, sir?" " No ; lam here merely oub of curiosity." " Don't come at night—alone," he said, as he turned away. His question had put an idoa into my head which I thought might be carried into effect for the borsefib of that half of the world chat does not know how the other half lives.

1 mako no excuso for introducing this episodo 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 BloomsDury flat, and go out to dinner, generally to a foreign restaurant!, and sometimes afterwards to a theatre or a musichall, 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. Sho continued to tipple, bub nob in ray presence; it seemed to be principle of her life to do everything in secret. On Sundays she went to clutch, 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 remainod 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 parbof the room, and soon afterwards she staggered to her feet, and stood, reeling to and fro. " Annette I" sho called, querulously. The woman entered, and supported her to her bedroom. The next day she complained of hor heart. " I was very ill yesterday," she said. " I faintod while I was praying. My prayers were for you, John." I did nob answer her, and she asked mo whether I ever thought of the future world. '•It is our duty, ray dear," she said. "Life in this is very sad." On another occasion she brought up the subject of Mr. and Mrs. Ramsay. "I have nover explained to you," she commenced, " the reason of my going away that night in Geneva. Ib was really wrong of me."

" Your going away?" "No, my not having given you an explanation." " I have no wish to hear it." " But you must hear it. You shall nijb have Che opportunity of complaining that I keep a secret from you. She came to me in my bedroom, while you were enjoying your dinner. She was frightened of her hrvband. Ho was a tyrant, not like my own dear boy, whom I love with all my heart. What do

you think he brought her to a foreign ! country for? Answer me, John," " Let mo hear your version." " She vu as sane as I am, and he took her to Geneva to put her into a private lunatic asylum. She askud me to lave her, and I could think of no other way than taking her and hiding her from the monster. It was of no use. He came in search of her, and dragged you with him, and now, of course, she is in a madhouse, and will never, never get out. Isn't it dreadful, dear ?" , "It would bo if ib were true," I said, determined not to be a party to tho monstrous invention, " but it happens not to be true. He did nob drag me with him. I was as anxious about you as he was about his wife, and we prosecuted our search together. He related his history to mo, and I promised not to reveal it." " Nob even to me ?"

"He did nob mention you by name, but you are included in the promise I gave, which I certainly shall not break. Do not trouble yourself about the poor woman's fate. She is not- in a madhouse, bub in a home from which I trust she will emerge cured of her delusions and the disease she is suffering from."

" What disease, John ?" "That is part of the confidence Mr. Ramsay reposed to me." "Husband and wife are one, dear. You will tell me all about it."

" I will tell you nothing more." "You accuse me of lying. Act like a man for once, John, and say, 1 Barbara you are lying.'" "I do nob accuse you of lying. It is Mrs. Ramsay who lied if she told you that her husband intended to put her into a madhouse."

" If she told me," said Barbara, with assumed meekness. "Thank you, John. Bub all your insults will nob alienate my affections from you. I love you too fondly." " Why do you twist and turn my words, Barbara ?"

"Do I ? But of course I do. I was forgetting that you are my husband, and that lam only your slave. It is very hard to bear. Never have you heard me utter an untruth. All my life is laid bare to your cruel gaze, while you— have secrets from me, odious, shameful secrets. There was that woman in Paris you gave the brooch to, and now that stranger, Mr. Ramsay, calumniates me, and you do not stand up in my defence. We do nob see much of each other during the day. I am at the house, working myself to a shadow for you, and that woman is in London, and you visit her regularly, and take her about—" I dashed out of the room ; I could stand no more. (To bs continued on Saturday next.)