BETRAYAL OF JOHN FORDHAM.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXIII, Issue 10088, 25 March 1896, Page 3

BETRAYAL OF JOHN FORDHAM.

NOW FIRST PUBLISHED.

BY B. L. FARJEON, Author of" No. 119, Great Portor Square," " Grif," "The March of Fate," "For the, Defence," "Aaron the Jew," etc.

[All Rights Reserved.!

CHAPTER XVIII.

When I awoke all was dark. My throat was parched, there was a horrible racking pain in my head, a nauseating faintness at my heart. Bub worse than this was the torment of remorse whiGh weighed me down. I had placed myself o» a level with my curso, had proved myself worthy of it. There was noexcußO for the shameful excess in which I had indulged. A hypocrite, selfconvicted, I had become a willing slave to the vice I had condemned, and I could now take rank with the abandoned creatures from whom I had shrank in horror.

With difficulty I rose from the floor, upBetting furniture in the effort, and felt my way to my bedroom, where 1 plunged my head into a basin of cold water, keeping it there for some time, and sucking in the water like a dog. As I stood dripping, in the darkness I heard a kind of sing song pro-

ceeding from Barbara's room. Stealing into tho passage I listened to the drivel. " Beast J|hn is drunk—dead, dead drunk 1 He preaches, preaches, preaches—o, the good man 1 Maxwell knows, his mother knows, Louis knows. Ha, ha, ha ! How funny ! Beast John is drunk— dead

drunk 1 Wow let him preach—now lot him write to the papers." There was no method in her singing, no rhythmical arrangement of the insane song. The words dropped from her lipj in disjointed fashion, and there was a taunting exultation in her utterance of them.

A frightful temptation assailed me—to kill her and myself, and be done with the world. "What matter?" 1 muttered, " there is no God ! If there were Ho would not permit such women to live.'' Even at this distance of time—yes, even though I know that my days are numbered— am thankful that some mysteries force within me leaped up to fight the demon that would have damned my soul. I was conscious of the inward conflict, the conflict of the two spirits, the good and the evil, which are said to be for ever warring for supremacy in a man's heart. I hope 1 may say now (though I did nob believe so then) that my suffering had nob crushed all the good out of me, and that there was still some vitality in the better impulses of my being. I did not openly recant the impious words I had muttered; my mood was too sullen for that. I was ready for sin, but nob for crime. My life was mine, and I could do with it as I pleased, but it was not within my right to dispose of the life of another mortal. Brooding upon this I fled from the house as from a pestilence.

Intent upon self-destruction I bout my steps riverwartls. It was a wretched night. Rain was falling heavily, and thero was 119 light in the sky. The spirit of black death brooded over the city. It was as if nature favourod my sinful purpose—or so 1 chose to interpret the signs. There wore but few persons about; I took no notice of them, nor they of me. Small incidents becamo unduly magnified. I had walked some three or four miles, and was in the immediate vicinity of Westminster Abbey when the cathedral clock began to strike. I paused and listened with extremo attention, standing quite motionless and counting the strokes till the hour was fully announced. It appeared to me a singular and unusual thing that it should be three o'clock; singular, also, that the rain should have ceased, and that a fog was creeping over the streets. It was only when I was again in motion that tho significance of time, in relation to the purpose I had in view, impressed inc. "Three o'clock," I thought. "At four I shall bo dead." Crossing the road at the top of Parliament-street a man, passing hastily, stumbled against me. In a spirit of fury I grappled and throw him to the ground—and stood over him, ready to stamp on him if he showed resistance. All my senses were alert for evil. The man did not stir, and I passod on. But I had not proceeded far before I stopped to consider whether I had killed him. I groped my way back to the spot upon which I had left him. The man was gone. I was neither glad nor sorry. A woman—one of tho misery's childrenaccosted me ; appealed to me, for the love of God, to give her a penny to buy a cup of coffee. The coffee stall, which I had not seen, was within a dozen yards of us; its lights shone dim through the fog, and shadowy, ghost-liko forms hung about it. I gave the woman a shilling and continued on my way. I was now on Westminster Bridge. The fog was thickening. 1 could scarcely sco the water. The dull reflection of the lamps on tho Embankment added to the general despondency of tho scone. I was enwrapped in gloom and silence. I walked to the end of the bridge, and stood on the steps leading down to tho river.

Upon what a slight foundation rests a man's fato! A chanco turning this way or that, a moment's hesitation, may make or mar, may lead to destruction or salvation. I heard tho muffled tread of a policeman, and fearing that I had been seen, and my purpose discovered, I did not doscond tho stops, but crossing the road, walked slowly towards Kensington, intending presently to return and carry out my sinful design. The probability is that I had not been seen, and should nob have been interrupted, for the policeman did not follow mo, and the echo of his fooiatops gradually died away, When I was assured of this I should have turned again towards tho river had not a simple incident changed tho wholo current of my lifo. The sound of a woman's suppressed sobs fell upon my ear. She was standing at the door of a chemist's shop, endeavouring to arouse the proprietor by repeated pulling of the night bell, pausing between each summons, and vainly endeavouring to choke back her tears. I could not see her face, but so keen and poignant was her grief that I should have been less than human had I passed by without a word. The note of suffering in her voice touched a sympathetic chord in my hearb, and awoke the dormant sense of good within me. "What are you crying for?" I inquired, stepping to her sido. My question seemed to terrify her, and sho made a movement as if about to fly. Bub the duty upon which she was bent gave her sourage. "Don't speak to mo!" sho implored. " For Heaven's sake, leavo me I" I know what she intended to convey by this appeal. She mistook me for one of tho human ghouls who prowl the streets in tha belief that every woman is frail. "I will nob harm you," I said, and I repeated my question. "What are you crying for ?" My sad voice reassured her—so she subsequently informed me—and after a pause she answered timidly, "I have been trying for a quarter of an hour to make the chemist hear, bub he will nob como down. It is life or death, and he will nob come down!" " Your life or death," I asked# "No," she replied, "nob mine; my mother's—my dear mother's I l ' " Leb me see what I can do," I said, and I pulled the bell, and listened, with my ear close to the donr. There was no response, and I pulled again, and failed to hear the ring. I discovered then that tho night • bell was broken. There was another boll on the other side of the door, and this I pulled vigorously, and beat on the door with ray fist " What is the matter with your mother ?' "She is very ill— has been ill for months. Are you a doctor, sir ?"• "No. What does the doctor who is attending her say ?" " We have none, sir." " But why ? Surely in a matter of life or death one is , neoessary." I continued to ring and beat on the door. . "I know, I know," she murmured. "Oh, will he never come?" I gathered from this mournful reply thab they were poor and could nob afford a doctor, which was presently confirmed. My vigorous summons was successful in arousing the chemist, who, with a sleepy and unwilling air, openocl the door and admitted us. Now, by the light of the shop, I saw that the woman was, young, hardly yet out of her toens, and though grief was stamped

too plainly upon her countenance, that she was fair and prepossessing. So modesb and gentle was she that I was filled with pity for her. Hor eyes were dim with tears, her hair had become loosened and hung in lovely disorder upon her whito neck, her features bore traces of exhausting vigil. With a trembling hand she held out a prescription, saying in a wistful tone : "lam so sorry to disturb you, but my mother ia much worse to-night. I will pay you to-morrow—l have some work to take back."

He grumbled a little and hesitated, and I, stepping back eo that- the young; woman could not see ray action, nodded to him and held up my purse. Understanding from this that I intended to pay him he made up the medicine and gave her the bottle, with which, after expressing hor gratitude, she was about to depart, when I said to her: " Will you wait for me a moment at the door ? You may trust me." The sincerity I felt must have made itself manifest in my voice, for she bent her head slightly, and waited for me outside. " What is the matter with her mother J" I asked.

"I cannot say," replied the chemist. " She has bean ill a long time, and ought to have a doctor. This is an old prescription ; I have made it up several times." "Am I right"in supposing that they cannot afford a doctor

" That is evident, They are very poor. They owe mo for three bottles already." " She appears to bo respectable," I said, as I paid him what was due. "No doubt of it. She works day and night, and I should say it is as much as she can do to keep body and soul together."

(To be continued on Saturday next.