The Betrayal of John Fordham

"I will respect it," I said. "Unless she mentions it to me herself she will never know that I am in possession of it."

There was much more than this said during our interview, but I have given the gist of our conversation, and I left Mrs. Cameron with a sad feeling that her forebodings would be realized.

As, indeed, they were before the end of the month. She suffered no pain, but became so feeble that she could not take a step without support. She did not keep her bed; by the doctor's permission, and at her own wish, she sat at the window during the day in an easy chair which I obtained for her. There she could watch the advance of spring and breathe the balmy air; there she could see Ellen and me, whom she sent frequently into the open, saying it would do us harm to keep constantly in doors in such lovely weather. We never went far from her; the slightest motion of her hand, or her gentle voice calling "John" or "Ellen," brought us to her side, eager to do what she required. There was always a smile upon her face, a smile of peace, and content, and love, and I think her last days on earth were the happiest she had ever spent. She said as much: "I am quite, quite happy, dear children; do not grieve for me. In everything before me I see the goodness of God; I seem to see His face." When she raised her eyes to the bright clouds it was my firm belief that she beheld a spiritual vision of His glory, and when she lowered them to earth she saw a deeper meaning than we in the evidences of His wondrous power. She drew keen delight from the flowers and birds, from the air which floated from the sea, from the early budding of the trees. Not a murmur passed her lips, not a word of complaining. "I shall see all these things with a clearer eye presently," she said, "and bye and bye you will see them with me. Bear your trials patiently; do your work in the world, and let your mind dwell upon His love and goodness." She relied greatly upon me. It was I who carried her from room to room – Ellen not being strong enough for the task; it was I who sat by her side when she insisted upon Ellen taking a little rest during the day. Ellen needed this, for I knew, without being told, that she watched by her mother's bedside night after night without closing her eyes. Every evening I read aloud a chapter from the Bible; not in the stateliest church was truer devotion felt than in the room in which she lay dying. Once when we were alone, she said:

"Do you love Ellen?"

"With more than my heart, mother; with my soul."

It was her wish that I should call her "mother." On one occasion it escaped me inadvertently, and she asked me always to address her so.

"Ellen loves you," she said. "You are a good man. I leave her in your care."

She spoke constantly of Ellen, and related stories of her childhood, drawing from love's memory instances of Ellen's sweetness and unselfish affection.

"We have been very poor," she said, "but we had always one priceless blessing – love."

As with her towards Ellen, so was it with Ellen towards her mother. With tears in her eyes, the woman I loved related stories of the mother's continual sacrifices for her child; how she had nursed her through sickness, denied herself food for her, even begged for her. There was no shame in these privations; the recalling of them brought into play the tenderest feelings; all through, from mother to daughter, from daughter to mother, it was a song of love, which it did me good to hear. Unselfishness and self-sacrifice on either side, each striving to give the other the merit; poverty patiently borne, work which resembled slavery cheerfully undertaken, the hardest trials encountered with a brave heart; heroic qualities not properly recognized by mankind. Search behind the veil – there you will see the human pulse throbbing to the touch of attributes which it is not sacrilege to call divine.

I was lifted higher by this intercourse; the dust of self-complaining fell from me; I felt myself purified. New views of life opened themselves to me; I saw the poor in a different aspect. If saints are necessary, seek for them in courts and alleys; you will find the true ones clothed in rags.

Such were my thoughts then; such are my thoughts to-day.

I turn to the first pages of this Confession, and I recognize the littleness of spirit in which I wrote. I was forgetful of the lessons I learned from the lips of pure souls. I am reminded of them, and I will meet my fate bravely, without repining. The last day arrived. There was apparently no change in Mrs. Cameron. She sat at the window, smiling towards us. The birds were singing; the fragrance of flowers was in the air.

"Mother has fallen asleep," said Ellen.

Presently we want softly into the room, and stood by her side. We had gathered flowers which Ellen placed in a vase, within reach of the mother's hand. She liked simple flowers the best, modest stars, with tender color, which grow by the wayside. I held my breath; the light of love and pity shone in Ellen's eyes. Gazing intently at the white, still face, a sudden fear shot through me. I stooped, and placed my mouth close to hers.

"Mother!" cried Ellen, as I raised my head.

Never again on earth was that sacred word to receive an answer. Ellen and I were alone.

CHAPTER XXI

Twelve happy months passed by. We were still in Swanage, but had removed farther inland. It was by Ellen's desire that we remained; she wished to be near her mother's grave.

We lived in a small cottage, the walls of which were covered with roses and flowering vines. The few acres of land which belonged to us were rich in fruit-trees and bushes, which, with our flower and kitchen gardens, kept us busy pretty well all the day. What acquaintances we had – they were not many – were drawn from the ranks of the poor, by whom Ellen was loved as few women are. A quiet, happy life – if but the past could have been blotted out! I had not concealed my story from Ellen's knowledge, but before it was told I knew that I had won her love, and she knew that to live without her would be worse than death to me. For me she sacrificed herself, and I, in the selfishness of my heart, accepted the sacrifice only too gladly and willingly. Questioning my conscience I did not reproach myself, though sometimes I trembled for Ellen; and she, I am sure, never for one moment reproached me, and did not tremble for herself. If a cloud was on my brow she chased it away with tender words. Man's law prevented me from giving her my name; God's law joined us and made us one. The beauty of her character awoke all that was good within me; she was to me like the sun and dew to the opening flower.

I was guilty of one act of duplicity, and I bitterly repented it. I did not disclose to her my true name, but retained that by which I had introduced myself to her. She knew me only as John Fletcher.

Twelve happy months, and I had almost taught myself to forget. One morning Ellen whispered to me a secret which filled me with joy and fear. Into her heart fear did not enter; it was pulsing with the joy of motherhood; in a few months we should have a child.

I walked alone to the seashore deep in thought.

My sense of security was disturbed; I had now again to reckon with the world. A father owes a duty to his child which the world will not allow him to forget. And the mother! – yes, it was of Ellen I chiefly thought, and it was to her, presently, that my thoughts were chiefly directed. For, looking up, I saw within a dozen yards of me a man whose mocking eyes were following my movements. Though there was a change in his appearance I knew him immediately, and I caught my breath in sudden alarm. The man was Maxwell.

The change I had observed was in his circumstances. His shabby clothes and hat, his boots down at heel, his unshaven face, denoted that he had not prospered lately. But there was a light in his face as our eyes met resembling that of one upon whom had unexpectedly fallen a stroke of good fortune.

"How are you, John?" he said, advancing with outstretched hand. "But why ask? You look like a cherub – rosy, fat and sleek. I rejoice – and you, too, eh? What is there so delightful as the renewal of old affectionate ties, broken through a misconception? Do you see my hand held out in friendship? Better take it, John. No? You are wrong, brother-in-law, very wrong. You were always rash, always acting upon impulse, always fond of romance, always being led away by false notions of right and wrong. I frequently offered you advice which you would not take. In effect I was constantly saying to you, 'Be worldly, my boy; take the world as you find it, and make the best of it, not the worst.' That is my way, though it has treated me scurvily since we met. What do I do? Repine? Not a bit of it. 'Luck will turn,' said I to myself, and here's the proof. Luck has turned."

During this speech, which was very heartily spoken, he walked close to my side with a hateful affectation of cordiality. As I did not answer him, he continued:

"Why so silent, my dear John? Are you overcome by your feelings? Ah, yes, that must be it. Sudden joy confounds a man – makes it difficult for him to express himself. Now, I am never at a loss for words, but then I am older than you, more accustomed to ups and downs. I don't mind confessing to you – with a proper knowledge of your sympathetic nature – that I have had during the last twelve months any number of 'downs' and no 'ups' worth mentioning. All my little ventures and speculations have come to grief. Half-a-dozen times I have been on the point of making my fortune and have been baulked by want of cash. You don't play cards, I believe. I do. You don't care for racing. I do. You don't tempt fortune by crying double or quits. I do. It's in my blood. I give you my word I should have been as right as a trivet if it hadn't been that just at the critical moment I found myself cursed with an empty purse. Devilish hard, wasn't it, when a fellow has a rich brother-in-law who would have said, 'Here's my purse, old boy; go in and win.' The mischief of it was that this dear friend had run off to lotus-land, to revel in the lap of beauty and virtue, the world forgetting, but not by the world forgot. No, John, not by the world forgot. We bore the absent one in mind; we talked of his excellencies; we deplored his absence; we longed for his return to the fold."

He now went to the length of linking his arm with mine; I wrenched myself free.

"What is it you want of me?" I demanded.

"The oracle speaks," he cried, gaily. "What do I want? What does every one want?"

"Money?" I asked.

"Intelligence returns," he answered, "and we are getting into smooth water. Yes, John; money."

"Did you track me here?"

"John, John," he said, reproachfully. "Do I look like a spy? Did you ever know me to be guilty of a mean action?"

"Answer my question."

"Being in the witness box I use the customary formula. From information received I was led to suppose that the lost one would be found on this beautiful shore. I flew hither on the wings of love, anxious to serve him, to show my interest in his welfare, to promote his happiness."

"If I refuse to give you money?"

"It will be unwise, John, distinctly unwise, and will carry with it certain consequences exceedingly disagreeable to – let us say to a lady of spotless reputation. How pained I should be to set these consequences in motion! Is it not man's privilege to protect the weak? But, alas, John! alas! alas! necessity is a slave-driver, and compels tender hearts to lay on the lash!"

With his old mocking smile upon his face, he went through the pretense of drying his eyes.

"Speak plainly," I said. "If I disappoint your expectations, what will you do?"

"I will deal honestly by you, brother-in-law, and speak, as you desire, quite plainly. What will I do? Let me see. There is no place on earth, be it ever so remote and secluded, in which character is not at a premium. There are husbands who have wives, parents who have daughters. A woman comes to live among them who poses as Madame Virtue. She is good to the poor – it costs so little, John, to be good to the poor; the clergyman's wife visits her; she goes to church; she gives a basin of soup to an old woman. Cheap tricks, brother-in-law. Madame Virtue leads a happy life; she is respected; people greet her smilingly and affectionately, and say, 'There's an example for you!' Suddenly a rumor is set afloat that Madame Virtue is no better than she should be. Sad, very sad. The rumor is authenticated. A gentleman comes from the city and verifies the rumor. Madame Virtue has, of course, a reputed husband, who shares her popularity. The gentleman says he knows the saintly couple very well indeed, and that they are simply a pair of impostors. He offers to supply proof, and he does so upon the invitation of the clergyman and the local gentry. He regrets the necessity, but what can he do? He owes a duty to society. If there is one thing, John, I pride myself upon more than another, it is that I never shrink from the performance of a duty. What is the result in this instance? The clergyman's wife turns her back upon Madame Virtue, the local gentry likewise; the poor lose their respect for her, and talk of her behind her back. In a word, the saint is turned into a sinner. Judge the effect upon Madame Virtue, you, dear brother-in-law, who know her so much better than I. Have I put the matter plainly? There is even more to say which it might not be agreeable to you to hear. Take a turn or two on these beautiful sands, and think it over. I can wait."

I did not disguise from myself that for a time at least, I was in this man's power, and that his malice would carry him even farther than he had threatened. The effect upon Ellen would be serious. She valued the respect in which she was held, and drew happiness from the affection by which she was surrounded. Moreover, she was in a delicate state of health, and I dreaded the consequences which would follow Maxwell's malignity. At all risks, at all hazards, I must purchase his silence.

"You are in want of money," I said, "and you come to extort it from me."

"I am in want of everything," he retorted, "but I am still a gentleman. If you are not more particular in your language, I will set my heel upon you and Madame Virtue."

"Name your price," I said.

"Ah, now we are getting sensible. My price? I must consider. For to-day, fifty pounds – as an installment, John. This day week we will have another chat, and come to terms."

I knew it was useless to argue or protest; he held me bound and would show no mercy. I had not so much money about me, and I proposed to bring it in a couple of days to any address he named.

"No, no," he said. "You can come with me to the private boarding-house where I have engaged a bed, and can write me a cheque there. A man of means always carries his cheque-book with him. Unless you prefer to invite me to dinner at your lovers' nest."

"I will come with you," I said.

On our way he reproached me for not asking after Barbara, and I replied that I received all the news I wished to hear through my solicitor. He entertained me, however, with a long account of her, which I knew to be false, and to which I listened in silence. She was much better, he said, and was looking forward to the end of our differences. She had become a convert to the Catholic Church, and was held in the highest esteem by the priests and nuns; the children in the schools doated on her; she deprived herself to provide them with clothes and food; she prayed for me day and night, etcetera, etcetera. And all the time he regaled me with this tissue of falsehoods he was laughing at me in his sleeve. The truth about her was that her excesses had become even more frightful than in my experiences of her; she had not a sober hour, and was continually turned out of her lodgings. Maxwell was curious to ascertain how much of the truth I knew, but I did not satisfy him. At the boarding-house I wrote a cheque for fifty pounds, and made an appointment to meet him that day week, when we were to "come to terms."

I said nothing to Ellen of this meeting or of the misery into which I was plunged. To have made her a sharer in my unhappiness would serve me no good purpose. On the appointed day Maxwell and I met again, and then he named a sum so large that I hesitated. It amounted, indeed, to a third of what remained of my fortune.

"You refuse?" he said.

"I must," I replied. "I will not submit to be beggared by you."

"Sheer nonsense, John. I have made a calculation, and I know, within a hundred or two, how much you are worth. Cast your eyes over these figures."

To my surprise I discovered that his calculation was as nearly as possible correct, and that by some means he was fairly well acquainted with my pecuniary position.

"It is for you to decide," he said. "I have something to sell which you are anxious to purchase. You can make either a friend or an enemy of me, and you know whether it will be worth your while to buy. I don't deny that I am hard up, and that in a certain sense you represent my last chance. I am not fool enough to throw it away. Understand clearly – I intend to make the best of it. You see, John, I hold the reins, and I can tool you comfortably down a safe and pleasant road, or I can send you headlong to the devil – and in your company Madame Virtue. I have learned something since last week. You are living here under an assumed name, and I have a suspicion that Madame Virtue is not aware of it. Another trump card in my hand. It rests with me whether I bring about an introduction between Barbara and Madame Virtue, and whether I bring your excellent stepmother and Louis down upon you. There's no escape for you, brother-in-law. Best make a friend of me, my boy, and keep the game to ourselves."

In the end I consented, with some modification, to his terms, upon his promise that he would never molest me again; and so we parted.

Months passed and I heard nothing more of him. Gradually I recovered my peace of mind. We were living modestly within our means; peace had been cheaply purchased.

Our child was born, a boy. The delight he brought in our home cannot be described. He was a heavenly link in our love, and bound Ellen and me closely together. I will not dwell upon that joyful time. This confession is longer than I conceived it would be, and events of a more exciting nature claim attention.

One evening upon my return home, after transacting some business in Bournemouth in connection with my affairs, Ellen, speaking of what had occurred during my absence, mentioned a gentlemanly beggar who had solicited alms from her. He had told her a plausible tale of unmerited misfortune, and of having been brought down in the world by trusting a friend who had deceived and robbed him. She described the man, and my heart was like lead; I recognized the villain.

"He was so nice to baby," said Ellen, "and spoke so beautifully of our home. Poverty is much harder to gentlefolk who have been used to comfort than it is to poor people. I pitied him from my heart."

"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.