The Betrayal of John Fordham

"Do you intend to accompany them."

"No, I shall remain in London; but there must necessarily be some correspondence between us."

"And still – pray don't be angry – I am puzzled and curious as to your motive."

"Let me put it to you in this way, doctor. You see now and then in the papers an acknowledgment from the Chancellor of the Exchequer of a parcel of bank notes from X. Y. Z., for unpaid income tax. It is called conscience money. The difference is that I have wronged neither man nor woman, yet what I am doing is an affair of the conscience. Will not this content you."

"It must." Then after a pause, "You have seen trouble?"

"Few men have had harder trials, bitterer disappointments."

"I regret to hear it. And now, who is to acquaint the Camerons with your scheme?"

"You."

"I decline. I will give them the money you have entrusted with me, and I will make Miss Cameron understand that it is imperatively necessary that her mother be removed without delay. The rest is in your hands."

"Very well – though I should prefer it otherwise."

"I am going now to see my patient, and I will prepare them for this change in their fortunes. You will probably see Miss Cameron in the course of the afternoon."

"Kindly tell her I will call at two o'clock. I shall leave for Swanage by the five o'clock train."

I make but brief reference to my interview with Miss Cameron. She was profoundly grateful for the services I was rendering them, but seemed, indeed, as the doctor had said, to fear that it was a dream from which she would presently awake, though the small sum of money I had sent her by the doctor's hands should have convinced her. I did not see her mother, our interview taking place in a lower room in the house, which the landlady placed at her disposal. It was difficult for her to understand why a stranger should step forward to befriend her, and my lame attempts at an explanation did not assist her to a better understanding of the matter.

Seeing her now in the daylight the impression I had formed of her was confirmed. Her features, without being handsome, were full of sensibility, and there was a pleasing refinement in her language and manners. What most attracted me in her were her eyes. Truth and resignation, and the strength which springs from a reliance upon the goodness of God, dwelt in their clear depths, and now, illumined by hope, they instilled in me a faith in her which from that hour has not been shaken. The faith she had in me touched me deeply. In contrast with the women it had been my ill-fortune to mix with she was an angel from heaven.

"You will hear from me in a day or two," I said. "Will your mother be strong enough to travel then?"

"The doctor says she will," she answered.

"Have you money enough to provide what is necessary for your journey?"

"More than enough," she said, bursting into tears.

I had to tear myself away.

The journey down to Swanage was one of the happiest I had ever taken; I had an object in life, and there was seldom absent from my thoughts the light of hope that shone in Miss Cameron's eyes. Suitable accommodation for her and her mother was easily obtained in a farmhouse near to the sea. The terms were exceedingly moderate, and in a letter to Miss Cameron, I bade her get ready, and requested her to meet me at the doctor's house on the following day. Then, for the first time, I signed myself, "John Fletcher."

At the appointed hour I met Miss Cameron, and giving her written particulars of the place I had taken for her, and instructions as to trains, I bade her good-bye and God-speed. I had debated whether I should accompany them to the railway station, and had decided not to do so. They were accustomed to look after themselves, and my presence would embarrass them, and add to their sense of obligation.

"Write to me as soon as you are settled," I said, "and let me know whether you are comfortable. If you are not, we will soon find another place for you. And mind, you are going down for your mother's health, and you are not to worry. Leave everything to me."

I pressed an envelope into her hand, and to cut short her thanks, hastily took my departure.

I had now plenty to occupy me. My first visit was to a solicitor, to entrust him with the execution of the plan I had laid down with respect to my wife – before doing which I had devoted some time to a careful survey of my pecuniary position. There had been much waste and extravagance on Barbara's part, and my little fortune had dwindled. I decided to allow her £300 a year, quite sufficient for her to live upon in comfort. That I should have to encroach upon my capital for the payment of this sum and for my own expenses did not cause me anxiety. I did not go beyond the next few years in my calculations; meanwhile I might be able to earn money. Whatever was my income, Barbara should have an equal share of it; she could not reasonably ask for more, having only herself to support. If a court of law were called upon to decide the matter she would probably have less. Upon £300 a year the house in Kensington could not be kept up, and I determined that it should be sold. All household debts contracted to date were to be discharged, and so much of the furniture as Barbara would not need in her new quarters was to be disposed of by auction. The solicitor undertook the management of this troublesome business, and I bound him down to absolute secrecy. Upon no consideration whatever was the slightest clue to my movements, and to the name I had assumed to be given to inquirers. I left him to prepare the necessary documents, and proceeded to my house, armed with written discharges of the servants in my employ. A cab I had engaged stood at the door, and a porter accompanied me into the house.

All the evil crew were there – Maxwell, my stepmother, Louis and Barbara. Her bloated face filled me with loathing. She gave me a sullen look.

"The prodigal son has returned," said Maxwell. "Where's the veal?"

I rang the bell, and the parlor-maid entered the room.

"Send all the servants up," I said to the girl, "and tell that woman, Annette, I wish to see her."

"What do you want the servants for?" demanded Barbara.

"You will see."

I heard them in the passage, and I opened the door for them, Annette coming in last.

"You sent for me madame?" she said in her smooth voice, gliding with catlike motion to Barbara's chair.

"I sent for you," I said.

"At your service, monsieur."

"It is like a scene in a drama," said Maxwell, with an attempt at jocularity. "Get to the action, John."

I handed the women their written notices of discharge, and gave them to understand that after the expiration of their month I would be no longer responsible for their wages.

"Take no notice of him," said Barbara, flushing up. "He is out of his senses."

With a nod she dismissed them, and they trooped out.

I turned to Annette and held out the discharge. She refused to take it, and it fluttered to the ground.

"I am in madame's service, monsieur."

"That is her affair and yours. You are not in mine. I discharge you. Your next month's wages will be paid, after which you will not receive another shilling from me."

"Upon what grounds am I discharged, monsieur?"

"You are not discharged, Annette," exclaimed Barbara.

"I know, madame. I take it only from you. I asked monsieur a question."

"Upon the grounds of treachery and unfaithfulness," I said, calmly.

"You hear," she said, appealing to the others. "It is slander. You are witnesses. It is not the first time – no, it is not the first time."

"Our law courts are open to you," I said. "Try them, and see what an English judge will say to you."

"Madame is perhaps right," she remarked, with a sly glance at the decanter of brandy on the table. "Monsieur is not in his senses." Her voice was as smooth as if she were paying me compliments, and her manner was entirely unruffled.

At this point Barbara started up in a fit of passion. "You monster!" she screamed, and would have thrown herself upon me had not Maxwell held her back.

"Hold hard, Barbara," he said. "Let us see the end of it. Don't spoil the drama. It is really a very good drama, John."

I went up to my bedroom, and rapidly packing my bag, called to the porter to take it to the cab. Then I re-entered the parlor.

"One last word," I said to Barbara. "In the presence of your friends I take my leave of you. This house will be sold soon, and you will have to reside elsewhere. My solicitor will write to you presently, and will make you acquainted with the arrangements I have decided upon. It is my fervent hope that we shall never meet again."

"By God, he is in earnest!" cried Maxwell.

As I left the room I saw Barbara staring at me with parted lips, and Maxwell, my stepmother, and Louis looking blankly at each other. Annette was smiling quietly, and playing with her cap strings.

CHAPTER XIX

On the following day I received a letter from Miss Cameron. They were very comfortable, the place was beautiful, the air delightful, her mother seemed to be better already. She signed herself Ellen Cameron, and hereafter I thought of her only as Ellen. It was not such a letter as an ordinary needlewoman would have written. The writing was that of a lady, and the wording appropriate and well-chosen. The signs of fair culture in it were very pleasing to me.

I did not reply to it immediately, thinking it unbecoming to show haste. In a day or two I wrote, expressing satisfaction at the report, and bidding her take advantage of every hour of fine weather. Acting upon the doctor's suggestion, I dispatched a hamper of fruit, wine, and jelly, and continued to do so at regular intervals. Ellen's thanks for these gifts were extravagant, and rather humiliated me. If thanks were due to either of us, it was she who should have been the recipient.

The task I had entrusted to my solicitor was one of extreme difficulty, but fortunately for me he was a man of inflexible resolution and perfect self-possession, qualities which made him more than a match for Maxwell, who undertook the management of Barbara's affairs. Every resistance was made to the carrying out of my plans, and a solicitor of doubtful reputation was employed by Maxwell to threaten and bluster. My own solicitor made light of this.

"It will do them no good to go to law," he said to me. "The only satisfaction they would get would be the bringing up of your name before the public. The fact of their employing a lawyer of such a character shows that they are aware of the weakness of their case. In no event would they benefit to a greater extent than you propose."

It was a wearisome and distressing business, and it is needless to say that I took no pleasure in it. I was animated by no sense of triumph, and was only upheld by my stern determination not to be turned from my purpose. Finally, Maxwell adopted other tactics. "The income you offer my poor sister," he wrote, "is utterly inadequate for her support. Through your misconduct she is now in such a deplorable state of health that the utmost care is needed. Make it five hundred pounds a year, and a public exposure of your brutality will be avoided. Within a few days of your marriage Barbara discovered that you had a mistress, and as a man of the world I know that there has been all through another woman in the case. It will be worth your while to make it five hundred pounds. I am not at the end of my resources, and if you refuse to act in a sensible way I will make it warm for you. You shall not have a moment's peace."

Finally, after the lapse of several weeks, the distressing affair was brought to a conclusion. The house was sold, and Barbara removed from it, taking with her the whole of the furniture, to which, for the sake of peace, I offered no objection. The worry and anxiety had affected my health. Living alone, with no friend to cheer me, I should have felt myself a complete outcast from the world had in not been for the regular correspondence I kept up with Ellen. Her letters were my only comfort, and I may truly say that they preserved the balance of my mind. Confident as I was in the justice of my cause it may have been that, but for the consolation I drew from them, I should have again given way to despair. The natural reserve which distinguished her letters when she first began to write to me had melted away, and she wrote now as to a friend of long standing.

It was at this period that I received a letter from her mother. She said that her daughter did not know she was communicating with me, and that her letter was posted by a servant in the farmhouse. There was something on her mind which she wished to impart to me, and she had also an earnest desire to see the friend to whom they were so deeply indebted. If my engagements in London would permit of it she would esteem it an honor to shake hands with their dearest friend and confide to him a secret which was oppressing her.

The request came opportunely. The good doctor had spoken of my changed appearance, and had advised me to go into the country for a rest.

"Would Swanage suit me?" I asked.

"I prescribe Swanage," he replied, smiling.

He knew me only as John Fletcher, and had no suspicion that I was a married man.

CHAPTER XX

I now approach a period in my life which, in comparison with what I have already related, shines like a garden in an arid desert – a fair garden blooming with the flowers of peace and happiness. It is not easy to say when I began to love Ellen, and she has confessed that she does not know when she began to love me. Chance, or fate, led us to each other, and has led us to the end, which is very near. Much of the past I would undo were it in my power, but, although a miracle would be needed to free me from the peril in which I stand, I would not undo that part of it which Ellen and I shared together despite the fact that it may be said to have created the mystery in which I am entangled. I have read somewhere how a withered rose may be restored to freshness and sweetness. So was it with my life in the hour that Ellen and I first met.

I did not go down to Swanage immediately. With the knowledge that my enemies were at work, I waited a few days alert and on the watch, and when I reached the delightful spot it was by devious ways and cunning breaks in my journey which would have puzzled the smartest human bloodhound that could have been set to track me. Meanwhile I wrote both to Ellen and her mother, saying that I intended to visit them shortly and that no further letters were to be sent to me in London. That was all the notice I gave them, and when I presented myself it was at an unexpected moment.

The day was bright and fine, the sea calm and benignant, the air already fragrant with the promise of spring. I walked towards the farmhouse as a man newly born to joy might have done. Friends true and sincere awaited my coming, and those who have read these pages will understand what that meant to me.

Ellen sprang from the house at my approach. She had seen my form in the distance, and, as I came nearer, recognized and flew to welcome me.

"My friend!" she murmured, holding out her two hands.

I dropped my bag and clasped them. "Ellen – I beg your pardon, Miss Cameron!"

"No. Ellen, if you wish it."

We gazed at each other, she with a blush on her cheeks, but with no false modesty or reserve, and I in a dream of happiness.

"I have taken you by surprise?"

"The pleasantest of surprises. Every day we have been hoping you would come; every day we have been looking out for you."

"And your mother – how is she?"

"Better, she says, and brighter – Oh, so much brighter! What do we not owe you?"

"I beg you never to say that again. You owe me nothing. One day I may perhaps tell you what I owe you. Your mother is better. That is good news. And you – but I need scarcely ask."

"I have never been so well."

"More good news. The day is propitious. You saw me coming?"

"Mother and I were sitting by the open window. We are not overrun by company; that makes it all the more delightful."

"You are fond of the country?"

"I love it. We are closer to what is best in the world. There is my mother at the window. She thinks it so strange that she has never seen you."

"Well, she will see me now – and will be disappointed."

"No, no. That is not possible. You are her hero."

"Ah, that makes it all the more certain. We raise an ideal; best never to see it in flesh and blood. Reality is a disenchanter. Far better to continue to dream."

As I said this I gazed at Ellen, and there must have been a growing earnestness in my gaze. I had raised an ideal of her – had it met with disappointment? I was self-convicted.

"I recant," I added in a tone of satisfaction.

"I am glad," she said, and my heart beat more quickly at the thought that she understood me.

We were within a dozen yards of the farmhouse.

"Does your mother recognize us?"

"Hardly. She is very short-sighted."

"Let us walk quickly."

Mrs. Cameron rose, her hand at her heart, in a state of agitation. I observed that she rose with difficulty; before we reached her she sank into her chair.

"It is Mr. Fletcher, mother."

I prevented her from rising again, perceiving that she was not strong, and I did not interrupt the little speech in which she gratefully welcomed me. There was a strong likeness between her and Ellen; though worn with suffering, I noticed the same delicately cut features, the same trustful eyes, in which the spirit of goodness shone. Sitting there, talking to her, it seemed to me as if I had rejoined a family knit to me by close ties of sympathy and kinship. Ellen had taken up her work, and was busy with her needle.

"What is it you are making?" I asked.

"A dress for one of the landlady's children," she replied.

On a chair by Mrs. Cameron's side was another dress of a similar character.

"We are not good dressmakers," said Mrs. Cameron; "but we manage these little frocks very well. Our landlady has a large family."

"Are you working for money?" I inquired, gravely.

"Yes."

"But it is against the rules. You did not come here to work."

"We cannot be idle," said Mrs. Cameron. "It is not work; it is pleasure. When night comes we lay the needle aside. It was not so in London."

"So I have heard. Still, I repeat, you should not work."

"We should be unhappy without it. We do not tire ourselves. How long do you intend to stay in Swanage, Mr. Fletcher?"

"Several weeks, I hope. I am here for a holiday, by the doctor's orders."

Ellen raised her eyes.

"Then you are not well," said Mrs. Cameron, quickly.

"I have had a great deal of anxiety lately. Don't look troubled. It is over now – happily over."

"Oh, I am glad. Ellen, we must take care of Mr. Fletcher." The young girl nodded sympathetically. "There is a vacant room in the farmhouse."

"No, I will find a bedroom elsewhere; but if you will allow me, I will take my meals with you."

"It will be a great pleasure to us. There is another farmhouse half a mile away, where you can get a room. Ellen will show you the way. There is no hurry for a few minutes. We must go into accounts."

"Accounts?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Cameron, and at a sign from her, Ellen brought forward a small account book. "You have sent us more money than we need. We can't quite keep ourselves, but we can do something towards it. You will find the figures correct, I think, though we are not very clever at arithmetic."

It was useless for me to protest; they had their ideas of what was just, and seeing that I was giving them pain by objecting, I waived further objection, and looked through the book. Everything was neatly set down. I had sent them so much money; they had earned so much; their weekly account for board and lodging came to so much; and in the result there was a balance of four or five pounds, which they insisted belonged to me, and which I was forced to accept. If any proof were needed to convince me that I had been thrown into the society of ladies of scrupulous integrity and uprightness, it lay before me in this little account book; it increased my respect and esteem for them, and I thanked my good fortune for the association, and inwardly vowed never to desert them. What the mother had to impart to me was disclosed within twenty-four hours of my arrival. It was sufficiently grave, and strengthened my resolve to remain with them.

"My days are numbered, Mr. Fletcher," she said in a tone of much sweetness and resignation. "Ellen does not know the truth; I have kept it from her. Dear child, she has had enough to bear. She has nursed me for years, and does not see the signs which I feel are unmistakable and irrevocable. When the blow comes, she will suffer terribly; it would be cruel to destroy the peace we are now enjoying. It is peace, blessed, blessed peace – peace and rest; and I wait with patience, and with infinite confidence in the will of the Supreme. I think it will come soon, and as the dear friend whom God sent to us in our darkest hour, I wished you to know. Do not think it is an old woman speaking to you out of her fears. I do not fear death. There is a hereafter, and I shall see my dear child again when her time comes. I should welcome the hour when I am summoned were it not for my darling and for the grief in store for her."

"You are not old," I said in a low tone, "and there is still hope. Ellen tells me you are only forty-five."

"Yes, I know, I know, but my sands are run, and there is no appeal."

And, indeed, as I looked at her I felt there was none; death was in her face, which, in her daughter's presence, ordinarily wore a smile.

"There is no hope, Mr. Fletcher; the most skillful medical advice would not avail me now. What mortal could do for me you have done; you have prolonged my life, and I am inexpressibly grateful to you. Has Ellen told you we have no relatives?"

"No."

"We have none. Ellen will be left alone, to battle with the world."

"Not while I have life, Mrs. Cameron." She stretched forth her trembling hand, and the expression on her face was that of an angel in the act of blessing.

"Oh, dear friend, dear friend!" she murmured, and the tears ran down her cheeks. "God sent you to us – truly, truly!"

"It was for this assurance you sent for me."

"I hoped for it – prayed for it – and my prayers are answered. Sorrow is our heritage, but the world is full of goodness. God never sleeps; His watchful eye is eternally over us. You are young; never lose sight of this, never forget it, never lose your faith in Him. Ellen is brave; she knows no fear, and is prepared to fight the battle; faith and prayer are her support. There is something I ought to tell you about her, but I should like you not to mention it to her. Since we have been here she has had an offer of marriage. A gentleman – no, not exactly a gentleman in the ordinary sense – a man working for his living, came to this place in the performance of a duty. He was unknown to us, but, his duty performed, he came again – twice. He had seen Ellen, and confessed his love for her. I need not mention his name, for the affair is over, so far as we are concerned. She refused him, and he appealed to me, and frankly explained his position to me. His calling is not a high one, but he satisfied me that he could keep a wife in fair comfort. Anxious for Ellen's future, I spoke to her, and she listened patiently; she is never violent or unreasonable. Her answer to me was the same she had given to him. She would never marry a man she did not love. For one she loved she would make any sacrifice, endure any hardship, but where her heart was not engaged she could entertain no feeling but friendship – and that was not enough. I did not argue with her; I made no attempt to persuade her. The sentiments she uttered were my own, the lot she chose was the same I had chosen for myself. I married a poor man, and though he died early and my life has been a life of struggle, I never repented, never thought I had acted unwisely. So Ellen's suitor went away, but I doubt whether he will ever forget her. There was much that was good in him. Before he left he said that if it was ever in his power to serve her she had only to come to him and he would do his best for her. I am sure he loved her, and I am sure that Ellen, not loving him, did what was right. This is Ellen's secret, Mr. Fletcher."