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CHAPTER IX

When I had left Barbara and Annette together, I took myself seriously to task. I asked myself whether I understood Barbara's character, and the answer seemed clear. I had not studied it; I did not understand it. She was a beautiful creature with whom I had fallen in love; it was surface love, and I had made no attempt to probe the inner life. In this respect I was no worse off than multitudes of men and women who marry without knowing each other. Was Barbara to blame for it? No. She was in a state of dependence upon a brother whose character I detested. I had offered myself and was accepted. For the fate in store for me I, and I alone, was to blame.

I would be lenient towards her; I would devise some wise plan by which she could be wooed from the wrong path. After all, she was, perhaps, to be pitied. Thus did I argue, thus did I manufacture excuses for her, thus did I school myself into a calmer frame of mind.

In this better mood I met her when Annette was not with her, and asked where she would dine.

"Where you please," she answered, meekly.

Her softened tone filled me with pity and remorse.

"My wish is to please you," I said.

She glanced at me in surprise.

"Are you setting a trap for me?" she asked.

"No, Barbara, only I have been thinking that we do not quite understand one another."

"It seems so," she admitted, in a mournful voice, "and it is making me very unhappy."

"Well, don't let it make you unhappy any longer. We both have faults, and we will try to correct them."

"You dear boy!" she cried, throwing her arms round my neck. "Then you confess you were in the wrong?"

"Yes, I confess it, Barbara."

"And I confess that I was in the wrong. Now, we are equal."

After a pause:

"No one is quite perfect, John."

"It is not within human limits, Barbara."

"We agree – we agree!" she danced about the room in delight. "Isn't it delightful? Oh, I was beginning to despair!"

There was really something childlike in her voice and manner, and I followed her movements with admiration. Suddenly she stopped, and throwing herself on the sofa, hid her face in the cushion, and began to sob.

It was the first time that an act of mine had caused a woman to sob, and it unmanned me. I sat by her side and soothed her with awkward, endearing words, and my efforts were rewarded; she became calmer.

"It is so sweet, so sweet, when you are like this!" she murmured, and dried her eyes. "You are my dear old boy again, just as you were before we were married. Oh, John, why did you go over my boxes on the sly?"

"It was wrong; I have confessed it."

"But I like to hear you say it. You were wrong!"

"Yes, I was wrong."

"You mean it, dear – you are not deceiving me?"

"No, Barbara, I am not deceiving you."

She pouted. "It is nothing but 'Barbara, Barbara.' 'Yes, Barbara,' 'No, Barbara.' Not so very long ago you would say, 'No, my love,' 'Yes, my darling.' Now, my dear, dear boy, say out of your very heart, 'I am not deceiving you, my darling.'"

I repeated the words; to have refused, to have hesitated, would have destroyed the good work, the better understanding, of which I seemed to see the promise.

"I am not deceiving you, my darling."

"Oh, how good it is to hear you speak like that! It is like waking out of a horrid dream to a delightful reality. And you truly, truly love me?"

Again I answered, under pressure. "I truly love you."

"Then I don't care for anything else in the wide, wide world, and I am the happiest woman in it. You had almost forgotten, had you not, John, that I was alone in this city, without a friend but you? I have only you – only you. I hardly cared to live, for what is life without love? But I was frightening myself unnecessarily – or were you doing it just to try me. You will be kind to me, will you not, dear?'

"Indeed, I have no other desire."

"See how a foolish woman can create shadows that terrify her. That is what I did; but they are gone now, all blown away by my dear boy's tender words. And you don't mind my little faults – you will put up with them."

I ventured a saving clause. "Yes, Barbara, and I will try to correct them."

"Of course you will; I expect you to. But you must do it in a nice way. Long lectures are horrid. When I try to correct yours – for that will be only fair play, John, will it, not? – you will see how gentle I will be."

"At the same time, Barbara, while we are correcting each other's faults, we must help ourselves by trying to correct our own."

"I promise, with all my heart; and when I make a promise in that way you may be perfectly sure that it will be performed. That is a virtue I really possess. And so we will go on correcting each other till we are old, old people, ready to become angels, when we sha'n't have any faults at all to correct. For angels are faultless, you know. I am deeply religious, John, dear. There are angels and devils. The good people become angels, the wicked people devils."

"You are mixing up things, rather, are you not, Barbara?"

"Well, it is full of mystery, and who does know for certain? But one can believe; there is no harm in that, is there?"

"None at all."

"And I believe there is a heaven and a hell. You believe it, too, of course?"

"Assuredly I believe there is a heaven, but not that there is a hell hereafter."

She pondered over the words. "A hell hereafter! Why the 'hereafter,' dear?"

"Because I have a firm conviction that we may suffer hell in this life, but not in the next."

"A hell in this life! That would be awful. We will not suffer it, love."

"I trust not, sincerely."

"'Trust not!' You mean you are sure we shall not, surely."

"I am sure we shall not, Barbara."

I was as wax in her hands, standing, so to speak, forever on the edge of a precipice of her creating, and compelled to the utterance of sentiments to which I could not conscientiously subscribe, in order to escape the wreck of a possible happiness.

"That I believe in hell fire and you do not," she said, thoughtfully, "shall not be a cause of difference between us. Everybody thinks his own ideas of religion are right. Perhaps bye and bye I will try to convert you, and if you feel very strongly on the subject of hell you shall try to convert me. Which do you think worse – a hell in this life, or a hell in the next?"

"I have never considered it. Don't let us worry ourselves about theological matters during our honeymoon."

"You are right, John; see how quickly I give in to you. I will tell you why, sir – because it is a wife's duty. You will never find me behindhand in that. Our honeymoon! How nicely you said it. There shall be nothing but sunshine and flowers, and the singing of birds, and love. Oh, what a happy, happy time! And you are no longer angry with me that I have engaged Annette?"

"I am not angry with you at all."

"John," she said, shaking her finger playfully at me, "that is an evasion, and you mustn't set me bad examples. Answer my question immediately, sir."

"Well, Barbara, so long as she does not bring discord between us – "

She stopped me with a kiss. "No, John, that will not do – it really will not do, you bad boy. You mustn't take unreasonable antipathies to people. A lady's-maid has a great deal to put up with, and mistresses are often very trying. There, you see, I don't spare myself – oh, no, I am a very just person, and I like every one to be justly treated. Say at once, sir, that you are no longer angry with me for engaging Annette."

Mistrusting the woman as I did, I was forced, for the sake of peace, to express approval of her. Barbara clapped her hands, and declared we should be quite a happy family.

It was after this interview that Barbara had a religious fit. Twice a day she went to the Madeleine, and spent an hour there upon her knees. Sometimes Annette accompanied her, sometimes I, upon her invitation. I asked her why she, a Protestant, frequented a Catholic place of worship.

"What does it matter, the place?" she asked, in return, speaking in a gentle tone. "It does one good to pray. Even to kneel in such a temple without saying a prayer strengthens one's soul. Through the solemn silence, broken now and then by a sob from some poor woman's broken heart, a message comes from God. Women are greatly to be pitied, John."

"Men, too, sometimes," I said.

"Oh, no," she answered, quickly, "there is no comparison."

A trifling incident may be set down here, in connection with the brooch, with its device of two hearts, which I had purchased as a present for Barbara on the first night we were in Paris, and which I afterwards determined not to give her. I was in the sitting-room clearing my pockets. Among the things I had taken out was the brooch, which I had almost forgotten. I was still of the opinion that it would be an unsuitable gift, and I was thinking what to do with it when Annette passed through the sitting-room to the bedroom, her eyes, as usual, lowered to the ground. In the course of the day I went to the jeweler of whom I had purchased the brooch, and he took it back at half the price I had paid for it. I thought no more of the matter.

CHAPTER X

I had taken circular tickets for a two months' ramble through Switzerland and Italy, intending to visit Lucerne, Berne, Interlaken, Chamouni, and Geneva, then on to the Italian lakes, and I was studying the plan I had mapped out, and making notes of bye-excursions from the principal towns, when Barbara burst in upon me with the exclamation that she was sick of Paris. This surprised me. We had intended to remain for two weeks, only one of which had elapsed, and I had supposed that the busy, brilliant life of the gay city would be so much to Barbara's liking that I should have a difficulty in getting her away from it. For my own part I was glad to leave, glad to travel sooner than we intended to regions where we should be in closer contact with nature. Barbara had never visited Switzerland or Italy, and I hoped that association with the lakes and mountains of those beautiful countries would be beneficial to her, would help her to shake off the fatal habit which she had allowed to grow upon her.

"Very well, Barbara," I said, "we will leave for Lucerne to-morrow."

"How long does it take to get to Geneva?" she asked.

"From Lucerne?"

"No, from here."

"There is a morning train, which gets there in the evening."

"Then we will go to-morrow morning to Geneva."

"But that will make a muddle of the route I have mapped out, and jumble up the dates."

"What does that matter? You can easily make out another; our time is our own. I want to be in Geneva to-morrow night."

"For any particular reason?" I asked, rather annoyed, for I knew how difficult it was to divert her from anything upon which she had set her mind.

"For a very particular reason. Maxwell will be there."

"Did he tell you so before we left England?"

"No; he tells me in a letter, and says how nice it will be for us to meet there."

I thought otherwise. I had no wish to see Maxwell, but I did not say so.

"When did you hear from him?"

"This morning."

"His letter did not come to the hotel. They told me in the office that there were none for us."

"He doesn't address me at the hotel."

"Where then, for goodness sake? The hotel is the proper place."

"Perhaps I don't care about always doing what is proper," she retorted, lightly. "Besides, do I need your permission to carry on a correspondence with my brother?"

"Not at all; you are putting a wrong construction upon my words."

"Oh, of course. I don't do anything right, do I? Never mind, you may make yourself as unpleasant as you like, but you won't get me to join in a wrangle. Do I pry into your letters? Well, then, don't pry into mine."

"I have no desire to do so. Only, as I suppose this is not the first letter you have received from Maxwell since we have been in Paris – "

She interrupted me with "I have had three letters from him."

"Well, I thought you might have mentioned it – that's all."

"I didn't wish to annoy you."

"Why should it annoy me?"

"Now, John," she said, in a more conciliatory tone, "haven't I eyes in my head? Women, really, are not quite brainless. Do you think I didn't find out long ago that there was no love lost between you and Maxwell? Not on his side – oh, no; on yours."

I could have answered that, according to my observation of her, her feelings towards Maxwell were similar to mine, but I was determined to avoid, as far as was possible, anything in the shape of argument that might lead to contention.

"I do hope you will get to like him better," she continued, "and you will when you understand him. That is what we were talking about a few days ago, isn't it? – about the advisability of people understanding each other before they pronounce judgment. If they don't they are so apt to do each other an injustice. Maxwell is as simple as a child; the worst of it is, he takes a delight in placing himself at a disadvantage when he is talking to you, saying the wrong thing, you know, but never meaning the least harm by it – oh, no. He leaves you to find it out – so boyish, isn't it? He is inconsistent; it is a serious fault, but it is a serious misfortune, too, when one can't help it. It is a shame to blame us for our imperfections; we didn't make them; they are born with us."

"But, Barbara," I said, a feeling of bewildered helplessness stealing over me at the contradictions to which she was everlastingly giving utterance, "we are reasonable beings."

"Oh, yes, to a certain extent, but no farther. The question is to what extent. Take the son of a thief, now; how can he help being a thief? He was born one."

"You wouldn't punish him for stealing?"

"I don't think I would, for how can he help it? I would teach him – I would lead him gently."

I brightened up. "That is what we are trying to do."

"Yes; for it is so wrong to take what doesn't belong to us – and to take it on the sly, too! To go over boxes when one is ill and unconscious. Fie, John! I hoped we were not going to speak of that again."

"But it is you who brought it up."

"Oh, no, love, it was you. You shouldn't allow things to rankle in your mind; it is hardly manly. What was I saying about Maxwell? Oh, his inconsistency. I am glad I am not inconsistent, but I am not going to boast of it. Only you might take a lesson from me. The weak sometimes can help the strong. Remember the fable of the lion and the mouse."

I changed the subject.

"We will start for Geneva to-morrow morning. It is a delightful journey."

"Everything is delightful in your company, you dear boy. You are glad that we shall soon see Maxwell, are you not?"

"Yes, I am glad if it will give you pleasure."

"Thank you, dear. Could any newly-married couple be happier than we are? Give me a kiss and I will go and do my packing."

I recall these conversations with amazement. I was as a man who was groping in the dark, vainly striving to thread his way through the labyrinths in which he was environed. There was an element of masterly cunning in Barbara's character by the exercise of which I found myself continually placed in a wrong light; words I did not speak, motives I did not entertain, sentiments which were foreign to my nature, were so skillfully foisted upon me, that, communing afterwards with my thoughts, I asked myself whether I was not the author of them and had forgotten that they had proceeded from me. But Barbara's own conflicting utterances were a sufficient answer to these doubts. One day she informed me that Maxwell had a contempt for me, the next that he had a high opinion of me. Now she despised him, now she was longing for his society. One moment he was all that was bad, the next all that was good.

I did not allow these contradictions to weigh with me. My aim was to do my duty by my wife, and to save her from becoming a confirmed drunkard; to that end all the power that was within me was directed.

In order not to put temptation in Barbara's way I became a teetotaler, and from that day to this, except upon one occasion, have not touched liquor of any kind.

"No wine, John?" Barbara said, as we were eating dinner.

"No, Barbara; I am better without it."

"Turned teetotaler?" She looked at me with a quizzical smile.

"Yes."

"About the most foolish thing you could do. Wine is good for a man. Everything is good in moderation."

"I agree with you – in moderation."

"I said in moderation – the word is mine, not yours. You will alter your mind soon."

"Never," I said.

"It would be common politeness to ask if I would have some."

"Will you, Barbara?"

"No," she replied vehemently, "you know I hate it."

The next morning we were comfortably seated in the train for Geneva. Annette was knitting, I was looking through some English papers and magazines I had obtained at Brentano's, and Barbara was reading a French novel she had purchased at the railway stall. She appeared to be so deeply interested in it that I asked her what it was. She handed it to me. I started as I looked at the title. "L'Assoimmoir!" I handed it back to her, thinking it strange she should have selected the work, but drawing from it a happy augury, for there is no story in which the revolting effects of drink are portrayed with greater coarseness and power. It did not occur to me that I should have been sorry to see such a work in the hands of a pure-minded woman, and that the absence of the reflection was a wrong done to a woman who was but newly married – and that woman my own wife! My thought was: What effect will the story have upon Barbara? Will it show her in an impressive and personal way the awful depths of degradation to which drink can bring its victims, and will it be a warning to her?

"Have 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.