Benjamin Farjeon - The Betrayal of John Fordham

"Madame is out," said the manager.

"On foot?"

"No, monsieur; in the carriage that was ordered."

"Did she go alone?"

"No, monsieur; Annette accompanied her."

"Annette!" I exclaimed. "Has she not her duties to attend to here?"

"She is no longer in our service," was the reply. "She is engaged by madame. It was sudden, but she begged to be allowed to leave. Your wife implored also, monsieur, and as another woman who had been with us before as chambermaid was ready to take her place, we consented – to oblige madame."

"Is Annette a good servant?"

"An excellent domestic."

"Trustworthy, honest, and sober?"

"Perfectly. Madame could not desire a better."

Every word he spoke was in Annette's favor, and I felt that another burden was on my life. If I could not cope with Barbara alone, how much less able was I to cope with her now that she had such an ally as this sly creature?

At five o'clock they came in together, my wife flushed and elated, Annette quiet and placid as usual.

"I have had a lovely day," said Barbara, as Annette assisted her to disrobe. "I suppose my dear boy has been running all over the city in search of me."

"You are mistaken," I replied. "I have not searched for you at all."

"I am not going to believe everything you say, you bad boy," she said, darting into the bedroom.

I divined the reason; it was to ascertain whether the padlocks on her boxes had been tampered with. Reassured on this point, she resumed her chatter.

"How lonely my dear boy must have been! I declare he has been smoking. Annette, give me my cloves. Will you have one, John? No? Is it not good of Annette to accept the situation I offered her? She will travel with us to Switzerland and Italy, and will tell us all we want to know about the hotels there, and what is worth seeing, and what not. She will save you no end of money. And what a perfect lady's maid she is! I wonder what possessed me to leave England without one; but I am glad now that I did not engage one there, for I could not have got anybody half so handy and clever as Annette."

While my wife was speaking Annette made no sign, and nothing in her manner indicated that she understood what was being said in her praise. Had she been a stone image she could not have shown less interest. This was carrying acting too far, for her name being frequently mentioned, she would naturally have exhibited some curiosity.

"And only thirty-five pounds a year," my wife continued, and would have continued her prattle had I not interrupted her.

"I should like to speak to you alone, Barbara."

"We are alone, you dear boy." I looked towards the imperturbable woman she had engaged. "Oh, do you object to Annette? What difference can she make? She understands no language but her own."

"I should prefer to be alone with you."

"To say disagreeable things, I suppose, when there are no witnesses present. Oh, I know you. She shall not go."

"Do you think it right to oppose me in such a small matter? Surely we ought to keep our quarrels to ourselves."

"Who is quarreling?" she retorted. "I am not. And as to what is right and wrong, I am as good a judge as you."

"Annette," said I, addressing the woman in French, "leave the room."

"Oui, monsieur," she replied, with perfect submissiveness, and was about to go when my wife said:

"Annette, remain here."

"Oui, madame," she replied, without any indication of surprise at these contradictory orders. To outward appearance she was an absolutely passive agent, ready at a word to go hither or thither, to say yea or nay, without the least feeling or interest in the matter; but any one who judged her by this standard would have found himself grievously at fault.

"Very well," I said. "I will postpone speaking of a very serious subject till I can do so out of the hearing of strangers. I will only say now that you should not have engaged this woman without consulting me."

"Indeed, I shall not consult you," returned Barbara, "upon my domestic arrangements, and I am astonished at your interference. It is I who have to attend to them, and I will not be thwarted and ordered to do this or that. You think a wife is a slave; I will show you that she is not." She paused a moment, and then shrugged her shoulders. "What you have to say had best be said at once, perhaps. In heaven's name let us get it over." She stepped to Annette's side, and whispered a word or two in her ear; the next moment we were alone. "Now, John, what is it?"

"With the connivance of that woman you have had false keys made, with which, in my absence – artfully contrived by yourself – you have opened my trunks."

"Go on."

"You admit it."

"I admit nothing. Go on."

"With those false keys you ransacked my trunks, and stole certain articles from them."

"Stole?" she cried with a scornful laugh. "A proper word for you to use."

"Never mind the word – "

"But I shall mind the word. You will be dictating to me next how I shall express myself. If there is a thief here, it is you. I call you thief to your face. You ought to feel flattered that I followed your example, but nothing seems to please you. And you should consider, my dear – what is sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. You opened my trunks on the sly; I opened yours on the sly, and took possession of my property which you had stolen from me."

"I admit," I said, speaking without passion, "that I was wrong – "

"Oh, indeed! And that admission justifies you?"

"The end justified me; what I found justified me."

"In your opinion, because you can do no wrong. Seriously, my love, do you look upon me as a child, and do you think I will allow myself to be spied upon and robbed with impunity?"

"What I did was for your good."

"Allow me, if you please, to be the judge of what is good for me. Will it offend you to hear me say that no gentleman would act as you have done?"

It would have been wiser, perhaps, had I refrained from uttering the retort that rose to my lips.

"Would any lady act as you have acted?"

But who can control himself when he is brought face to face with an overwhelming and undeserved misfortune.

"Best leave ladies and gentlemen out of the question," she said, mockingly. "As you pay me the compliment of declaring that I am not a lady, pay me the further compliment of designating what I am."

I was silent.

"I will give you a little lesson in frankness, my dear. When I married you I believed I was marrying a man of honor, unfortunately I was mistaken. It has not taken me long to discover that my husband is a common spy – attached to the detective office, probably, the sort of man who listens at keyholes and searches his wife's pockets when she is asleep. Don't forget, love, that it was you who commenced it. If I were a milksop I should sit down and weep, as some poor creatures do, but I am not a milksop; I can protect myself. Therefore, John. I am not going to make myself unhappy; I am much too sensible. I am not an old woman yet, and I intend to enjoy my life. And now, my dear," she added, after a moment's pause, "I am waiting for your next insult."

"I am afraid it is useless to argue with you," I said, sadly.

"Upon this subject, quite useless," she replied. "Upon any other I am your humble servant. Have you finished, then? Thank you. Annette!"

The woman came in so promptly as to convince me that she had been listening in the passage.

"She waited outside by my orders," said my wife, laughing.

I left them together.

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.