LITMIR.BIZ

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not stay with you another moment."

      "Right you are, my sensitive plant," he returned. "I'm mum as the inside of a screwed down coffin."

      But he continued to sing softly to himself, and to chuckle as he cast furtive glances at me. In such circumstances it was not likely that I could enjoy my meal, and I sat for the most part doing nothing, while Maxwell disposed of the various courses he ordered. Drinking did not affect his appetite, and he would have kept at the table all the day had I not called for the bill.

      "Time to go, eh? Love's call must be obeyed," he said, rising, and pouring out the last glass of wine in the bottle. With his left hand on the table he steadied himself, and held up the glass.

      "You're not half a bad sort, John, but you're a bit soft. You want hardening, my boy, and you'll get it."

      "What do you mean?" I asked.

      "What do I mean? Why, that Barbara's all your own now, all your own. Well, here's a happy honeymoon to the fond couple." He drained the glass.

      I hardly knew how to take his words, and I did not answer him. On our way back he borrowed twenty pounds of me, and I determined it should be the last he would ever get from me. I was strongly inclined at first to refuse, but I was afraid he would make a scene, and so for Barbara's sake I gave him the money.

      "Thank you, John," he said, pocketing the notes. "You're a trump, but a trifle green. Here we are at the house. What a jolly wedding-day!"

      I could have struck the mocking devil in the face, for by this time I was thoroughly out of temper; but, again for dear Barbara's sake, I refrained from uttering the hot words that rose to my lips.

      The carriage was at the door and my wife was ready. Maxwell opened his arms for a parting embrace, but Barbara slipped from him and entered the carriage. As it moved away I caught a last glimpse of him standing on the doorstep laughing immoderately, and I almost fancied I heard him call after us, "What a jolly wedding day!"

CHAPTER IV.

       Table of Contents

      The next day we were in Paris. We had a miserable crossing and two miserable railway journeys. On neither of the lines could I get a compartment to ourselves, both the French and English trains being crowded to excess. On the steamboat Barbara was very ill, and I gave her into the charge of the stewardess, being too unwell myself to attend to her. We were not, as may be imagined, a very cheerful couple, nor was this a cheerful commencement of our honeymoon. I did my best, however, to keep up Barbara's spirits, but she continued to be sad and despondent, and did not rally till we reached the gay city. The bright sunshine and the animation of the streets did wonders for us. I held her hand in mine as we drove to the hotel in which I had engaged rooms, and life assumed a joyful aspect. The color came again to Barbara's cheeks, the sparkle to her eyes.

      "The worst is over, dearest," I said, "and we are together—and alone."

      She pressed my hand fondly.

      Was I really in love? I cannot answer. The fire of youth was in my veins, the light of hope was in my heart. Call it what you will—love, passion, desire—Barbara was all in all to me, and our fond endearments caused the hours to fly at lightning speed. The embarrassments and mortifications of yesterday were forgotten; to-day was ours, to enjoy. We dined at the hotel, by Barbara's plate a caraffe of iced water, by mine a bottle of old Burgundy. At nine o'clock, knowing that Barbara had some unpacking to do—for it was my intention to remain in Paris a week—I said that I would take a stroll in the streets, and would return at ten.

      "It will take me quite two hours," she said, with a trembling eagerness in her voice, "to get my boxes in order."

      "I will return at eleven," I said gaily, kissing her.

      I strolled through the brilliantly lighted streets in a dream of delight. There was no Maxwell near to disturb me with his mocking laughter. Barbara was her bright self again, and she and I were "man and wife."

      "Man and wife," I murmured. "Nothing can come between us now, nothing can separate us. She is mine forever. I am really a married man."

      I saw in the window of a jeweler's shop a brooch with two hearts entwined. It was emblematical of Barbara's heart and mine, and I went in and purchased it, and purchased also at a florist's a bouquet of the loveliest flowers. It was now ten o'clock, and I had still an hour to myself. A long time to carry a large bouquet of flowers amidst a throng of people, but what cared I? Why should I hide my happiness? Was I not proud of my beautiful Barbara, whose pure and innocent heart I had won, and whose sweet companionship would brighten my days till we were both old and white-haired? Let the whole world know that the flowers were for my bride—let the whole world know that I was in love. Was not this the city of love? The hum of merry voices proclaimed it—the myriad stars, the soft air, the brilliant lights, the animated gestures of men and women, all proclaimed it. There were no dark shadows to blot the bright picture; joy was universal; there was no sadness, no death, no cankered care to wither the glad hopes of the future—all was light and love.

      At a quarter to eleven I hastened to the hotel of which she was the sun, and paced the boulevard a few yards this way, a few yards that, and strolled into the courtyard, and looked at my watch, and impatiently counted the seconds, and fretted and fumed until the minute hand reached eleven. Then I eagerly mounted the stairs, and entered our sitting-room.

      The lights were burning, and the room had a cheerful appearance. A communicating door led to the bedroom, and I listened at this door a moment, but heard no sound from within. I arranged the bouquet of flowers in a vase, which I filled with water, and then I turned out the lights, with the intention of entering our bridal chamber. But the door was fast. I tried very softly again and again to open it, and then with greater force, but it would not yield.

      "Barbara," I called in a low tone, "it is I. Why have you locked the door?"

      No answer reached my ears. I called several times, with the same result. Long before this I had become alarmed, and had re-lit the gas in the sitting-room. Stories of dark crimes committed in this city of light flashed through my mind. The door was locked, but that might be a blind. It was scarcely possible that Barbara could be in the room; she had been decoyed from the hotel upon some pretense, perhaps by the delivery of a false message from me. If so, what would be her fate? And even supposing her to be in her room, how to account for the frightful silence? Fool, criminal that I was to leave her alone, a hapless woman in a strange city! It was I, and I alone, who had brought the woman I loved into this perilous position.

      I rushed down to the manager of the hotel, and asked if any visitors had been admitted into my rooms during my absence, or any message delivered to my wife. The manager, who was the soul of politeness, and who was smoking a cigarette after the labors of the day, made inquiries of the concierge and of the servants who had not retired to rest. No person had called to see madame; no message had been taken to her; she had not been seen to leave the hotel. Had she rung for refreshment or assistance? No. Had any sounds of disturbance been heard in her apartment? No, the apartment had been perfectly quiet. Were they certain that madame could not have left the hotel without being seen? It was not possible. She would have had to pass through the courtyard, and the concierge or an assistant was constantly on the watch, noting who came and who went. Then, how to account for the facts of her bedroom door being locked and of her not answering to my call? The servants could not account for it; the manager could not account for it. With profuse apologies he hazarded a question. Was madame subject to fainting fits? Was it that she had swooned? With my permission he would accompany me to the apartment, and together we could ascertain.

      We ascertained nothing; we discovered no clue to the mystery. The door defied all our efforts to open it, and no reply was given to our summons. The suspense was maddening.

      "See, monsieur," said the manager, stooping, and putting his eye to the key-hole, "the door is locked from within. The key is in the lock. Be tranquil; madame is safe; she has fallen into a sound sleep. I

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