The Betrayal of John Fordham. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

so glad you have come! There's no need of an introduction, is there? I am John's wife, Barbara. You must call me Barbara – yes, I insist upon it. This is my brother Maxwell. Maxwell, Mrs. Fordham – how funny there should be two of us! And this is your son, Mr. Louis Fordham, John's brother. I hate formality. You mustn't be shocked at my saying that I am a bit of a Bohemian. So is Maxwell, but he goes farther than I do, of course, as he is a man. I hope you are one, too, Mr. Louis?"

      "I will become one," said Louis, gallantly, "under your instructions. How do you do, John? What a pretty house you've got!"

      I shook hands with him and with my stepmother. Louis was cordial enough in his manner; my stepmother was frigid. Years had passed since I had seen her or Louis, but she had not forgotten, and never would forget. Only with her death would the old animosity die out. She was no older in appearance; Louis had grown into a well-built man, and she doted on him, as she had done since his birth. A good-looking man, too, but for the scar on his forehead. As I raised my eyes to it – with no evil meaning, I am sure – the blood rushed into it, and it became scarlet, while a dark look flashed into my stepmother's eyes.

      "He will bear it with him to his grave," said my stepmother.

      "What a pity!" said Barbara, who had observed this bye-play. "How did it happen?"

      "John gave it him," said my stepmother, coldly.

      "But they were boys then," said Barbara, defending me maliciously, "and boys are so cruel."

      "The boy is father to the man," remarked my stepmother, with venomous emphasis.

      "Now, John," said Barbara, "what have you to say to it?"

      My impulse was to reply that the story was false, but I checked myself in time, and simply said:

      "Nothing. Either my memory or yours" – to my stepmother – "is at fault."

      "You have a shocking memory, John," said Barbara. "Not your fault, my dear – you were born with it. We all forgive you, don't we, Mrs. Fordham – and you, too, Louis? It would be dreadful if we nursed every little grievance, and saved disagreeable things for future use against one another. Let us talk of something pleasant."