The Stafford wedding was a nine-days' sensation and then people forgot
all about it. Society mothers with marriageable daughters said that it
was scandalous for a man of wealth and position to throw himself away
on a penniless nobody, and malicious tongues freely predicted that
before long the railroad man would regret the foolish step he had
taken.
But for the present, at least, Stafford gave no indication of
regretting anything. On the contrary, he and his young wife had come
back from Europe in the highest of spirits, and immediately after
their return to New York the millionaire proceeded to convince his
critics of their error by throwing open his new house and entertaining
on a lavish scale. For some time before his marriage Stafford had
realized that his old apartment, comfortable as it was for the
bachelor, would be quite inadequate for a married couple; so, getting
rid of his lease, he had bought further down the Avenue near
Seventy-second street a fine American basement house. It was a large
modern residence, exquisitely furnished and supplied with every luxury
money could buy. Virginia's private suite was particularly beautiful,
being decorated in white and gold, in imitation of Queen Marie
Antoinette's apartments at the Little Trianon.
To Virginia this new life of luxury and pleasure was like a chapter
from the "Arabian Nights." It seemed unreal, like some fantastic dream
from which, sooner or later, there must be an abrupt awakening. For
years she had been so accustomed to the gnawing anxieties of poverty
that this sudden superfluity of wealth fairly stunned and overwhelmed
her. Stafford, apparently more infatuated every day, took the keenest
delight in pleasing her. Everything that he thought would add to her
happiness was done. He showered her with costly presents, giving her
wonderful diamond tiaras, superb pearl necklaces and other gems until
her jewels were soon the talk of New York. She had _carte
blanche_ at Fifth Avenue dressmakers and milliners; she had her
French maid, her hairdresser, her automobile and her box at the opera.
He forced open for her the doors of society and, once inside the
exclusive circle, it was not long before Virginia made friends on her
own account. People had expected to see a bold, coarse adventuress;
instead, they were charmed by a modest, refined young woman who,
intellectually at least, was their superior. Everybody received her
with open arms. The men classed her as pretty and _chic_; the
women declared she dressed divinely and gave exquisite dinners. Before
long, society arrived at the conclusion that Robert Stafford had not
made such a mess of his matrimonial venture, after all.
The months went by so gayly and so quickly that it was the greatest
surprise to Virginia when one day she realized that she would soon
celebrate the second anniversary of her wedding. She was so taken up
with one fashionable function after another that she had no time to
think. Sometimes in the midst of her social activities, she stopped to
ask herself if she was really happy, if this nerve-racking existence
of idleness and pleasure--with its bridge parties, its dinners, its
opera and theatre-going--was the kind of life she had dreamed of in
her girlhood days. Sometimes she felt a longing, a yearning for a more
useful existence, something nobler, higher.
Then, all at once, there came a change. It seemed to her that Robert's
manner toward her was not the same. For no apparent cause, he
gradually grew more cold and distant. At first she thought she herself
might be to blame and she carefully watched her own actions and
attitude to see if she was neglectful in any way of wifely duties and
devotion. But she had nothing with which to reproach herself. She
managed his household and entertained his friends. When they were
alone she played and sang for him. But, for some reason that she could
not explain, she seemed gradually to lose the power of holding him at
home. Under the pretext of urgent business, he stayed away more and
more. Usually he telephoned at the last minute, saying he had a
business dinner to go to or a directors' meeting to attend. It was
seldom that she could count on his company, and it made her life
necessarily seem very lonely. It was nice to be rich, but often she
wished that they might be poorer, that Robert were less successful so
that their life might be more domesticated, more intimate. She felt
that even after two years of marriage she did not know her husband any
better than when she first met him. There seemed to be between them an
indefinable yet very real barrier which, for some unknown reason, she
was impotent to tear down. Sometimes, too, she resented him making so
little of her. Instead of taking her into his confidence in his
business matters, he treated her as a child, whose opinion on serious
things was valueless. Instead of coming to her as a comrade to ask
advice, he preferred to play the ardent lover, as if that were all he
expected of her. Her womanhood rebelled, but she said nothing. There
were times, too, when he returned home very late, exhilarated by too
much wine, and on such occasions his boisterous, passionate kisses
nauseated her. Often she found herself longing for demonstrations of a
more sincere and honest affection, but she always excused him on the
ground that it was the fault of his temperament.
Among all her husband's friends Fred Hadley was the one whose society
she preferred. She found him sympathetic, kind and yet always
respectful. He being very fond of music and having considerable
literary taste, they soon found that they had many interests in
common. Sometimes he would join them in their box at the opera, or
when Stafford brought him home to dinner they sat and chatted on all
kinds of congenial topics while the husband, wholly absorbed in the
business details of a busy day, paid only scant attention to the
conversation.
One evening the subject of divorce happened to come up. They were
discussing the notorious case of a well-known woman in society who had
submitted to all kinds of cruelties and indignities on the part of her
husband rather than shame him by bringing the matter into court.
Stafford, for once becoming interested in the argument, declared
decisively that the woman was right, that, having entered into a
matrimonial compact, she was in honor bound to conceal from prying
outsiders any domestic differences they might have. Virginia promptly
differed with him and proceeded to give her reasons. Stafford was no
match for her when it came to sociology and he could only grunt
disapproval as she went on warmly to defend womankind from the
ignominy of a degrading marriage, while Hadley, keenly interested,
smoked his cigar and listened.
"A woman who will suffer in silence while her brutal husband stands
over her with a whip is a disgrace to her sex," she exclaimed hotly.
"She is no better than a shackled slave; her position in the man's
house is that of a concubine."
"What shall she do?" cried Stafford with a shrug of his shoulders and
a cynical laugh.
"Get a divorce," retorted Virginia.
"Divorce!" echoed the railroad man mockingly. "The world is full of
divorcées. Everyone looks down on them. They have a bad name. What
does she gain by that?"
"Her own self-respect if not that of the world. Divorce is the only
weapon a defenceless woman has."
Stafford, badly beaten, relapsed into a sulky silence, while Hadley
nodded approval.
"You are quite right, Mrs. Stafford," he said; "the fear of divorce
and its attendant publicity makes many a husband behave himself."
Following up her advantage, Virginia picked up a newspaper lying on a
table close by.
"Here," she said, "is the opinion of a woman on this very question--a
woman evidently who has herself suffered. She says:
"'How many beings live together for long years strangers in mind and
body! How many are the slaves of marriage whose relations are hideous
with mutual hate! Why, in the name of a religious principle, should
one make eternal the hell whose torments are as varied as they are
overwhelming? Why should not reason and the right of the individual
correct the mistakes of chance, false calculations, and hopes
deceived? Why should a woman who does not find in her husband the
necessary moral support suffer the tortures of a long agony in which
she is defenceless, of a perpetual struggle in which she is miserably
conquered; and, on the other hand, why should the husband who does not
find in his wife the hoped-for companion or the desired slave, find
the road to happiness forever closed to him? Before divorce was
established, men and women who lived together in misunderstanding
suffered an agony worse than that of the condemned to death, for
nothing can be compared to the torture of being tied, body and soul,
in hatred or scorn, or even indifference.'"
Hadley nodded approvingly.
"I think she puts the case pretty well," he remarked. "It's a strong
argument in favor of the legal separation."
"I beg to differ," said Stafford dryly. Rising with a yawn, he went
on: "Half the marital troubles one hears about are the fault of the
wife. She is often too exacting, too fond of meddling in her husband's
affairs. A man who respects himself bends to no one--not even to his
wife." With another yawn he added: "Will you two excuse me for a few
minutes? I have a letter to write."
Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel and walked into
the library, closing the door behind him. Hadley puffed away at his
cigar in silence, while Virginia gazed thoughtfully into the fire.
Presently Hadley said:
"Bob's in an argumentative mood to-night."
Virginia sighed as she replied:
"Yes--he has not much patience. He always takes the stand that man is
the master, that women should have no will of their own."
Hadley shook his head as he replied:
"Old-fashioned notion that. The quicker he gets rid of it the better."
Virginia looked at him without speaking. There was an inquiring,
wistful expression in her face, as if she longed to unbosom herself to
someone, and yet had no one close enough, intimate enough in whom she
could confide. Presently she said:
"Mr. Hadley, you've known my husband a number of years. Was he always
as he is now?"
"In what way do you mean?"
"Was he always as dictatorial, as self-centred and self-willed?"
Hadley laughed.
"Yes, Bob was always inclined that way, and it seems to have grown on
him as he has grown older."
There was still another question hovering on the young wife's lips.
Dare she ask it? Why not? This friend was so loyal, so considerate,
that he would understand. If it worried her at all, it was because her
happiness, the future of her unborn children, if she had any, might be
at stake. At last, with an effort, she summoned up courage and
ventured to give expression to what was on her mind.
"Mr. Hadley, there's something else. I've intended to ask you for a
long time--" Hesitating, she said: "I've quite forgotten what it
was--"
He looked at her keenly. He had observed for some time that things
were not quite as they should be in his friend's home. Stafford seemed
to be more indifferent to his wife, he stayed out more at nights; she,
on her side, appeared to be continually on the defensive, as if there
was constant friction. But by no outward sign could she have guessed
that he gauged the situation. Carelessly he said:
"Is it something about Bob?"
Thus encouraged, she spoke up frankly, just as if she were talking to
an elder brother:
"Yes, that's it. Was--was my husband fond of wine as a young man? I
can ask you this--you've been so intimate with him." Hastily and with
a forced laugh she added: "I don't mean that he drinks to excess now,
but I wondered if as a young man he ever took more than was good for
him. I don't see how he could have done, for it would have interfered
with his career."
Hadley puffed seriously at his cigar. A kindly man by disposition, he
really felt sorry for this brave little woman who was trying to make
light of a tragedy. Slowly he replied:
"I'm sorry to say that Bob has always had a _penchant_ in that
direction. It has not interfered with his success, but when he's under
the influence of liquor he's not himself. He seems to quite lose
self-control." Looking at her closely, he added: "He hasn't been
drinking since your marriage, has he?"
Virginia colored.
"Oh, no indeed," she replied hastily. "He wouldn't drink now, I'm
sure, if only out of regard for me."
Hadley was about to say more, when suddenly the library door opened
and Stafford entered, hat in hand. Addressing his friend and without
so much as glancing at his wife, he said curtly:
"Coming over to the club, Hadley? There's a poker game on to-night. I
promised to take a hand."
The two men went away together and that night Virginia sobbed herself
to sleep.
Another month went by and imperceptibly, almost unnoticed by
themselves, the coolness between husband and wife grew. There was no
open quarrel, not even a cross word; but Stafford stayed out nearly
every night and Virginia, left alone in the great library with only
books for companions, wondered if this was the happy married life she
had prayed for.
One night the servants were awakened by a commotion at the front door.
Their master, returning from the club, had stumbled and fallen down
the stoop. Oku picked him up, and Stafford, luckily unhurt, staggered
unaided to his room. Half an hour later the stillness of the night was
again disturbed--this time by a woman's shrill scream of fright and a
man's voice raised in tones of angry command. To the servants it
seemed as if the sounds came from their mistress' room.
Thus the months passed, and to the outside world, which obtained only
an occasional glimpse into the Stafford household, the railroad man's
pretty young wife was one of the most-to-be-envied women in New York.
Still, there were some who shook their heads. They pointed to the
young Mrs. Stafford's pale face and melancholy manner. In the last few
weeks particularly she had lost her good spirits and was only a shadow
of the girl who two years before had entered Robert Stafford's home a
bride.
* * * * *
Meantime Virginia's sister, now Mrs. Gillie, was as happy and
contented in her married life as circumstances would permit. She was
not able to live on as grand a scale as her rich sister, but Jimmie's
income, thanks to Mr. Stafford's generosity, had been increased to an
amount quite beyond their most sanguine expectations. Beginning at a
salary of $50 a week, he had been quickly raised to $100, and there
was every prospect of even better to come. This enabled them to live
very comfortably and even to save a little money. They had a pretty
flat in One Hundred and Fortieth Street, where a baby girl had come to
bless their union. Jimmie was a considerate enough husband, but
indolent, and, still impressed with his own importance, he was always
grumbling that his merit was underestimated by the world in general
and his present employer in particular. Fanny considered it most
ungrateful, and one morning at breakfast she took him to task:
"How can you speak in that way of Mr. Stafford?" she protested. "We
owe him everything."
His mouth full of toast, her husband gulped down his scalding coffee.
Disdainfully he replied:
"That's where you women understand nothing about business. Stafford
must find me useful or he wouldn't be paying me $100 a week. I'm worth
more than any other man he's got, that's the size of it. He pays me
less because I'm one of the family. That's the way it always is. I'm
no fool. I know what I ought to be getting. He's got to do better by
me or I'll quit. I'll show him that I'm no $100-a-week piker."
"You've no right to say that, Jim," interrupted his wife. "Just think
how good he is to Virginia. He's always giving her something. Only
last week he bought her a diamond necklace which must have cost $5,000
if a cent."
"Pshaw!" he retorted with a sneer, "what good does Virginia's necklace
do me? More fool he to throw so much money away on finery. I guess he
was drunk when he did it."
Her face red with indignation, Fanny rose from the table.
"How dare you say such a thing of Robert?" she cried angrily. "You
ought to be ashamed of yourself. Really, I've no patience with you!
Such base ingratitude after all he has done for us! And so uncalled
for! If ever there was a model husband--"
"You don't say so!" he interrupted with a sneer.
There was something peculiar about her husband's manner that made
Fanny look at him more closely.
"What do you mean?" she demanded uneasily.
He grinned.
"Who told you that he was a model husband? Did Virginia ever say so?"
Fanny stared at him, not understanding.
"She never said he wasn't," she stammered.
He chuckled.
"Say--but you women are easy marks! Of course she didn't. A girl with
Virginia's spirit doesn't like to confess she's made a mess of it. I
guess she knows well enough by this time that her model husband is not
all that he should be, that he goes on periodical sprees and is apt to
come home any night dead drunk. All New York knows it."
Speechless with astonishment and consternation, Fanny stood still,
staring at her husband. Could this be true? Was Virginia unhappy, had
they made a mistake, after all? Now she came to think of it, she
recalled some peculiar remarks dropped by her sister from time to
time; there had been days when she was strangely depressed, as if she
lived in fear of something or someone. Was it possible that Robert was
not the man he seemed? Virginia had never even hinted at such a thing
directly, but one day, she remembered, her sister had brought up the
subject whether it was a woman's duty to go on living with a husband
after she had ceased to respect him.
For some days after Jimmie's revelation at the breakfast table, Fanny
went about her little flat listless and discouraged. Her usual high
spirits had gone; she felt nervous and ill at ease. If Virginia was
unhappy it was she alone who was responsible. She had encouraged the
match and really persuaded her sister into it. The very first
opportunity she would find out herself if there was any truth in the
story.