The blow had fallen upon Virginia with the unexpectedness and
appalling swiftness of a bolt from the blue. From a tranquil state of
contentment and comparative happiness she suddenly awoke to the fact
that she had made a terrible mistake, and when she realized the full
significance of her misfortune, she sank nerveless on to a sofa in her
boudoir and gave way to a wild outburst of hysterical tears. What
could her life be henceforth? How could she hide from the world her
shame, her humiliation, her degradation? To be the wife of a drunkard,
a man given up to the vilest passions, who came to her only when,
temporarily bereft of his reason, she was no longer able to recognize
in him the man she had married!
The first time it happened she thought she would go insane from
fright, horror and disgust. He had been out to dinner and returned
home very late, and so tipsy that he fell down the front steps. She
heard nothing of the commotion, having gone to bed and closed her
door. He knocked and asked her to come into the library and chat a
little; so, thinking to please him, she slipped on a robe and went in.
At first she did not notice his condition. He was in high spirits and
insisted on opening a bottle of champagne. Then she observed that his
face was flushed, a strange look was in his eyes--a look she had never
seen there before--and his breath smelled strong of drink. He became
very amorous and clumsily threw his arms around her. She recoiled in
disgust, but he seized her, overpowered her by sheer brute strength,
leered at her like some gibbering ape, polluted her lips with
whiskey-laden kisses, claimed possession of her body with the
unreasoning frenzy of a beast in rut.
The next day he avoided her, as if ashamed of his conduct, and for
some time he kept out of her way. Then frankly, candidly, he came to
her and asked her pardon. It would never happen again, he said, if
only she would forgive him. She forgave, and a few weeks later the
same disgraceful scene occurred. Again he professed to be filled with
remorse. Never again would he touch wine--if only she would again
overlook it. A second time was he forgiven, and shortly afterwards she
was once more the victim of his lust and violence.
Panic-stricken, not knowing where to turn, in whom to confide, she
went almost insane from anxiety and grief. She could not take
strangers into her confidence; she even shrank from telling her own
sister. This, then, was the barrier which her unerring instinct had
sensed--her husband was a drunkard! He took pleasure in his wife's
society only when the champagne aroused his amorous instincts. That
was why he had married her. This millionaire had covered her with
jewels, given her a luxurious home, but at what a price! He had said
he loved her. Love? Such a word was a mockery in the mouth of such a
voluptuary. The only feeling he had for her was the blind instinct of
the primeval brute. He had no respect for her; he regarded her as
something he had a right to force his will upon. She was his
plaything, his mistress--not his wife. When, heated with wine, he
approached her, a horrible, meaning smile on his face, he seemed to
take possession of her as of something he had a right to, something he
had bought and paid for and which was his alone to enjoy.
It was impossible to go on living like this. Unless she asserted her
womanhood he would gradually degrade her to his own level. She
suffered silently, atrociously, feeling her degradation all the more
keenly because of her intelligence which rebelled against the
injustice and ignominy of it. Her womanhood revolted against this
continual, humiliating subjection to the will of the male, of which
her sex was the victim. She suffered as thousands of women have done
before her, as only a woman can suffer when in spite of herself,
against her own inclination and will, she is forced to submit to the
unwelcome caresses of a man she no longer loves, a man she can no
longer respect. There was only one way out. He must either swear never
again to touch a drop of liquor or she would leave him forever. Yes,
that was the only way. She would rather suffer any privation than put
up with his brutality.
Then, in calmer moments, she hesitated. It would not do to be too
hasty. Perhaps he would never again offend in that way. He had broken
each promise, it was true, but he seemed so sorry each time, so filled
with remorse. Ought she to give him another trial? In her dilemma she
decided to ask counsel of her sister. She would not tell Fanny
everything, of course; that would be too dreadful, too humiliating.
She would merely ask her what she herself would do under similar
provocation.
An opportunity soon presented itself. Frequently during the Winter she
invited Fanny to go with her to the opera, and sometimes when there
were to be several outings, her sister would come and stay at the
Stafford home for several days, bringing her baby with her, a suite
having been set apart for the Gillies' exclusive use. The house was so
large that Virginia could well spare the room. Besides, she liked to
have her sister's companionship.
It was on the last night of one of these protracted visits that Robert
Stafford's wife found the long-waited-for chance to unburden her
heart. She and Fanny had been to the opera and just returned home.
Virginia was in her boudoir, still wearing the magnificent gown and
wonderful jewels which made her the cynosure of every eye in the
Metropolitan's aristocratic horse-shoe circle. Fanny had gone to her
own apartment and Josephine, the French maid, took from her mistress
her cloak and opera bag. While the girl disposed of the articles she
chattered in French:
"Je pensais que Madame rentrerait un peu plus tard--"
"Yes," replied Virginia languidly, "we returned much earlier than we
expected. The opera was stupid--"
Josephine, a born diplomat, stopped short and, going into ecstasies
over her mistress's gown, exclaimed rapturously:
"Oh, que Madame est jolie ce soir, vraiement ravissante!"
"I'm glad the gown looks well," replied Virginia with an air of weary
indifference as she sank down on a sofa.
"Mais oui--Madame n'a jamais été si jolie."
"Donnez moi mes pantoufles," said her mistress with a yawn. She was
very tired and was glad to change her tight opera slippers for more
comfortable footwear.
"Oui, Madame!"
Josephine knelt down, took off the dainty slippers, and, going to a
closet, brought a pair of easy bedroom slippers and put them on.
"Has Mr. Stafford returned?" inquired Virginia.
"No, Madame."
"Nor 'phoned?"
"No, Madame. Did not Monsieur go to opera with Madame and Madame
Gillie?"
"Yes," said her mistress hastily, "but he couldn't stay. He had some
business to attend to. You are quite sure he hasn't 'phoned?"
The girl shook her head.
"No message, Madame. I find out." Picking up the receiver from a
telephone on the bureau, she spoke downstairs: "Hello! Who is this?
Madame want to know if any word has come from Monsieur since he went
away! You are quite sure? Merci!" Replacing the receiver, she shook
her head and said: "No, Madame."
Virginia looked away. Her hands were tightly clenched and a hard, set
expression came into her face. Rising, she said:
"Very well. I'll get into something loose."
"Oui, Madame!"
The girl took off her mistress's jewels and put them away in a drawer
of the dressing table. This done, she began to unhook her dress.
Virginia shivered. She did not feel well; her face was flushed and her
head ached. She thought that, possibly, she had taken cold. In a tone
of mild reproach she said:
"The bath was a little cold this morning, Josephine."
The maid looked distressed. Such a calamity was unheard of--hardly to
be believed. Apologetically she exclaimed:
"Je suis vraiment désolée, Madame. It not happen again--I see to
that."
Virginia smiled languidly:
"I'm not complaining, Josephine--"
"No, Madame is very good and kind."
"There's no reason why I shouldn't be."
"Merci, Madame," said the girl with a courtesy.
At that moment there was a knock at the door and Fanny entered. She,
also, was in evening dress, but less elegantly attired than her
sister. Dropping into a chair, while Virginia went on changing her
gown, she exclaimed:
"Baby's all right, thank God! She's sleeping just as sound as can be."
"Isn't that nice?" smiled Virginia.
"Yes," went on her sister proudly, "she's a perfect darling."
"She's certainly a dear," murmured Virginia, turning to view herself
in the long mirror.
"Did you ever know a child who behaved better?" demanded the proud
mother.
"Never. She hasn't been the slightest trouble since you've been
here--has she?"
"No!" smiled Fanny. "And she's always that way. It's such a comfort to
a mother to know her child has a sweet disposition. I wonder whether
she gets it--from me or from Jimmie."
"Jimmie's coming in say good night, isn't he?" asked Virginia.
"You bet!" exclaimed her sister, involuntarily relapsing into slang.
"I mean--certainly he is."
"That's right," said Virginia.
"Shall we see you in the morning before we go?"
"Of course."
"I thought perhaps you'd have breakfast in bed."
"And let you and the baby go without saying good-bye? No, indeed."
Virginia had now changed her gown for a loose, clinging robe. With a
sigh of relief she exclaimed:
"Oh, how good it is to be unlaced!"
"That's right," replied Fanny; "make yourself comfortable. I could let
an inch or so out of mine without doing any violent harm. Oh, I just
love to be dressed--décolletée! I got it right that time, didn't I,
Josephine?"
"Oui, Madame," replied the maid.
"Fine! And say, Virgie--"
"Yes?"
"I looked them all over at the opera to-night and you take it from
me--nobody had anything on us to-night."
"You certainly looked very well," said Virginia with a smile.
Fanny beamed with pleasure.
"You weren't ashamed of your sister, were you?" she said.
"Ashamed! I should say not."
"Of course," went on the elder sister proudly, "with my figure I can
wear anything! But when it comes to evening dress I flatter myself
that I'm in the front of the procession and very near the band!"
"It certainly is becoming to you."
"You were a dream!" went on her sister enthusiastically. "Did you see
the look you got from the young woman in the next box--the one with
the pushed-in face?"
"No."
"I did. Prussic acid and vinegar."
"Oh, Fanny!"
"I saw it. One drink would have meant death mingled with convulsions."
"You imagined it."
"Not much," retorted her sister. "I saw it, I tell you. So did
Jimmie--I mean James. You know I'm trying to break myself of this
habit of calling him Jimmie. It's so common."
"Where is Jimmie?" smiled Virginia, still busy at her dressing table.
"Smoking a cigar and admiring the baby."
Virginia remained silent for a moment. Then, thoughtfully, she said:
"Do you know what I'm going to do for her?"
"No--what?" demanded Fanny eagerly.
"I'm going to do all I can for her. She'll never have to fight and
struggle as you and mother did. I'm going to buy her clothes for her,
see after her education, get a governess when the time comes, send her
through Vassar or Wellesley if she wants to go, see that she learns
how to ride and drive. In fact, I'm going to do everything for her
that money and love can."
Fanny clasped her hands with delight. Enthusiastically and gratefully
she exclaimed:
"You're a thoroughbred, Virgie! But what would your husband say?"
"Robert would help me. He's as fond of her as I am. And you know the
size of his heart."
"I should say I do," replied Fanny eagerly. "See what he's done for
James and me already."
"Anything else, Madame?" inquired Josephine, who had finished her
duties.
Her mistress shook her head.
"No, Josephine. You needn't wait for me."
"Shall I call Madame in the morning?"
"No. I'll ring when I want you."
"Oui, Madame." Turning round at the door, she said apologetically:
"Quant au bain, je verrai à ce que cela ne se répète plus."
Virginia smiled good naturedly:
"Very well, Josephine--that's all right--"
"Bonne nuit, Madame!"
The girl went out, closing the door behind her. Fanny, laughing,
mimicked her:
"'Anything else, Madame?' 'No, Josephine, you needn't wait for me.'
'Shall I call you in the morning, Madame?' 'No, I'll ring when I want
you.' Gee! That's classy, all right. It's just like one reads about in
the story books."
"What is?" asked Virginia, who, still seated at the dressing table,
had begun to arrange her hair for the night.
"You and the way you speak French!"
The younger sister laughed heartily.
"Why shouldn't I? I've studied hard enough in the last year and a
half."
"And your music!"
"That, too."
"And your German! And your books on literature and art!"
Taking in the entire room with a sweeping gesture of her hand, she
continued:
"And all this--and your autos--and your yacht--and your box at the
opera--and everything that money can buy--and just think only two
years ago you were an underpaid telephone girl in a hotel!"
"Yes, it is wonderful, isn't it?" sighed Virginia.
"Wonderful!" exclaimed the other. "It makes Laura Jean Libbey look
like a piker."
"Fanny!" protested her sister.
"What's the matter?"
"Slang!" said Virginia reproachfully.
"Oh, I just have to blow off steam once in a while," replied Fanny
carelessly. "And maybe I'm not in it, too. Two years ago I was working
in our little millinery store. Enter the rich Mrs. Chuddington. She's
fifty if she's a day, weighs a hundred and ninety and has a--a double
chin. She sees a hat that would suit a girl just out of school and
tries it on. I look at her and say: 'Oh, Mrs. Chuddington, isn't that
lovely!' Of course, I know it's awful, but I have to say it because
it's business. I point to the customer and Marie says: 'Oh, Mrs.
Chuddington, isn't that exquisite!' Then Mrs. Chuddington puts on the
hat, leaves the store looking a perfect fright. Marie looks at Fanny;
Fanny looks at Marie, and though we don't say a word, we think--oh!
how we do think!"
Virginia smiled in spite of herself.
"They try it with me," she laughed.
"But how is it now?" went on Fanny with an attempt at dignity. "Now,
I'm Mrs. James Gillie, sister of the rich Mrs. Robert Stafford, with
whom I have just spent an evening at the opera and who I am now
visiting in her French boudoir! Sometimes I don't believe it's real,
and I find myself getting ready to wake up just in time to hear the
alarm go off!"
"It is real enough, Fanny," smiled her sister. After a pause, she
asked: "And you--you are happy?"
"Of course I am," said the other, dropping into a seat. "Why shouldn't
I be? Haven't I got James and the baby and a pretty flat, and a maid
to do the work. And isn't James getting a hundred a week from Mr.
Stafford? Well, I should say I am happy!"
"I'm so glad," murmured Virginia with a sigh.
Looking up quickly, Fanny asked:
"You're happy, too, aren't you?"
Virginia made no reply for a moment. Then she said hesitatingly
"Yes--"
Fanny looked closely at her. Was there any foundation for the story
Jimmie had told her? Was her sister unhappy? Did all this luxury
conceal an aching heart?
"If you're not," she said tentatively, "I don't know what you want.
Nobody could be a better husband than Robert. He's just the kindest,
nicest man; a woman simply couldn't help loving him."
Virginia made no answer and Fanny continued:
"You do love him, don't you?"
"Yes," said Virginia hesitatingly, "most of the time. In fact, nearly
all of the time."
"Most of the time--nearly all the time," exclaimed Fanny. "What do you
think love is? Off again, on again, Finnigan! You either love a man or
you don't; at least, that's the way I understand it."
Virginia shook her head. Gravely she said:
"The trouble is that you don't understand--this."
Fanny put her arm round her sister's neck. Sympathetically she said:
"What is it, dear? Tell me--"
Virginia turned round and faced her sister. First looking round the
room to make sure no one was there, she said in a whisper:
"Did Jimmie ever come home--drunk?"
"I should like to see him try it," exclaimed Fanny indignantly. "Just
once. I imagine once would be enough."
"Then you can't understand it," said Virginia quickly.
"Does--Robert?" asked Fanny in a low tone.
Virginia nodded and turned her head away.
"Often?" demanded her sister.
Virginia shook her head despondently. Stifling back the sobs that
choked her utterance, she answered:
"If it were often, I couldn't bear it. I should have left him long
ago. It's bad enough as it is."
Fanny kissed her.
"Poor girl!" she murmured.
Drying her tears, Virginia went on:
"When he's himself there isn't a finer man in the world, but when he's
not--"
"Tell me everything," said Fanny, putting her arm sympathetically
round her little sister's waist.
Virginia turned away. Confusedly she said:
"I can't--now."
"Oh, yes, you can," said Fanny coaxingly, "me--your sister."
"No--no--"
"Yes, you can, dear. Does he come home in a nasty temper?"
"He's generally in the best of tempers--at first."
"And afterwards? You can tell me! What is it?"
"Afterward," said the young wife in a low tone, as if ashamed to tell
the rest: "it isn't love at all--he's just a stranger--inflamed with
liquor--who has me in his power!"
Fanny, shocked, clasped her sister the more closely.
"Virgie!" she exclaimed. "Poor little Virgie!"
"Yes, it's horrible," said Virginia, with difficulty keeping back the
tears. "Sometimes," she went on, "for days I can hardly look at him!
And yet, strange as it may seem, I still love him! I love him to-day
better than I ever loved him. Why? I do not know. If it wasn't for
just that one thing I could be the happiest woman in the world."
"Poor little girl," murmured Fanny, consolingly.
At that moment there was a sharp rap on the door. The elder sister
quickly went to open.
"It's James," she said, "shall I let him in?"
"Certainly," replied Virginia.