The first thing I did was to securely bolt and lock every door, to
darken every window that gave access to our rooms. I must be alone
with my shame and my grief. No one must know--the secret of this vile,
this unutterable disgrace must not escape, must not be whispered, must
not be suspected. From the friends who had been present at the wedding
ceremony I could not expect sympathy after the way in which they had
been treated; from strangers I could hope for none; by friends and
strangers alike I should be pointed at and derided. I must wear a
false face to all the world--as false as the face my wife had worn to
me during our courtship. For in the first flush of the frightful
discovery I did not stop to palter with myself, I did not attempt to
disguise the truth, to delude myself with the hope that this was a new
experience in Barbara's character. The fatal truth fastened itself in
my heart. Signs which had borne no baneful significance in the past
were now suddenly and rightfully interpreted. I understood Maxwell's
mocking words and laughter:
"You want hardening, my boy, and you'll get it," he had said, Again,
"Barbara is not in a condition to see anybody. When she is in that
state, best leave her, old fellow. There's a hint for you in your
matrimonial campaign." And then his last derisive exclamation, "What a
jolly wedding day!" The meaning of the looks he and Barbara had
exchanged on that day when we three were together after the ceremony,
was now clear to me, as clear and withering as a blasting lightning
stroke. She was a drunkard, and he was keeping the joke from me. His
look conveyed the threat, "Be careful, or I will betray you." Aye,
betray her before she betrayed herself! The momentary defiance in her
eyes died away, and she trembled in his presence.
"I will betray you!" Good God, how I had been betrayed! Barbara was
mine forever; as Maxwell had said, she was all my own. We were linked
together; our fates were united. There were no separate paths which
each could tread apart from the other. Hand in hand we must take our
way, and death alone could tear us asunder. On my honor as a man there
died within me during those few moments of torturing reflection all
the love I had borne for Barbara. I awoke to the fact that it was not
true love, but animal passion for her beauty, that had led me into
this pit of shame and despair.
Some men arrive, by slow and devious roads, at a belief that shakes
their faith to its foundations. Not so I. As surely as I knew that I
lived and moved did I know that I was wedded to a drunkard, and that
there was no civilized law that could divorce me from her. I was
Barbara's shield and protector, her lord, her master, her victim. Her
claim upon me was not to be evaded; even to dispute it would cover me
with ignominy, would make my name a bye-word. I could not break the
fetters of the law which bound us together and made us one. Had
Barbara not been a confirmed drunkard, she could never have drank a
full bottle of brandy in so short a time. Three or four glasses would
have overcome her, and she could not have continued to tipple.
Think what you will of me, I declare that I had no compassion for the
woman I had married. No pity for her stirred my heart. Perfect in its
devilish cunning was the duplicity she had practised. "You do not like
wine?" I had said to her. "I detest it," she had answered; and never
in my presence had she drank anything except water. Most artfully had
she concealed from me a secret which was to wreck all my hopes of
happiness, which was to shut out from me all the pure and innocent
pleasures which a man at my time of life might naturally look forward
to. What pity could I have for one who had done this evil?
I made no attempt to rouse my wife, not because I feared I should not
succeed, but because I had no desire to restore her to consciousness
and to hold converse with her. I needed time to review more calmly the
position in which I was placed and to decide upon my course of action
in the future. Meanwhile I applied myself to an examination of the
bedroom. One of Barbara's trunks was unlocked; the lid was down, but a
litter of feminine apparel on the floor denoted that it had been
hurriedly opened and the articles of clothing as hurriedly snatched
from the top, with no intention, as Barbara had indicated, of putting
her things in order, but rather of getting quickly at something which
lay beneath. Had I the right to search this trunk? was the question I
mentally put to myself. I did not, however, stop to discuss it. Right
or wrong, I raised the lid, and taking out the garments which first
met my eyes I found beneath them damning proofs of Barbara's
degradation. Five bottles of brandy were brought to light--the one she
had emptied made the sixth. She had provided herself liberally,
sufficient for six days at the rate she had commenced.
My first impulse was to throw them out of the window, but I checked
myself in time. The noise of the broken glass would have brought the
manager and his staff buzzing about me. What should I do with the
cursed things? Leave them in her trunk? No; it would be inviting a
series of disgraceful exhibitions such as that which lay within my
view. From me she would receive no assistance to reach a lower depth
than that into which she had fallen. I could at least make it
difficult for her to obtain her next supply of liquor without my
knowledge, so I carried the bottles to the outer room, and secreted
them in one of my own trunks, determining to get rid of them by some
means in the course of the next few hours. Then I huddled Barbara's
clothes into her trunk, and closed the lid. Without casting another
glance at my wife, who was now beginning to breathe more heavily, I
returned to the sitting-room, and sinking into a chair, burst into a
passionate fit of weeping.
Thus did I pass my bridal night.