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 pa.s.sed, 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 circ.u.mstances 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. f.a.n.n.y 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, f.a.n.n.y 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 ingrat.i.tude 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 f.a.n.n.y 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?"

f.a.n.n.y 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, f.a.n.n.y 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, f.a.n.n.y 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.

CHAPTER XII

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 pa.s.sions, 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 l.u.s.t 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 a.s.serted 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 s.e.x 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y 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 f.a.n.n.y 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. f.a.n.n.y 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--"