"How I longed to keep that gown! I think I should have kept it if Seraphine had not happened in.

"'Isn't this lovely?' I said, holding it up. 'Do you think I can accept it?' Then I told her what Mr. G---- had said.

"She looked at me out of her kind, wise eyes.

"'Do you like him?'

"'Well--rather.'

"'Is he married or unmarried?'

"'I think he's married.'

"'Is he the man who gave Roberta her sables?'

"'Y-yes,' I admitted.

"She looked at me again.

"'I can't decide for you, Pen; you must settle it with your own conscience; but I am sure of one thing, that, if you accept this dress, you will pay for it, and probably pay much more than it is worth.'

"It ended in my sending the gown back and missing the dinner party, which made Mr. G---- furious, he blamed Roberta for my resistance, and a little later he threw her over. Like most men of that type who promise women wonderful things, he was hard, selfish and exacting--a cold-blooded sensualist. And poor Roberta, indolent and luxurious, was obliged to go back to work--up at seven and on her feet all day for twenty dollars a week. She had been spending twenty dollars a day!

"What is a woman to conclude from all this?" I wrote despairingly. "I know there are decent men in the world; there are employers who would never think of becoming unduly interested in their good-looking women a.s.sistants, who would never intimate that they had any claim upon the evenings of pretty stenographers or secretaries; there are lawyers who would never force odious attentions upon an attractive woman whose divorce case they might be handling--'_Dear lady, how about a little dinner and a cabaret show tonight?_'--There are old friends of the family, serious middle-aged men who would never take advantage of a young woman's weakness or distress; but, oh dear G.o.d! there are so many others who have no decency, no heart! A woman is desperate and must confide in someone. She has lost her position and is struggling to find another. She craves innocent pleasure--music, the theatre, the dance.

_She is so horribly lonely._ Help me, counsel me, she pleads to some man whom she trusts--any man, the average man. Does he help her? Yes, on one condition, that she use her power as a woman. Not otherwise. This is a great mystery to women--how men, who are naturally kind, can be so cruel, so persistent, so infernally clever in forcing women to use their power for their own undoing."

_Tuesday._

Here is an interesting thing that Kendall Brown once said on this subject--I recorded it in my diary along with other sayings of this erratic Greenwich Village poet and philosopher:

"The s.e.x power of women is the most formidable power ever loosed upon earth," he declared one evening. "Thrones totter before it. Captains of industry forget their millions in its presence. _Cherchez la femme!_ This terrible power is possessed by every dark-eyed siren in a Second Avenue boarding house, by every languishing, red-lipped blonde earning eighteen dollars a week in a department store. And she knows it! Others have vast earthly possessions, stores of science, palaces of art, knowledge without end--she has a _tresor_ that makes baubles of these--she is the custodian of life, _she has the eternal life power_."

How true that is!

Again I wrote:

"It may be argued that women are willing victims of this man conspiracy, I say _no_! Every woman in her heart longs to love _one_ man, to give herself to _one_ man, to be true to _one_ man. Even the unfortunate in the streets, if she receives just a little kindness, if she has only half a chance and is encouraged to right living by some decent fellow, will go through fire and water to show her grat.i.tude and devotion. But men give women no chance. They pluck the roses in the garden and trample them under foot. Here is the great tragedy of modern life--_men wish to change from one woman to another, whereas women do not wish to change. A characteristic s.e.x difference between men and women is that men are naturally promiscuous, but women abhor the thought of promiscuousness._"

_Sunday._

A wave of repulsion runs over me as I quickly turn the pages of my life with Julian. And then a faint whisper comes to me: "The _truth_, you have promised to tell it--at least to your own soul."

_The truth!_

Slowly I turn back to what I wrote in those unhappy days:

"Why do I live with him? I no longer love him. At times I despise him and his slightest touch makes me shiver with disgust, yet I continue to endure this life--why?

"It is because of the great pity I have for him. He is weak and helpless, almost child-like in his dependence on me. I am the prop which holds up the last shreds of his self-respect. If I left him, he would drift lower and lower, I know it. Sometimes I pa.s.s some awful creature staggering along the sidewalks. He is dirty and uncared for. Long matted hair falls across his bleared and sunken eyes. I say to myself: 'But for you, Penelope Wells, that might be Julian.' And this gives me courage to take up my burden once more."

And again I find:

"I am beginning to fear. I have been looking in my mirror and it seems to me that my face is taking on the lines of animalism that I see daily becoming deeper in Julian's face. Must I continue this degradation? If I were helping him to raise himself--but I am not, not really. It's too heavy a weight for me to bear. I am sinking ... sinking to his level. I cannot stand it. It is killing me...."

And again:

"I am too heartsick to write....

"I began this a week ago in agony of soul when I tried to set down my feelings about a horrible night with Julian, but I could not. He has been drinking--drinking for weeks--neglecting his business, breaking all his promises to me. What can I do? How can I help him, strengthen him, keep him from doing some irrevocable thing that will utterly destroy our home and make me lose him? In spite of his weakness, his neglect, his faithlessness, I cannot bear the thought of losing him. My pride is involved and--and _something else_!

"He had not come home for dinner that night and it was ten o'clock when I heard the door slam. Julian came into the living room and as soon as I saw him my heart sank. He dropped into a chair without speaking.

"'Tired, dear?' I said, trying to smile a welcome.

"'Dead beat,' he sighed and stared moodily into the fire.

"I went to him and rested my hand lightly on his head and smoothed back his hair as he liked me to do. He jerked away.

"'Wish you'd let me alone,' he muttered fretfully.

"I drew back, knowing what this irritability meant, and we sat in silence gazing into the glowing ashes. His fingers beat a nervous tattoo against the chair and presently, with some mumbled words, he rose and moved towards the door. Now I knew the fight was on, the fight with the Demon, drink, that was drawing him away from me. I followed him into the hall.

"'Don't go,' I pleaded, but he pushed my hand from the door-k.n.o.b.

"'I'll be back soon,' he said, reaching for his hat.

"'Wait!' I whispered. Deep within I breathed a prayer: 'Brave heart, have courage; nimble wit, be alert; warm, white body hold him fast.'

"'Come back ... before the fire ... I want to talk to you,' I leaned against him caressingly, but I could feel no response as I nestled closer.

"'Don't you care for me any more?' I questioned tenderly.

"He was still unyielding, his brain was busy with the thought of the brown liquor that his whole system craved. Purposely I drew back my flowing sleeve and placed my warm flesh against his face. He turned to his old seat before the fire.

"'All right, I'll stay for ten minutes ... if what you say is important.'

"When he was once more comfortable, I brought a cushion to his chair and snuggled down at his feet, with my head resting against him. I drew his half reluctant hand around my throat, then I exerted every part of my brain force ... to hold him. Ceaselessly I talked of our old days together--camping trips to the Northern woods of Canada, wonderful weeks of idling down the river in our launch, days of ideal happiness, spent together. I appealed to his love for me, his old love, and the memory of our early married life. He was unresponsive, and I could feel the restlessness of his fingers in my hair.

"Presently he pushed me aside, not ungently this time but, nevertheless, firmly. Once more the struggle began, and now I must rely on the old physical lure to hold him.... Well, I won. I kept him with me but was it worth such a sacrifice? As I think ... I burn with shame."