Bought and Paid For; From the Play of George Broadhurst

Chapter X

For some time after the merry dinner in Robert Stafford's beautiful apartment Virginia saw but little of her wealthy suitor. In fact, she rather avoided him, preferring not to give the appearance of encouraging him, firstly because she had not yet made up her mind regarding the honor he had done her, secondly because it was not always easy to invent excuses for further delay in arriving at a decision. Yet, situated as she was, it was not possible to hide from him altogether. There were daily duties to be performed; the business routine of every day must go on. When in the hotel or its neighborhood Stafford never neglected an opportunity to see her, or when he was not able to come himself he sent her flowers, books and candy, paying her every delicate attention in the nicest and most considerate way possible.

As soon as was practicable, she resigned her position at the hotel, taking this step not so much to avoid the railroad promoter, but because she did not wish to furnish anyone with the slightest pretext for criticism. The world is quick to censure. People could not help noticing that the millionaire spent a great deal more time at Miss Blaine's desk than was necessary to transact legitimate business, and it would not be long before the gossips got busy to her disparagement. For that reason she preferred to resign. Besides, it would be fairer to him. He had not even hinted at her taking such a course, but if she was to consider his proposal of marriage seriously—and each day the conviction grew stronger that it was her destiny—it was only proper that she should retire at once into private life and give people time to forget what she was before she became Robert Stafford's wife.

But while this judicious step naturally resulted in a serious curtailment of her income, she was not idle. She helped Fanny in the millinery store, and, in order to keep herself in pocket money, gave private lessons to beginners. These tasks kept her fully occupied, and what with her studies and household duties the days went by cheerfully enough.

Stafford was a regular and welcome caller at the Blaine home. He often came to take the sisters out for a spin in his splendid new touring car, a forty-horse-power Mercedes, and sometimes he would telephone from downtown and arrange for a little theatre party with supper afterwards at one of the fashionable night restaurants of the Great White Way.

Fanny and Jimmie looked upon the couple as if they were engaged and treated Stafford accordingly, addressing him with the easy familiarity of a future brother-in-law, an attitude which he himself tactfully encouraged. He went out of his way to be amiable to Fanny, flattering her and making her presents, and encouraging Jimmie to talk of his wonderful ideas. Moreover, he gave him plainly to understand that, once Virginia and he were married, the shipping clerk's impecunious days would be over and a comfortable berth would be awaiting him in his office at a salary commensurate with his exceptional ability.

This semi-promise was enough for Jimmie. From that moment on he was a changed man and Virginia knew no peace. He insisted that she was treating Stafford unfairly. If she did not want to marry him she should say so, and if she did intend to marry him she should be willing to name the day. As it was, she was standing in the way of her sister's prosperity and happiness. At the same time Fanny also added her powers of persuasion. Between the two Virginia felt that she had not much will of her own left.

Thus the weeks passed, Stafford respectful and devoted, but daily growing more restive and impatient, urging his suit, refusing to be discouraged, waiting eagerly for the day when she would respond to his passionate pleading and throw herself without restraint into his arms.

Meantime Fanny and Jimmie, having arrived at the conclusion that the prospects were bright and that they had been engaged long enough, suddenly decided to get married. Fourteen dollars a week—the weekly income of the bridegroom—did not allow of the setting up of a very elaborate establishment, but, as the clerk explained privately to his bride, it was only a question of time when Virginia would become Mrs. Stafford and then it would be smooth sailing for them all. Stafford had promised him a fat job at a salary worth while, and that could not possibly mean less than fifty dollars a week.

"He wouldn't have the cheek to offer me less than fifty per," said Jimmie confidently.

All of which sounded very hopeful to Fanny, who, however, was shrewd enough to make no mention to her sensitive sister of her intended's sanguine expectations.

They were married at the little Roman Catholic church in 125th Street, Virginia being the solitary bridesmaid, while Stafford—willing enough to enter into the spirit of the occasion and taking a chance that in such a remote neighborhood no one would recognize him—acted as best man. The bride looked pretty and self-composed, while Jimmie was a picture of masculine magnificence in a new frock coat, patent-leather shoes, white tie, silk hat and a collar so high that he could not turn his head round. After the ceremony, they all dined gaily at Claremont at Stafford's expense and then the newly married couple left for Atlantic City, where the brief honeymoon was to be spent—on slender savings which Fanny had carefully hoarded for some time.

Virginia cried bitterly as her sister drove away. It was the first time that they had been separated; she felt as if she was losing the last friend she had in the world. Stafford, full of kindly sympathy, tried to console her. Gently he whispered:

"Don't cry, dear. Don't you see how happy she is? You wouldn't rob her of that happiness, would you?"

"No, indeed," she sobbed.

He bent down closer and whispered:

"One day—she will be kissing her hand to you as you drive away in your bridal robes."

She made no answer and he pressed for some response.

"Won't she?" he pleaded.

Her eyes still fixed on the cab, now fast disappearing in the distance, she murmured:

"Perhaps."

"When will that be?" he went on eagerly.

She shook her head, irritated at his persistence at such a moment.

"I do not know," she replied coldly.

Thus far, Stafford had succeeded in keeping from his friends any intimation of his matrimonial plans, but it was hardly possible to keep the secret much longer. He and Virginia had been seen together in public places; his many visits to her house were known. Her sudden resignation from the hotel also had excited comment. People began to connect their names in a way unflattering to both. Such slanderous rumors must be stopped at any cost, thought Stafford to himself, and one evening at Delmonico's, while in a jovial, communicative mood, an opportunity came to unbosom himself freely to his friend Hadley. It was the latter's birthday and they were duly celebrating the occasion as three bottles of Veuve Clicquot, standing empty on the table, bore mute witness.

Stafford had been drinking freely. His face was flushed and his voice was thick, familiar symptoms when he had imbibed more wine than was good for him. The secret came out suddenly owing to a chance remark dropped by Hadley, who, sober himself and speaking of women in general, argued that girls who were compelled by necessity to earn their own living formed a class by themselves. They could not be classed with the domesticated girl of good family because they were open to temptations and contaminating influences which the latter escaped. Coming in close contact with the busy, feverish world, associating on terms of daily intimacy with all kinds of men, the naturally high moral sense of the virtuous woman must necessarily become blunted in her new business surroundings.

"Once the bloom is off a woman's moral sense," he argued, "it is only a step to the undermining of her virtue. It's inevitable," he went on as he sat back in his chair idly enjoying his cigar. "The home is the young girl's only protection. Take her out of it and you expose her to the manoeuvres of the first scoundrel who comes along. If she's temperamentally cold, she'll resist the seducer successfully; but if she's weak and pleasure-loving, she'll succumb and the devil will have won over another convert. Take, for instance, those stenographers in your hotel. That Miss Blaine—she's as pretty as—"

Crash!

There was a blow of a heavy fist falling on the table. The dishes danced, glasses fell in splinters on to the floor. Hadley, startled, turned round. Stafford, his handsome face flushed from the champagne, but now tense and angry, was looking at him fiercely:

"Take care, old chap, how you talk of Miss Blaine! She's going to be my wife!"

"Your wife!" exclaimed Hadley, removing his cigar from his mouth in sheer surprise.

"Yes, my wife," repeated Stafford grimly. "What about it?"

"Nothing—nothing at all, my dear fellow," he stammered, looking narrowly at his companion to see if he was sober, "allow me to congratulate you."

There was an awkward pause. Then suddenly Stafford broke into a loud peal of laughter. His momentary ill humor had passed. Unable to account for the sudden change of mood, Hadley came to the conclusion that the railroad man was enjoying a joke at his expense.

"You were guying me, eh?" he laughed.

Stafford hiccoughed and shook his head. With drunken gravity he replied:

"No, siree—sure as your life—she's going to marry me."

Calling the waiter, he motioned to him to open another bottle of wine.

"We'll drink to her health, Hadley, old top. Nicest girl in the world!"

The champagne was uncorked and the railroad promoter poured out the wine with an unsteady hand. Lifting his glass he cried with mock sentimentality:

"To Virginia—my bride!"

The men touched glasses and Stafford, putting his glass to his lips, drained it at one gulp. Hadley stared at him in growing amazement. He saw his friend was drunk, but this was the first time he had suspected him of losing his senses.

"And how long has this been going on?" exclaimed his companion when he had recovered somewhat from his amazement.

Stafford laughed.

"Ever since that day you were in my rooms at the hotel," he hiccoughed. "Didn't I tell you that I contemplated matrimony? Don't you remember?"

"I didn't believe you. I thought you were joking. I never thought you were the marrying sort."

"Why not?" spluttered the railroad man in an injured tone.

Hadley looked his friend straight in the face. He was not the kind of a man to shrink from telling a friend the truth.

"Do you want the truth?" he said slowly. "Well—you're too fond of your pleasures—too selfish! That's frank—but it's the truth. Selfishness keeps most men single. They're afraid to lose their liberty. When you marry you can say good-bye to your freedom."

"Who said so?" exclaimed Stafford, his face redder than ever, his lips tightening.

Hadley carelessly flecked the ash from his cigar. Calmly he replied:

"Your wife will expect it. She'll have a right to expect it."

Stafford smiled as he poured out another glass of wine. Grimly he said:

"You don't know me, Hadley, not after all these years, or you wouldn't talk like that. I'm not the man to be bullied or tyrannized or even lectured by a woman. My wife and I will understand each other perfectly. I shall make that quite plain from the outset. It's only right. I give my wife—my name, my fortune. I expect in return something from my wife. I think I've found just the right kind of girl—unspoiled by society notions, sensible on every point—"

"Even on that of letting you have your own way?" laughed Hadley.

"Precisely. She is ideal in every particular. Clever, amiable, good looking, not too strait-laced—she's just the girl I want. Don't you remember," he hiccoughed, "it was you yourself who recommended her—"

"As a secretary," said Hadley dryly.

Once more Stafford emptied his glass. He had already drunk too much, but he still had his wits about him. Laughing boisterously at his friend's sarcasm, he quickly retorted:

"As a secretary—precisely—and I've engaged her—for life."

Again filling his glass, he went rambling on:

"You and the other fellows at the club may chaff me all you choose. I'm going to marry her and that's all there is to it. I'm my own master, do you understand? I have no family—no inquisitive, meddlesome relatives, thank God! If this marriage is going to cost me what friends I have—all right—let them keep away! Such friends are not worth having, anyway. My mind is made up and you know me. Once I make up my mind, nothing can alter it." Determinedly he added: "I'll marry her even if she refuses me—"

"Refuses you?" smiled Hadley cynically; "surely you don't anticipate anything of that sort. Girls don't refuse millionaires nowadays."

Stafford's face clouded again. With an impatient gesture he cried:

"That's just the kind of rot you fellows talk! You don't know Virginia. She's not the sort of girl to be influenced in that way. If she were, she'd have said 'yes' at once. I understand her perfectly. She's still uncertain if she cares enough for me. I respect her all the more for her reserve. I'd rather that than have a girl throw herself at me merely for my money." Carelessly he added: "Oh, I'm not worrying. We're getting along all right. It's only a question of time now—"

Hadley did not know what to say. Evidently any advice he could have given on the subject was now too late. All he could think of was to mutter:

"Well—congratulations—old sport!"

Stafford, no longer crossed, broke into a smile once more. Leaning tipsily over towards his friend, his face flushed, his eyes sparkling, he hiccoughed:

"Say, Hadley, she's a winner! Those big black eyes of hers are enough to drive any man crazy; and that figure! Can you blame me, Hadley? Can you blame me? Here, drink up!"

"No," said his companion, disgusted and pushing his glass away. "I've had enough and so have you. It's getting late. Let's go."

Stafford made no reply, but, calling the waiter, proceeded to settle for the dinner. While he was thus engaged, Hadley watched him in irritated silence.

"In vino veritas!" he mused to himself. Truly the wine had spoken plainly. The cloven hoof was clearly visible. It was not so much the congenial companion, the soul-mate which Robert Stafford saw in Virginia Blaine as it was a lovely young animal for the gratification of his lust, his appetites. What marriage, based on that idea, could be a happy one? He felt sorry for the girl. If he knew her well or cared enough, he would warn her that his friend was not the marrying kind of man. Of course, Stafford would do the honorable thing, go through a marriage ceremony, make a handsome settlement and all that sort of thing; but when it came to leading a quiet, regular, domesticated life, he simply was incapable of it—that's all. He had enjoyed liberty too long to wear the harness now. He was too much of the viveur, too fond of his club, his poker parties and little midnight suppers with fair ladies. Once the novelty of marriage had worn off, he would return to the old life and then there would be the devil to pay. The wife would find it out, there would be a row, with court proceedings, alimony and all the rest of it. Or perhaps she would suffer and say nothing, as so many do. Anyway, he was sorry for the girl.

Stafford looked at him and laughed boisterously.

"What's the matter, old top? You're as serious to-day as some bewhiskered old college professor. Stop your philosophizing and let's have some more wine. I'll match you for another bottle. Come, now."

Hadley shook his head and rose.

"No more for me," he said firmly. "You don't want any, either. Let's go."

"Which direction are you going?"

"Up Fifth Avenue. Coming my way?"

"Yesh—I'm with you—only I must stop in Forty-second Street first—at a jeweller's—to get a ring I ordered." Grinning stupidly at Hadley, he went on: "Great idea—diamonds! You can do anything with a woman if you give her all the jewels she wants! See, my boy?"

A few minutes more and the two men, the taller one of whom walked somewhat unsteadily, were on Fifth Avenue, making their way towards Forty-second Street.

Ten days later there appeared among the society notes of the New York Herald this paragraph:

Chapter XI

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.

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 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.