She paused with the mention of his name, as though its utterance pained
her, yet almost immediately resumed her story, not even glancing up at
her listener.
"I was at an age to be easily flattered by the admiration of a man of
mature years. He was considerably older than I, always well dressed,
versed in social forms, liberal with money, exhibiting a certain
dashing recklessness which proved most attractive to all the girls I
knew. Indeed, I think it was largely because of their envy that I was
first led to accept his attentions. However, I was very young, utterly
inexperienced, while he was thoroughly versed in every trick by which
to interest one of my nature. He claimed to be a successful dramatist
and author, thus adding materially to my conception of his character
and capability. Little by little the man succeeded in weaving about me
the web of his fascination, until I was ready for any sacrifice he
might propose. Naturally ardent, easily impressed by outward
appearances, assured as to my own and his social position, ignorant of
the wiles of the world, I was an easy victim. Somewhere he had formed
the acquaintance of my brother, which fact merely increased my
confidence in him. I need not dwell in detail upon what followed--the
advice of romantic girls, the false counsel of a favorite teacher, the
specious lies and explanations accounting for the necessity for
secrecy, the fervent pleadings, the protestations, the continual
urging, that finally conquered my earlier resolves. I yielded before
the strain, the awakened imagination of a girl of sixteen seeing
nothing in the rose-tinted future except happiness. We were married in
Christ Church, Boston, two of my classmates witnessing the ceremony.
Three months later I awoke fully from dreaming, and faced the darkness."
She leaned against the wall, her face, half hidden, pressed against her
arm. Speaking no word of interruption, Winston clasped her hand and
waited, his gray eyes moist.
"He was a professional gambler, a brute, a cruel, cold-blooded coward,"
the words dropping from her lips as though they burned in utterance.
"Only at the very first did he make any effort to disguise his nature,
or conceal the object of his marriage. He endeavored to wring money
from my people, and--and struck me when I refused him aid. He failed
because I blocked him; tried blackmail and failed again, although I
saved him from exposure. If he had ever cared for me, by this time his
love had changed to dislike or indifference. He left me for weeks at a
time, often alone and in poverty. My father sought in vain to get me
away from him, but--but I was too proud to confess the truth. I should
have been welcome at home, without him; but I refused to go. I had
made my own choice, had committed the mistake, had done the wrong; I
could not bring myself to flee from the result. I burrowed in the
slums where he took me, hiding from all who sought me out. Yet I lived
in an earthly hell, my dream of love dispelled, the despair of life
constantly deepening. I no longer cared for the man--I despised him,
shrank from his presence; yet something more potent than pride kept me
loyal. I believed then, I believe now, in the sacredness of marriage;
it was the teaching of my church, of my home; it had become part of my
very soul. To me that formal church wedding typified the solemnity of
religion; I durst not prove untrue to vows thus taken; divorce was a
thought impossible."