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.