Beth Norvell

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."