It was the night of the Governor’s annual ball. By now she should have been dressed. But the wonderful Paris creation that Geradine had insisted on ordering specially for the occasion still lay in shimmering folds on the chaise longue and Marny had not changed from the simple teagown in which she had dined.
She was not going to the ball. She was not going to submit again to the open shame and humiliation that had been her portion throughout her married life but which during the last few weeks had reached a culminating point of horror. Her husband’s gross intemperance, his notorious infidelities, his callous disregard for anything beyond his own pleasure, had driven her at last to rebellion. She had reached the end of her endurance. She knew that at home she must continue to suffer the brutal treatment he meted out to her but she had resolved never to appear in public with him again. How would he receive her decision? How would she brave his anger? Why did she think only of his strength, of the hectoring bullying voice she dreaded, of the merciless hands that made her shrink in physical fear that was an agony? Intolerant of the least opposition to his lightest wish what would he do to her! A shudder of pure terror ran through her. If he would only come—as she knew he would come to demand the reason of her lateness. Waiting was torture.
And yet when the door burst open and banged violently to again and she heard his heavy step behind her the dread she had felt before was as nothing to the paralysing fear that now rushed over her robbing her of all power of movement.
She could have shrieked when his hands closed with crushing force on her shoulders and he swung her round to face him. But she managed to control herself and meet his furious stare courageously. He was in the quarrelsome stage of semi-intoxication that of late had been his usual state, drunk enough to be cruel and vindictive, sober enough to be dangerous.
“Not dressed yet! What the hell have you been doing all this time? You’re damnably late!”
She was used to being sworn at, she had come to feel that nothing he could say could hurt her any more, and tonight it did not seem to matter very much what he said.
She forced herself to answer him.
“I’m not going to the ball, Clyde.”
He glared at her in speechless anger, his hands slipping from her shoulders, his dark red face flushing deeper, the veins on his forehead standing out like whipcord.
“The devil you’re not! And why, might I ask?” he bellowed furiously. Panic driven, the temptation to evade the issue she had raised, the cowardly impulse to plead illness to allay his wrath was almost more than she could suppress. But she fought back the words that rushed to her lips and turned away with a little hopeless gesture.