"I have told you the truth. I think I comprehend one trait, at least, of your character—you would never again trust one who had deliberately deceived you."
She did not remove her eyes from the cup, nor appear to note my interruption, but continued gravely:
"I must tell my story to someone; I can fight fate alone no longer. Perhaps I may not confess everything, for I do not know you well enough for that, but enough, at least, so you will no longer suspect that I—I am a bad woman."
"I could never really believe that."
"Oh, yes, you could. I have read in your face that my character puzzles you. You invited me to drink a cocktail to try me. Don't protest, for really I do not wonder at it, or blame you in the least. How could you think otherwise? My position was a strange one, bound to awaken suspicion; my conduct immodest. Yet you must accept my explanation, for I shall tell the truth. I was never guilty of such an act before—never! Perhaps because I was never tempted. There is a home I could return to, and a mother, but they are more than a thousand miles from here. But I cannot go, even if I possessed the means, because of my pride—my false pride possibly. I have chosen my course, and must abide by it to the end."
She drew a long breath, speaking very slowly.
"It is a hard story to tell, for the wound is still fresh, and hurts. I was upon the stage—not long, but with sufficient success so that I had become leading woman with one of the best stock companies. It was against my mother's wish I entered the profession, and she has never become reconciled to it, although our relationship remained pleasant. A few months ago, while playing in Omaha, I met Fred Bernard. I knew little of him, but he appeared gentlemanly and well-to-do, and was presented to me by one in whom I had confidence. He was pleasant, and apparently in love with me; I liked him, was flattered by his attentions, and discouraged in my ambition. When he asked me to marry him conditions were such that I accepted, even consented, under his urging, to an immediate ceremony. We came to this city, were quietly married here, and occupied a flat on the north side. My husband did no work, but received remittances from home, and apparently had plenty of means. He told me little about himself, or his condition, but promised to take me to his people in a little while. He said his father was wealthy, but eccentric; that he had told him of our marriage, but there had been a quarrel between them, and he could not take me there without an invitation. I was never shown the letters, but they bore Southern postmarks."
She paused, hesitating, her eyes full of pain.
"I—I was afraid to question, for—for he proved so different after our marriage. He was a drunkard, abusive and quarrelsome. I had never before been in intimate contact with anyone like that, and I was afraid of him. Whatever of love I might have felt died within me under abuse. He struck me the second day, and from that moment I dreaded his home-coming. For weeks I scarcely saw him sober, and his treatment of me was brutal."
Tears were in her eyes, but she held them back, forcing herself to go on.