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.
It was impossible to go on living like this. Unless she asserted her womanhood he would gradually degrade her to his own level. She suffered silently, atrociously, feeling her degradation all the more keenly because of her intelligence which rebelled against the injustice and ignominy of it. Her womanhood revolted against this continual, humiliating subjection to the will of the male, of which her sex was the victim. She suffered as thousands of women have done before her, as only a woman can suffer when in spite of herself, against her own inclination and will, she is forced to submit to the unwelcome caresses of a man she no longer loves, a man she can no longer respect. There was only one way out. He must either swear never again to touch a drop of liquor or she would leave him forever. Yes, that was the only way. She would rather suffer any privation than put up with his brutality.
Then, in calmer moments, she hesitated. It would not do to be too hasty. Perhaps he would never again offend in that way. He had broken each promise, it was true, but he seemed so sorry each time, so filled with remorse. Ought she to give him another trial? In her dilemma she decided to ask counsel of her sister. She would not tell Fanny everything, of course; that would be too dreadful, too humiliating. She would merely ask her what she herself would do under similar provocation.