Possessed Part 5

There are many entries in my diary like this, for my life with Julian was full of scenes when I tried so hard ... so hard ... all in vain!

Here is another picture:

"Last night Julian came home in a hilarious mood. His habitual sullen look had gone and he almost seemed the man who had won me--before I knew him as he really is.

"'Come along, Penny,' he laughed as he caught me in his arms. 'We're going to celebrate. Dress up in that lacy black thing--you are seduction itself in it.'

"His praise made me happy and, responding to his mood, I changed my clothes quickly, and we set forth joyfully in antic.i.p.ation of a pleasant evening.

"Everything went well through the dinner, although I hesitated when Julian ordered wine; but I was afraid to oppose him or to speak a single jarring word.

"'Drink up, Penny, and have some more. My G.o.d, but you are glorious tonight!' he whispered as he leaned across the table.

"I smiled and emptied my gla.s.s, and soon I became as reckless and jovial as he. We went from one cabaret to another, laughing at everything. All the world was gay. There was no sorrow anywhere--only one grand celebration. Julian was never so fascinating. I was proud of his good looks, of his wit, of his strength as he lifted me from the taxicab and almost carried me into the house.

"'My darling!' I breathed as my lips brushed his cheek, 'I love you!'

"'You see, Penny, how wonderful everything is when you are reasonable.

If you will only drink with me once in a while, I'll never, never leave you.'

"He placed me gently in a chair. Soon the room began to whirl around ...

and I knew no more....

"This morning my head ached and a thousand needles were piercing my eyes. I rang for the maid and asked for my husband.

"'He brought you home last night, but he went out again later and he hasn't come back,' she said and her eyes did not meet mine.

"'Was I--was I?' I stammered, shame possessing me.

"'Yes, Mrs. Wells, you were....'

"G.o.d! What have I gained? I have degraded myself without doing Julian any good. I have sunk to his level and have not even been able to keep him at my side. I hate him! I hate myself even more!"

I find a pitiful entry that I made only a few months before Julian was killed. In a fit of anger he had left me, accusing me of being a drag on his life, saying that I was to blame for all his follies. He was going to be rid of me now. So he took all the money in the house and went off--I should never see him again. At last I had what I had longed for, my freedom, he had given it to me, flung it in my face. And then--

This is what I wrote six weeks later:

"Well, I'm a failure all right. Never again may I think well of myself or feel that I am ent.i.tled to the joys of life. For I'm just a plain moral coward. I couldn't even keep what was forced on me--my liberty.

"Last Wednesday he came back, such a miserable wreck of a man, so utterly broken in every way that it would have moved a heart of stone.

Inside of me is a sorrow too deep for expression, but somehow a peace also. Now I am sure that my bondage will never cease. But I couldn't refuse to take Julian back when I saw what a state he was in. His spiritual abas.e.m.e.nt was such an awful thing that I could not shame him by even letting him know that I understood it."

_Monday._

I walked for hours beside the ocean, watching the waves, the sky, the soaring gulls,--trying to tire myself out, searching into my heart for the truth about my life--about my illness. I cannot find the truth. I have done what Dr. Owen told me to do as well as I can and--I do not see that any good has come of it. I have stirred up ghosts of the past--leering ghosts, and I hate them. I am sick of ign.o.ble memories. I want to close forever the door on those unhappy years. I want to be well, to live a sane life, to have a little pleasure; but....

_Thursday._

I am tired of Atlantic City. I am going back to New York tomorrow. No doubt I have benefited by these days of rest and change. My bad dreams are gone and I have only heard the Voices once. Dr. Owen will say that his prescription has been efficacious, but that is not true. I know _They_ are waiting for me in the city, waiting to torture me. Then why do I go back? Because it is my fate. I am driven on by some power beyond my control--driven on!

_Penelope will cross the ocean. Her husband will die very soon. There will be war soon. She will go to the war and honors will be conferred upon her on the battlefields. Then she will go down to horror--to terror!_

How that prophecy of Seraphine haunts me! All of it has come true except the very last. Horror! Terror! These two are ever before me. These two already encompa.s.s me. These two will presently overwhelm me unless--unless--I don't know what.

Seraphine is in New York, I have meant to go to see her, but--I am afraid, I am afraid of what she will tell me!

_New York, Sat.u.r.day._

I must set down here--to ease my tortured brain--some of the things that have happened to me since I last wrote in this book, my confessional.

When I got back to town I found an invitation to go to a Bohemian ball, and I decided to accept. _Vive la joie!_ So I put on a white dress and went with Roberta Vallis and that ridiculous poet Kendall Brown. It was the first time I had danced since my husband died and I enjoyed it.

Such a ball! They called it a Pagan Revel and it was! Egyptian costumes and a Russian orchestra. Some of the Egyptian slave maidens were dressed mostly in brown paint. Kendall says he helped dress them at the Liberal Club. Good heavens! Kendall's pose of lily white virtue amuses me. He went as a cave man with a leopard skin over his shoulders, and I danced with him two or three times. His talk reminds me of Julian. How well I know the methods of these sentimental pirates! What infinite patience and adroitness they use in leading the talk towards dangerous ground!

How seriously they begin! With what sincerity and ingenuous frankness they proceed, and all the time they know exactly what they are doing, exactly what effects they are producing in a woman.

Kendall spoke of the modern dance in a detached, intellectual way. He dwelt on one particular development in the fox trot--had I noticed it?--there! that naval officer and the languis.h.i.+ng blonde were doing it now--which seemed to him unaesthetic. It might be harmful in some cases, say to a Cla.s.s A woman. Being curious, I asked what he meant by a "Cla.s.s A" woman and this gave Kendall his opportunity to discourse on fundamental differences that exist among women, so he declares. I wish I knew if what he says is true. He a.s.sures me he has it on the authority of a Chicago specialist, but I never put much dependence on anything that Kendall Brown says. If this is true the whole romantic history of the world will have to be rewritten and the verdicts of numberless juries in murder trials _pa.s.sionels_ ought to be set aside.

The statement is that physical desire is universal among men, but not among women. One-third of all women, Kendall puts them in Cla.s.s C, have no such desire; therefore, they deserve no particular credit for remaining virtuous. Another third of all women are in Cla.s.s B, the normal cla.s.s, where this desire is or is not present, according to circ.u.mstances. The last third of all women make up Cla.s.s A, and these women, being as strongly tempted as men (or more so), are condemned to the same struggles that men experience, and, if they happen to be beautiful, and without deep spirituality, they are fated to have emotional experiences that may make them great heroines or artists, great adventuresses or outcasts.

I am sure I do not belong in Cla.s.s C, I _hope_ I belong in Cla.s.s B, but I am afraid--

I knew _They_ were waiting for me. Last night I heard Them again--after the ball. It was a horrible night! I shall write to Dr. Owen that I must see him at once.

CHAPTER III

A BOWL OF GOLD FISH

(_A letter from Penelope_)

_New York, February ----._

DEAR DR. OWEN:

Did you think I had vanished from the earth? I know I ought to have reported to you a week ago, but--I fear Penelope Wells is an unreliable person. Forgive me! I am in great distress.