He could not face disgrace, any more than he could face
the guns of battle. If his pillow was not always a restful one at night; if
he tossed more than he should at his age--he was but thirty-eight--no one
knew it. His conscience smote him now and then. In his earlier days he had
tricked a widow and caused her to be separated from her last penny.
Afterwards, he learned she had committed suicide. He shuddered. In fact, he
suffered a little for two long years. Then he forgot about her. Life was
life, and though it played unfairly with some, to others it gave beds of
roses; and after all we were but puppets of fate, and each must take his
chances, and not complain if he did not hold the winning hand. There were
only so many to go around. A lottery--that's what it was. And just as
people left a card table, a few widows and orphans had to clear out of the
big gambling-hall of life. It was as plain as day.
To a man like Pell, a wife was a necessity--but only a secondary
consideration. Of course he must marry, keep up an expensive menage, and
prove to the world that he was successful even where women were concerned.
He must give his wife the proper background, do all the necessary things;
furnish the right setting for his jewel.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25