Marriage of William Durrant
My marriage has been a failure. I am one of those unfortunate men withwhom fate deals unjustly. I tried my best. I started with plenty ofopportunity, with what I thought was every chance of success. Iworked the whole thing out carefully—I knew what was necessary for ourhappiness and I went after it, sanely and unswervingly. I lackedneither ambition nor purpose; I did not shirk hard work.
I did my best always—the best both for her and for me. And I lost. Thewoman I loved and trusted—trusted too much, I know now—deceived me. Myhonor has been trampled under foot—my marriage wrecked in spite of thefact I did everything I could to make it a success.
I shall tell you about it plainly, just as it occurred.
My name is William Durrant; I was born in Philadelphia thirty-twoyears ago. My family was prominent in Philadelphia society; my mothera woman of superior culture and a very great social ambition.
I received a university education and then entered my father’sbusiness—wholesale neckwear. My mother died soon after this, and as Ihad no brothers or sisters—or in fact any near relatives—my father andI were drawn very close together.
It was then I learned for the first time the true state of my father’saffairs. I can remember perfectly that evening when he had his firstintimate talk with me; it was about two months after my mother died.
“Sit down, Will,” he began. We were in the library of the old Durrantmansion on Arch Street. “I want to talk to you—seriously.”
We drew our chairs together before the fire and I lighted a cigarette.
“You’re not a child any more, Will,” he went on. “You’re nearlytwenty-six—a man.” He laid his hand on mine with more evidence ofaffection than I had ever had from him before. “We’re all alonenow—you and I. There are many things you don’t understand—and I wantyou to—for we must be very close to each other now.”
I waited, wondering.
“You think we’re rich, don’t you? Your mother did, and God knows I wasnot the one to undeceive her.” He laughed a little bitterly, glancingaround the luxuriously furnished room.
“We have always had luxury. Your mother demanded it, Will—it was herlife. The Philadelphia Durrants! Luxury—social prestige—I havemaintained them, all these years—at what a cost!” He passed his handacross his eyes wearily.
“It’s all a sham, Will—a sham. But now it’s over—there’s only you andme to please. The bubble is broken. Only you and me—and the wreck of abusiness for us to save.” He raised his hand to check my sharpexclamation.
“I have hidden this from you, Will. But we won’t go into that now—it’sunimportant.
“I want to talk of you. For twenty-six years you have been scarcelyunder my guidance. I cannot blame your mother—only myself. I’ve knownthe sort of life you’ve been leading away from home—the sort offriends you have—the women—” He raised his hand again, and his voicerose sharply.
“Did you think I didn’t know about the money you lost at cards, andyour mother gave you, time and time again? Do you think I’m ignorantof the fact that you—my son—are to-day in the way of becoming awastrel? Do you think so?”
I laughed. “You’re crazy.”
His face softened; he put his hand again over mine. “I cannot blameyou—only myself. It is the way you were brought up. But I want you tochange, Will. I want you to see yourself and me as we are—I want youto love me. We will work together