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.
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