The thorns I have reaped are of the treeI planted; they have torn me and I bled;I should have known what fruit would spring from sucha seed. BYRON.
It is a brilliant, star-lighted night in December.
In an even more brilliantly illuminated mansion on Fifth Avenue, New York City, a distinguished company is assembled. Elderly and middle-aged gentlemen, dignified and imposing, with the suggestion of opulence pervading every look and movement; young men, alert and full of vigor, all clad in conventional dress suits and immaculate linen; stately and beautiful matrons, elegantly robed in velvet and costly laces; younger women resplendent in all the tints of the rainbow, and flashing with diamonds and other many-hued gems; pretty débutantes, in diaphanous and saintly white, gleaming like spotless lilies in beds of variegated poppies; flowers and perfume everywhere; entrancing melody from an invisible orchestra, mingling with many musical voices, joyous laughter, and the rustle and swish of silk and satin—all contributed to produce a wonderful scene and an exhilarating atmosphere, which assumed life to be one long, gorgeous gala day, with never a cloud to dim its brightness or cast its shadow upon these gay votaries of fashion and pleasure.
Suddenly the music of the orchestra ceased, and presently a few dominant chords were struck upon a fine-toned concert-grand piano, as if to demand attention and silence.
The next moment a woman of beautiful and gracious presence stepped upon a low platform beside the instrument, whereupon the buzzing of many voices was hushed, and an air of eager expectation pervaded the company.
The dominant chords were followed by a rippling prelude, which soon dropped into the more precise rhythm of an accompaniment; then a glorious voice, full, rich, and thrillingly sympathetic, broke upon the stillness, rising, falling, and trilling easily and naturally as a bird, that, conscious only of the supreme impulse within his throbbing breast and vibrating in his wonderful little throat, pours forth his joy-laden soul in enraptured and exquisite song.
Every eye within range of her was fastened upon the singer, a queenly matron, charmingly gowned in some soft material of pale-pink lavender. Her abundant brown hair was becomingly arranged and surmounted by a glittering aigrette of jewels, her only visible ornament. She was good to look upon as well as to listen to, and bore herself with the ease and poise of one long accustomed to entertain fashionable audiences like the present, yet without a suggestion of self-consciousness to mar her excellent work.
She rendered a group of three classical songs with artistic effect that won for her a round of hearty applause as she ceased. She gracefully acknowledged the tribute paid her, then turned and smilingly nodded to some one who had evidently been sitting near her. Immediately a lovely girl, robed in white, arose, and took her stand at the left of the artiste.
A flutter of excitement throughout the room indicated the anticipation of some unusual treat as harp, violin, and cello, accompanied by the piano, rendered an inspiring introduction, which was followed by a familiar duet from one of the standard operas, and executed with an exquisite interpretation and spirit that held every listener spellbound to the end, and evoked a storm of enthusiastic approval upon its conclusion.
"Jove! can't they sing! Who are they, Jerome? Sisters, I should judge, by their strong resemblance to each other, and the younger is simply adorable!"
Mr. Homer Jerome, the host of the evening, smiled, his fine eyes twinkling with secret satisfaction at these flattering compliments bestowed upon the protégées of his wife by the aristocratic and fastidious Clifford Alexander, the son of an old college chum, who had recently returned from several years' sojourn in Europe.
"The elder lady is Madam Ford, who has become quite noted in New York during the last ten years as a drawing-room artiste. She is in great demand among society people, and never fails to give satisfaction to an appreciative audience. Her companion is Miss Dorothy Ford, madam's daughter," Mr. Jerome explained.
"You don't mean to tell me that the lady in lavender is the mother of the other! It doesn't seem possible!" exclaimed the first speaker, astonished.
"I am sure Madam Ford would appreciate the flattering, though indirect, compliment you have paid her, my boy," observed his host, with a genial laugh. "Madam is certainly a very youthful-looking woman, considering her age and checkered experiences, for, some years ago, she was left penniless to battle, single-handed, with the world, and she has seen much trouble."
"She is a widow, then?"
"Um—er—I think it was about ten years ago that she lost her husband," was Mr. Jerome's somewhat noncommittal reply; then he hastened to add: "But she faced the situation with indomitable courage and energy, and, possessing much native talent, a beautiful voice, and a charming personality, she has achieved a brilliant career for herself."
"Evidently she has found a very warm friend in Mr. Homer Jerome, to whom, perhaps, she may owe something of her success in life," observed Mr. Alexander, to whom his host's generous-spirited philanthropy was no secret.
"I esteem it an honor to be numbered among Madam Ford's friends," heartily returned Mr. Jerome. "She was really a protégée of my wife's, to begin with, and we have seen a good deal of her during the ten years of our acquaintance—first, to admire her for her heroism and perseverance under difficulties, and later to love her for herself. The daughter is no less lovely than her mother," the gentleman continued, his eyes lingering fondly upon the girl. "Madam has given her every possible advantage, and when she discovered that she also possessed a promising voice she placed her under one of our finest teachers, here in New York, with what result you have just had the pleasure of ascertaining."
"She is surely deserving of laurels for this evening's work," said the young man appreciatively.
"Particularly as this is her first appearance in a professional rôle. Her voice is powerful, rich, and sympathetic. I would not be surprised if Miss Dorothy eventually outclasses her mother as an artist." And Mr. Jerome beamed satisfaction upon his favorite as he concluded.
"Dorothy Ford," mused Clifford Alexander, his voice lingering upon the name while his fine eyes studied the face of the beautiful girl, who was now chatting socially with a group of people who were offering hearty congratulations to both mother and daughter. "It is a peculiarly euphonious name for a very attractive young woman. Introduce me, will you, Jerome?"
"With the greatest pleasure," responded that gentleman, with a sly smile; and a few minutes later Mr. Alexander was making his best bow before Madam Ford, whom he found even more charming at close range than at a distance; and then the usually imperturbable young man found himself experiencing unaccustomed heart throbs upon being presented to the adorable Dorothy.
The girl did not offer him her hand, but, after gracefully acknowledging the introduction, lifted her limpid gray eyes to the gentleman's face with an earnest, straightforward look which told him that she was one who judged people somewhat from first impressions.
His glance held hers for a moment, during which he was particularly attracted by the sweet serenity of her gaze, while he was at the same time conscious that every feature of her lovely face was aglow with intelligence and vivacity.
Her skin was fine and clear, with a touch of rose on her cheeks; her lips a vivid scarlet. A wealth of red-brown hair was arranged high on her head, thus adding to her stature and poise; her features, though by no means perfect, were fascinatingly expressive, especially when she spoke or smiled.
Her graceful, symmetrical figure was clad in virgin white, with no ornament save a string of rare pearls that once had belonged to her grandmother Appleton; and, to her new acquaintance, Dorothy Ford appeared the embodiment of loveliness and purity.
"Allow me to thank you both for the great pleasure I have just enjoyed," Mr. Alexander remarked, when their greetings were over, the sincerity in his tones saving his observation from seeming triteness.
Madam Ford smiled with motherly pride as she gracefully thanked him, and, bending a fond glance upon Dorothy, added:
"I really feel that my daughter is entitled to congratulations, since this is her first appearance, professionally, before a critical audience. I must confess, however, to having experienced some inward quakings in view of that fact; but her first note reassured me——"
"Why, mamma, I am surprised!" laughingly interposed Dorothy, but flushing with pleasure, nevertheless, in view of her mother's commendation, Mr. Jerome's approving eyes, and the evident appreciation of her new acquaintance—"after all your careful coaching, not to mention Signor Rotoni's merciless training for this important event! Moreover, the burden of responsibility rested entirely upon you, and I wasn't conscious of a quake, though I confess I might not have felt quite so confident if I had been obliged to face all these people alone."
"So this is your début before society, Miss Ford?" Mr. Alexander observed, and charmed by the maiden's refreshing ingenuousness.
"Yes, as a vocalist; not socially, however, for Mrs. Jerome kindly introduced me, with Miss Jerome, some time ago," Dorothy replied, adding: "I have, perhaps, enjoyed some advantages to give me confidence which débutantes, as a rule, do not have. Mamma having been so much before the public, I have also had my responsibilities in the profession, for"—with a laughing glance at her mother—"I have frequently acted as her chaperon when she has had engagements at a distance from home."
"'Chaperon!' That is rather good, Helen," Mr. Jerome here dryly interposed, and bending a pair of twinkling eyes upon madam. "Well, you do look almost youthful enough to need a chaperon; Alexander was saying only a few moments ago he thought you and Dorothy must be sisters."
"There, mamma, now will you believe what I said to you before we left home?" gleefully exclaimed Dorothy. "I told her," she went on, nodding brightly at Mr. Jerome, "that she is growing younger every year, and no one would suspect that she is the mother of a twenty-five-year-old daughter——"
"'Sh—'sh! Oh, Dorrie,howindiscreet to tell it!" interposed her host, in pretended consternation at her frankness.
"Perhaps it was," retorted the girl, with a roguish gleam in her eyes. "I did not realize what my admission would imply, and I humbly beg mamma's pardon for trespassing upon so delicate a subject," and she curtsied with mock humility to her mother, without a vestige of self-consciousness for having given away her own age.
"Now, I suppose it behooves me to offer thanks to Mr. Alexander for a very pretty compliment," demurely observed Madam Ford, when the laugh at Dorothy's clever repartee had subsided.
"Oh, Helen," groaned Mr. Jerome, who dearly loved to hector, "I am surprised to hear you giving thanks for a compliment at your charming daughter's expense!" Then, turning to Dorothy, he added, with an air of commiseration: "Dorrie, dear, you have my deepest sympathy in view of your aged appearance; if you had only not persisted in growing up, so early, to be so mature, tall, and stately, people would not have been so prone to mistake you for your mother's sister," he concluded, bestowing a reproachful look upon the young man standing beside her.
"Really, Jerome," Clifford Alexander here laughingly interposed, but with heightening color beneath his friend's persistent banter, "I seem inadvertently to have stumbled upon dangerous ground, and there appears to be no way to either advance or retreat with any glory to myself. Pray tell me how I am to propitiate so gallant a champion as you have constituted yourself; also this fair lady"—with a deprecating glance at Dorothy—"whose cause you so ardently espouse."
"This 'fair lady' and her 'champion,' as you are pleased to regard me, have been lovers ever since she was a small girl in short dresses, I would have you understand, and I warn you, young man, that I am very jealous for her—eh, Dorothy?" Mr. Jerome asserted, with a delightful air of proprietorship. "However," he continued, "I can assure you she is easily propitiated, for she is exceedingly amiable."
"That, I am sure, goes without saying," affably assented the young man.
"Exactly; and, taking her all in all, she is 'simply adorable!'" retorted his host, in a significant tone, as he thus quoted the young man's own words of a few moments previous, and which again sent the quick color to his face.
Dorothy had thoroughly enjoyed the tilt at her expense, but now she began to feel the situation becoming a trifle embarrassing, both for herself and her new acquaintance; and, turning brightly to him, she merrily observed:
"Pray, do not mind him, Mr. Alexander; he is the greatest tease in New York. He has hectored me for years, and does not half realize that I have grown up to be almost mamma's double; for really we are more like two devoted chums or sisters than like mother and daughter."
"Miss Ford, I am everlastingly obliged to you for the olive branch of peace you so kindly extend to me," the gentleman smilingly returned. "And now, as the room is very warm, won't you come and let me get you an ice, or a glass of punch? I am sure Mr. Jerome will kindly care for Madam Ford."
"Thank you; I shall be glad to have an ice, if you will be so kind," Dorothy cordially assented.
She nodded a gay adieu to her mother and Mr. Jerome, as she turned to accompany her escort, who shot a look of mock triumph at his host as he walked off with his coveted prize.
"That is a mighty fine fellow, Helen," remarked her companion, as the two young people disappeared among the throng.
"He is certainly good to look upon; not exactly what would be regarded as a handsome man, but decidedly distinguished in appearance, and with evidences of a fine character written on his strong face," madam replied.
"You are right; but he has never been a 'ladies' man,' much to the chagrin of many of our New York mothers. I am surprised at his walking off so summarily with Dorothy—no," he corrected, "I am not surprised, either, for Dorrie would melt a statue of ice. Next to my Mollie, she is the most glorious girl I know."
Madam Ford smiled as she bestowed a grateful look upon the speaker for his high praise.
"You have idealized Dorothy, I am afraid," she returned, with evident emotion; "but one is prone to endow those in whom one is deeply interested with the rich qualities of his own nature. You are so thoroughly good yourself, my friend, you can see nothing but good in others."
"Somebody else, I perceive, is looking through rose-tinted glasses at this very moment, Helen," lightly responded her companion.
"Well, you must not forget that you have put some rose tints into my life during the last ten years; you have also been almost like a father to my child, and I am not likely to forget it—nor the heavenly kindness of your wife, either." Helen's lips were tremulous as she concluded.
"My wife is a gem of the first water," responded her companion, in a low, intense tone, a fond look in his fine eyes, as they rested upon a stately woman standing in the full light of a brilliant chandelier not far from them.
"Indeed, she is," Helen heartily assented, as her glance followed his; for never in her life had she met a couple who lived in such perfect accord with each other as Homer and Lena Jerome.
Ten years have elapsed since Helen Hungerford was deserted by her husband, and left almost destitute to begin again the battle of life for herself and her child.
After having been introduced to New York society, she began immediately to prosper. Mrs. Jerome, the sister-in-law of Helen's dearest friend, had at once interested herself in her career as a drawing-room artiste, with an enthusiasm there was no opposing; she started the ball rolling for her, and Helen's charming personality, with her cultured, delightful voice, her determination to please and to succeed, did the rest. Each year her engagements and pupils multiplied; and, having followed the advice of the Jeromes to set her prices at a figure to give dignity and value to her services, she soon became the fashion, with an ample and constantly increasing income at her command.
This had, ere long, enabled her to locate in a more desirable part of the city, and to handsomely furnish a large apartment, with a studio for her musical work; and, with competent help to relieve her of all domestic drudgery, she found life easier and brighter than it had even been since the first year of her marriage. Neither did she relax effort in her own behalf; she put herself under a noted finishing teacher, both to enhance her own attractions and to keep her repertoire up to date. Dorothy, also, was given every advantage, and at the age of nineteen entered college, from which she graduated four years later.
Meanwhile, she also had developed a decided talent for music, possessing a rich contralto voice that promised great things for the future; and the ensuing two years were spent in making the most of her talent, until, as we have seen, she was beginning to create quite a stir in musical circles, and to share honors with her mother.
They had lived very harmoniously during most of this time, trying to forget the bitter past, and every year becoming nearer and dearer to each other, until, as Dorothy had told Clifford Alexander, they were "more like two devoted chums or sisters than mother and daughter."
But all this had not been achieved without severe struggles on the part of Helen. During the first two years of her sojourn in New York, notwithstanding her almost phenomenal success, she had been bitterly unreconciled to the fate that had doomed her to live out her life as a deserted wife, to be both father and mother to her child, and had even necessitated the concealment of her identity in order to save Dorothy the mortification of being known as the daughter of a divorcee.
She had seasons of wretched brooding, almost amounting to despair, during which it would seem that she could not force herself to fulfill her engagements; when she simply wallowed in the mire of bitter humiliation, rebellion, and self-pity, in view of having been made the target of a malicious fate, the football of an irresponsible man's fickleness, indolence, and selfishness; of an unscrupulous woman's blandishments and coquetry, and her life wrecked in its prime.
For herself, aside from her child, the future seemed to hold no promise; she was not yet forty years of age; she might live forty years longer. Would she have courage sufficient to sustain her so long—to carry this intolerable thorn that rankled in her heart continually? And what made this thorn in the flesh so intolerable? she sometimes asked herself. If her husband had died, she might have grieved for a time over the memory of his unkind treatment of her; but eventually the sting of it would have ceased, and the wound would have healed, and she would have forgiven him.
And what was this thorn, anyway? The question came to her, almost like an audible voice, one day, when she had been more than usually depressed; and, with a sudden inward shrinking from herself, it was forced upon her that it was of her own planting and nourishment, and its sting was her own bitterness, hate, and resentment against the living man, who had left her for another; and also hatred against the woman who had decoyed him from her.
She recoiled from the shocking revelation with a sense of loathing. It was as if she had discovered a nest of poisonous vipers writhing in her own bosom, but which she had carefully and persistently nursed, calling them by other names—disgrace, injured innocence, martyrdom, righteous indignation, et cetera—hugging their stings and the corroding sores they produced.
Immediately upon awakening to this she resolved to purify her consciousness from what she now recognized as willful sin and selfishness. She conscientiously tried to divest herself of the habit of dwelling upon the unhappy past; she strove to bury it so far out of sight by throwing herself more heartily into her work, and into Dorothy's interests and pleasures, that even its ghost could never arise to confront her again.
As time passed, she gradually grew to feel that she was really rising above it. The clouds of depression began to lift, the sun of prosperity melted away the mists of anxiety and care for the future, while the appreciation and kindness of increasing friends broadened and cheered her life in many ways.
It was generally believed among her many patrons in New York that Madam Helen Ford was a widow. None, barring the Jeromes, knew aught of her history, save—according to rumor—that she had belonged to a good family in the far West, and, having been left with a little one to rear and educate, had, upon the advice of her friends, come East to make the most of her beautiful voice.
Mrs. Jerome's exceeding kindness to her, upon her arrival in that great, strange city, had at once won Helen's heart, impelling her to confide everything to her new friend, and thus relieve herself from the consequences of deception toward those who were doing so much for her; and from that hour the noble woman and her husband had been like brother and sister, and of the greatest comfort to her; while the simple fact that the Jeromes had introduced and vouched for her to society was sufficient guarantee to give her the entrée among some of the most cultured people in the metropolis.
They also became very fond of Dorothy, and, having a daughter of about the same age, made much of the girl, often inviting her to their home and to share many of Mollie Jerome's pleasures. The two girls became very friendly, attended the same school, entered and graduated from college at the same time, and thus Dorothy, aided by her own personal attractions and sweetness of disposition, acquired a position among the younger generation in good society that was of great advantage to her.
When Mollie Jerome made her début, Mrs. Jerome included Dorothy in the receiving party, and in this way she also was practically introduced, although she did not care particularly for so-called fashionable society, neither would her circumstances allow her to keep up with its arbitrary demands. Nevertheless, the kindness of these friends, together with the advantages her mother had given her, enabled her to enjoy many delightful opportunities which otherwise she would have missed, and fitted her for the position she was destined later to occupy.
Now, after ten years, having made her professional début, in the home of her good friends, she felt she was well launched upon a career that would insure her independence for the future, and also enable her to relieve her mother of some of the burdens she had borne alone for so many years.
On the evening of his introduction to her, Clifford Alexander had found her to be an exceedingly bright and cultured girl, full of energy and spirit, yet possessing an underlying purity and sweetness of character that were inexpressibly charming to him, who, having seen much of life abroad and in this country, had come to regard the majority of fashionable young ladies as frivolous and shallow, absorbed in worldly pleasures, and possessing little love for domestic life and its sacred duties. Thus he had yet never met any one with whom he felt willing to intrust his future happiness, and so had come to be regarded a confirmed bachelor—or, as Mr. Jerome had put it, "no ladies' man."
After partaking of some refreshments together, Clifford Alexander, desiring to prolong the interview with his companion, suggested a visit to Mr. Jerome's wonderful library and picture gallery, which occupied the entire fourth floor of his dwelling, and contained many rare gems, both of art and literature, over which even connoisseurs were wont to become enthusiastic.
Here they spent a delightful half hour, during which they discovered much pertaining to their individual aims, pursuits, and tastes that was congenial with each other. Then Dorothy was obliged to return to her mother, to assist further in the evening's entertainment. But during this brief interview she had unconsciously woven a magic web about the heart of her new acquaintance, that was destined to prove far stronger than the supposedly confirmed habit of reserve with which he had heretofore fortified himself against all allurements of the fairer sex.
Clifford Alexander was now in his thirtieth year, and a man of no ordinary type. One look at him was sufficient to reveal the fact that he possessed a masterful, purposeful individuality, a character of unswerving integrity, and lofty ideals. An attractive, intellectual face; a pair of shrewd, yet genial, dark eyes; a pleasant, rich-toned voice, with a courtly, gracious manner, all bespoke the refined, high-minded gentleman.
Since leaving college, most of his time had been spent in Europe, where he had attended to the foreign branch of a lucrative business established by his father. Now, Mr. Alexander, Senior, having recently retired, his son had been recalled to this country to fill his place, as the head of the house, while another member of the firm was deputed to look after the interests abroad.
Following the evening of his introduction to them, young Alexander was enabled to keep pretty well posted, through his friends, the Jeromes—particularly through Miss Mollie Jerome—regarding the engagements and movements of Madam Ford and Dorothy. He did not fail to make the most of this information, and thus the way was opened to meet them frequently and cultivate their acquaintance; and it goes without saying that he made the most of every opportunity.
Helen had been greatly attracted to him from the first, and, as the formalities of their early interview began to melt into more friendly relations, she gained a deeper insight of his character, which only served to increase her admiration and respect for him. Neither was she unmindful of the fact that Dorothy's eyes grew brighter, her smiles sweeter, the rose in her cheeks deeper whenever he sought her side. Hence when, one evening, at a social function, he gravely asked her if she would accord him the privilege of calling upon her and Miss Ford, she cordially granted his request, even though she could not fail to understand from his earnest manner the deeply rooted determination which had prompted his action.
He pursued the advantage thus attained most industriously and vigorously. His wooing was ingenuous, straightforward, irresistible. He loved with all his heart, and he pressed his suit with no less earnestness of purpose. He won the prize he coveted, and six months from the evening of their introduction the engagement of Miss Dorothy Ford to Mr. Clifford Alexander was formally announced to their many friends.
That it was a most desirable and suitable alliance was the general verdict of all who knew them. The Alexanders, as a family, were especially happy in view of it, for they had lost an only daughter some years previous, and they lovingly welcomed the beautiful and talented girl as the prospective bride of their son.
Helen was filled with joy and exceeding gratitude, and a great burden was lifted from her heart. Dorothy's future was most luxuriously provided for, both in the wealth of affection bestowed upon her and the opulence that would henceforth shield her from all care or hardship. The name of Ford, by which Helen had never been addressed without a secret sense of fraud, would now be swallowed up by one that no breath of taint had ever touched, and her child would be protected from all danger of association with the unhappy events of her youth to mar her life.
As the engagement was to be a short one, therefore, at Mr. Alexander's request, Dorothy withdrew from all professional work, and proceeded to give her time and attention wholly to the delightful occupation of preparing for her approaching marriage.
One day shortly after the announcement of her engagement, Dorothy sought her mother, upon the departure of her last pupil, her face unusually grave and a trifle careworn.
"Mamma," she began, with some hesitation, "I have been thinking, and do you not think, that we ought to tell Clifford about—about our past?"
Helen turned upon her with a look of dismay, and flushed a startled crimson.
This was the first time during many years that their unhappy history had been alluded to by either; for, soon after taking up their residence in New York, Helen had forbidden the topic. She wished Dorothy to forget the harrowing past, even if she herself could not; hence it had been carefully avoided by both. She had gradually grown to hope, if not actually to believe, that those wretched experiences had been blotted from her memory; or, at least, had become so vague and indistinct that they no longer disturbed her peace. Their life, for the most part, had flowed on so smoothly and harmoniously, they were so devoted to and happy in each other, and also in their social relations; they had a delightful if not an elegant home, with every comfort and many luxuries, while each succeeding year seemed to hold more and more of promise for them, that this tragic chapter of the long ago had become, even to Helen herself, very like some dream belonging to a previous existence.
Hence Helen had not once thought of reviving the sad story in connection with Dorothy's prospective marriage, and when the girl gave utterance to her unexpected proposition she began to think, with a terror-stricken heart throb, that she had, perhaps, been very remiss in not having frankly confided to Mr. Alexander, when he had come to ask of her Dorothy's hand in marriage, the fact of her husband's disgraceful desertion of her, and that she was a divorced wife, practically living under an assumed name.
This unforeseen predicament came upon her like a crushing blow, and, for the moment, the old rebellion and resentment, which she thought she had long ago conquered, took possession of and mastered her with even more than the old-time bitterness and force.
How could she ever face it—this relentless test of her integrity! It was an ordeal before which she shrank affrighted. Did she need to face it? Why not let everything go on without uncovering this grave of the dead past, the outcome of which might prove very disastrous to Dorothy's bright hopes, and so break her own heart?
The Alexanders were proud, high-toned people. How would they receive such a revelation?
What if the story of John Hungerford's disgraceful career should ruin Dorothy's life at this supreme moment? Suppose, in spite of their apparently increasing affection for her, this aristocratic family should absolutely refuse their consent to the alliance of their son with the daughter of a divorcee? Oh, it was passing strange that she had not thought of all this before! It had been forced upon her now, however, with a shock that deprived her of every atom of strength, for she knew the truth must be told.
"How do you feel about it, dearie?" she at length forced herself to inquire, after an interval of silence, and to gain more time to think before voicing a more definite reply.
"Mamma, it seems dreadful! I cannot bear to revive unpleasant memories for you," Dorothy began, turning a troubled face upon her. "Still, we——"
"But, Dorrie, our own past cannot be questioned—our lives have been pure and above reproach. Why, then, is it necessary to disclose that for which we are in no way responsible?" Helen questioned, after another long pause. "We have not heard a word from—from him during all these years. He may be dead—I think he must have died, or we should have heard something. At any rate, he is dead to us! Why, then, resurrect all that dreadful story?"
Her voice quivered with repressed agony, and there was a note of despairing appeal in her tones that smote her listener keenly.
"But would it be quite honest not to tell Clifford? My name is really Dorothy Hungerford, you know," she gravely responded.
"The decree gave me the right to resume my maiden name, or to retain his—whichever I chose. If I preferred to keep the latter portion of his, I cannot think there would be any dishonesty in your being married as Dorothy Ford," Helen argued, but not feeling quite comfortable or honest in the position she had assumed.
"All the same, there would be a deceptive thought back of it—something to conceal from my husband, which might some time cloud our lives if it should be discovered later," Dorothy persisted, a troubled look in her eyes.
Helen groaned bitterly in spirit. She knew that the girl's attitude was the only safe one to adopt, but she shrank from the ordeal with a sickening dread.
"Have you no fear that this confession may cloud your life even before your hopes are realized?" she questioned, almost sharply, in her despair.
"Mamma, surely you do not fearthat!" Dorothy cried, aghast, her face blanching suddenly snow white.
"The Alexanders are very proud," sighed her mother.
"Oh, I never thought of anything so dreadful!" said the girl unsteadily. "I have such faith in Clifford's love for me. The only reason I have hesitated was because I could not bear to wound you by recalling our trouble, by having to tell any one what you have had to bear. But now"—with a sudden dauntless uplifting of her head—"I must tell him immediately. If there is the least danger that this disclosure will change his regard for, or his intentions toward, me, or will make trouble between him and his people, it is better to know and meet it now than when it would be too late to remedy the mistake."
"But could you bear it, Dorrie?" almost sobbed Helen. "Think, dear, what the worst would mean to you."
"Whatevercomes, Imust bear it! I cannot, will not, live a lie!" was the low-voiced, firm, but almost inaudible reply.
"I know you are right, dear; but it seems so unjust that the innocent should have to suffer as we have suffered for the sins of another," said Helen rebelliously.
Throughout their conversation there had been running in her mind, like a mocking refrain, a portion of the old Mosaic law—"visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children," et cetera—and she found herself vaguely wondering who could have formulated such a law. She could not believe God had made it, for God was good—Love, and surely there was nothing good or lovely about this seeming curse. Yet it had been handed down for ages—a menace to every generation. It was certainly very cruel. Here was Dorothy, a beautiful, cultivated girl, well fitted to grace the position her lover could give her, and now, to have her brilliant prospects blighted just on the verge of fulfillment seemed too dreadful to contemplate.
Again there had been a long silence between mother and daughter, during which each had battled with her troubled thoughts and conflicting emotions.
At length Dorothy arose, and, going to Helen, knelt down before her, leaned her elbows upon her lap, and dropped her pretty chin into her small, white hands.
"Mamma, I am sure we will not have to suffer for being true," she said, lifting a clear, smiling look to her. "How faithless we are! How disloyal of me to think anything so unworthy of the best man that ever lived! I am not going to fear that telling the truth, in order that I may go to Clifford with a clear conscience, will spoil my life; he is too high-minded, too noble, to allow a wrong for which I am in no way responsible to part us. But—even if I knew it would, I should tell him all the same; it is the only honorable course to pursue," she concluded, with a look in her beautiful eyes that bespoke a purpose as unflinching as the spirit of a martyr.
Helen bent and kissed her on the forehead.
"You shame me, dear; but I know you are right," she said humbly, but adding, with a shiver of repugnance: "Do you wantmeto tell him, Dorrie? If it will save you——"
"No, indeed, mamma, dear! I could not think of subjecting you to anything so dreadful," interposed the brave girl, a quiver of repulsion in her tones. "I wishIcould have savedyouthis trial," she went on yearningly; "but I knew it would not be right to keep the truth from Clifford, and now I want to tell him myself, because—I must look straight into his dear eyes as he listens; then I shall know——"
"Oh, darling, forgive me if I have aroused a doubt in your thought—have implanted a fear in your heart, that he will not stand the test!" cried Helen remorsefully, as Dorothy's voice suddenly faltered and failed her.
"You have not," returned her companion, almost defiantly. "I know he is true blue. I will not think anything else."
So Dorothy told her lover her story, "looking straight into his eyes," when he came to her that evening, keeping nothing back, nor trying to gloss anything over; and when she was done, like the true-hearted man he was, Clifford Alexander gathered her into his arms, murmuring fondly:
"Sweetheart, put it all out of your mind; never give it another anxious thought, for it belongs among the shades of the dim past, and the present and the future are all that concern us now. Just know that I love you for what you are, and that I honor your mother for the noble woman that she is. She has shown wonderful fortitude during all these years, and deserves the highest esteem of every one. As for your—that man—whether he be living or dead, he has passed forever out of your life; so be happy, dearest, and let none of these memories ever cloud your dear eyes again, or cause your dear heart a single tremor."
"Clifford! Clifford!" tremulously breathed Dorothy, while she clung to the strong arm enfolding her. "I knew you would not fail me."
But she was quivering in every nerve with repressed excitement, from the reaction produced by the blessed assurance of his unimpeachable loyalty, the unfailing love that was the light of her life, and had safely weathered this crucial hour.
"Fail you, Dorothy!" he repeated, surprise and reproof blending in his tones. "Could I fail to cling to what is my very life? I am glad you told me, however; it shows the confidence you repose in me, and proves your absolute integrity," he concluded, with a smile that made her thrice glad she had not been tempted to withhold the truth from him.
Helen's troubled heart was also set at rest, when, later, they sought her with radiant faces, and Clifford delicately yet feelingly referred to her early trials, and earnestly begged that she would allow him to be to her, through all her future, a son in truth as well as in name.
Thus, with all fear regarding Dorothy's future forever dispelled, as she fondly believed, she joyfully resumed her preparations for their approaching union.
Helen had seemed almost to renew her youth while making ready for Dorothy's marriage, and had thrown herself into the business before her with no less enthusiasm than that manifested by the fair bride-elect herself.
She simply reveled in choosing the dainty and pretty things that were to comprise the trousseau, while with her own skillful fingers she fashioned many lovely accessories, which, had she purchased them, would have been very expensive, if not entirely beyond her means.
Dorothy was to go into a beautiful and sumptuous home; she would mingle with fashionable and wealthy people, whom, in turn, she would also have to entertain; and, with rare judgment and faultless taste, Helen had planned an ample outfit for her, that was both elegant and suitable for all occasions, yet without being too costly for her income.
One morning, a few days after Dorothy had related the story of their early troubles to her lover, mother and daughter started forth upon one of their interesting shopping expeditions. They were in their brightest mood, for, with the happy termination of the much-dreaded ordeal which their sense of honor had compelled them to face, with a free conscience, and increased love and respect for the man who was soon to assume closer relations with them, the world seemed all rose color and gold to these devoted chums as they pursued their way downtown with a long list of items upon their memorandum tablets.
They spent a busy morning together, after which they had a light lunch, when, at one o'clock, Dorothy had an appointment with her dressmaker, and Helen went back to the stores alone.
Among other things, there were handkerchiefs to be selected, and she slipped into Rolston's to see what she could find there. As she paused before the counter, she found herself standing beside a woman who was evidently waiting for her change and her purchase to be returned. Something about her figure and the contour of her face—which, she observed, was heavily powdered and rouged—impelled Helen to take a second look; when, as if actuated by some occult influence, the stranger turned a bold, rude stare upon her, and chain lightning could hardly have been more swift or blinding than the blazing, spiteful look which leaped into her eyes as they swept Helen from head to foot.
A vindictive sneer began to curl her full, red lips; her heavy brows contracted in an ugly, frown, as, with a mocking shrug of her shapely shoulders, she shot forth a single venom-barbed word:
"Well!"
Instantly, with a shock that seemed to cleave her heart in twain, Helen recognized her.
She was the soubrette, Marie Duncan, with whom John Hungerford had gone abroad ten years ago, and whom he had afterward married. But she was no longer the gay, captivating coquette she had been when she had lured him from his allegiance to his family. Her form had grown stout, less symmetrical than of yore; her features coarse and sensuous; her skin had become rough and porous, from too free use of cosmetics, and evidently the world was not at present using her very well, for she was cheaply clothed, though with a tawdry attempt at style which only accentuated the fact of her poverty.
The terror inspired by this startling encounter was simply paralyzing to Helen. She deigned no reply to the actress' rude salutation; but, with a mighty effort to preserve her self-control, turned to a clerk, and, with a semblance of composure which she was far from feeling, inquired for what she wanted.
The woman stood watching her for a minute or two, the sneer still curling her lips, as, with jealous eyes, she noted every detail of her costly, tailor-made costume, her simple though stylish hat, her perfectly fitting gloves, and the elegant shopping bag which she carried. Then, with a mocking, sibilant laugh that made her listener's flesh creep with painful revulsion, she swept insolently past her, and was lost in the crowd.
Helen selected a dozen handkerchiefs at random, gave her address to have them sent to her; then, half fainting, a blinding haze before her eyes, a deafening ringing in her ears, groped her way from the store, and boarded a car for home.
All the way uptown she sat like one dazed, vaguely wondering what had happened to her. Her heart lay like a great stone in her bosom; all her strength and vigor seemed suddenly to have withered within her, and the whole world to have grown dark, and desolate, and threatening.
"It cannot be," she moaned, as she entered her apartment and mechanically began to remove her hat and coat. "How can I bear it? Oh, to have struggled all these years to outlive that dreadful experience, only to be faced with it anew at such a time as this!"
She shivered as she recalled the brazen, defiant, mocking looks the woman had bestowed upon her; and that hissing, menacing laugh—what did she mean by it? She wondered if John had come back to this country with her—where and how they were living. Marie's clothing had told its own story of poverty and makeshift; perhaps now they would try to find her again; John might even seek to extort money from her as of old, and she would be subjected to a system of blackmail to protect herself and Dorothy from a harrowing scandal.
She had tried to make herself believe that she would never see either of them again; she had long ago felt a sense of freedom in the thought that John must be dead, or she certainly would have heard something of, or from, him; and she shuddered now as she remembered that she had never quite dared to hope he was. It was a murderous thought, she knew; but, living, she felt she could never forgive him—dead, she could at least try to forget him.
She was almost in despair, in view of this unexpected reappearance of Marie, which threatened to make havoc of her life. Must she tell Dorothy, to spoil her present happiness and cloud her approaching nuptials? No, she would not, she resolutely affirmed. It would be hard to bear her burden in silence, and wear a happy exterior, but she would, she must, rise to the occasion and help her carry out her plans as if nothing had happened—unless circumstances made it impossible to do so.
She sat for hours, brooding wretchedly upon the situation—until she heard Dorothy's step on the stairs, when she braced herself to greet her with her usual welcoming smile as she entered the room.
The following week Dorothy was invited to spend a few days with the Alexanders, at their delightful home on the Hudson. Helen had also been included in the invitation, but excused herself because of appointments with pupils and an entertainment for which she had to prepare. She thought it would, perhaps, be a relief to have Dorothy away for a while, at least, until she could recover more fully from the shock she had received, and she willingly let her go alone.
While engaged with her pupils Helen found no time for brooding; but when the lessons were over and she was released from all restraint, she could not control her thoughts, and the fear and unrest of the previous week assailed her again.
The second day of Dorothy's absence, which was the Sabbath, she felt that she could no longer bear the loneliness and silence, which were intensified and made hideous by haunting memories of her unhappy past; and she now deeply regretted that she had not heeded Mrs. Alexander's plea that she would at least join their house party for over Sunday. She was half tempted even now to take an early boat and go to them, just for the day; but, having once definitely refused the invitation, she did not like to retract; but do something, go somewhere, she must to distract her mind; she could not spend that long day alone with her wretched thoughts.
She mechanically dressed herself for the street, and, boarding an uptown car, finally alighted near one of the entrances to Central Park.
As she stepped upon the sidewalk her attention was attracted by a stream of well-dressed people that were pouring into a great church not a stone's throw beyond where she stood.
Almost unconsciously she mingled with the crowd, passing with it into the beautiful temple, and up into the great auditorium, where the mellow sunlight, streaming in through the richly tinted windows, seemed to fall upon the gathering hundreds like a sacred, soothing benediction; while the wonderful organ, responding to the touch of skillful hands, rolled forth its paean of joyous greeting.
A gentlemanly usher approached and offered to give her a seat, leading her almost to the center of the house, where, thanking him for his courtesy, she dropped into a luxuriously cushioned pew, wondering, with a sense akin to dismay, what occult influences could have combined to guide her wandering feet thither, instead of into the park, for which she had started.
Presently she began to look about the elegantly appointed edifice, noting its softly tinted walls and beautiful windows; its rich and massive woodwork, its costly carpeting and upholstery.
Then her glance swept over the congregation, and she found herself mentally exclaiming, with a pang of keen pain piercing her heart: "What a multitude of happy, peaceful faces! Where did they come from? What is the secret of their joy?"
Presently the organ ceased, and the opening hymn was announced—an old, familiar tune, and lines that her mother had once loved to sing:
In heav'nly love abiding,No change my heart shall fear.
Quick, tender tears welled to her eyes—it almost seemed as if her mother were there beside her as the organ softly played it through; then a sense of awe fell upon her at the sublime burst of harmony that followed. She had never heard anything like it before. Everybody was singing, and yet the magnificent volume of sound that surged upward into space from that many-throated congregation was like one grand, gloriously inspired voice pouring forth its harmonious notes of praise to the author of "heavenly love."
She never forgot it; it was like the momentary lifting of the opaque curtain 'twixt earth and heaven, beyond which she caught a fleeting glimpse of fields elysian, the entrance to which must be through the Gate of Love alone.
The Bible reading followed, but she did not give much heed to it, for the spell produced by the music was still upon her, though now and then she caught a phrase which impressed her that Love was the subject or text chosen for the day, until suddenly, like a solemn message from Sinai, thundered out to her alone, came the startling words: "Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer."
She sat erect, every sense now alert, and listened to the closing passage: "He that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God, whom he has not seen?"
She did not hear another consecutive sentence. She sat like one benumbed throughout the service, but with her heart in a turmoil such as she had never experienced before—the words "love" and "hate" ringing continual changes in her thought.
She thought she had always known their full import; she had read those passages from the Bible perhaps a hundred times; but never until now had she been arraigned before the bar of an inexorable judge, to be sifted as wheat in the thought, and purpose, and intents of her heart toward her brother man.
When the benediction was pronounced, a richly clad woman who had been sitting beside her turned, with cordially extended hand, to greet her. She was very beautiful to look upon, with peace written on every line of her face, love shining in her clear blue eyes, and a crown of snow-white hair rippling above her forehead; and yet she could not have been fifty years of age.
"I think you are a stranger here?" she observed, with a smile that almost made Helen weep, it was so sunny, yet so sympathetic. "I hope you have enjoyed our service."
What was there about her that so summarily broke down Helen's habitual self-control? She never could account for it afterward, but before she was really aware of what she was saying she burst forth:
"Whatislove? What is—hate?"
"My dear," returned the stranger, with exceeding gentleness, while she studied Helen's set features with compassionate eyes, "that is a question which cannot be elucidated in a moment; but let me say, as I read your thought just now, love is not emotion, sentiment, mere personal attachment; it is the abiding desire to do good to our neighbor—to all men—for thelove of doing good. 'Hate' is criticism, condemnation, resentment. Are you in haste?" she added, with a winning smile. "Could you stop for a little talk with me?"
"I could not this morning," said Helen, with unsteady lips and voice, and just on the verge of a nervous burst of tears.
"Then, will you come again some time? I am always in this pew on Sunday morning, and will be glad to see you. Good-by, dear." She slipped a card into Helen's hand, and turned to greet another, for she saw that her recent companion needed to be left to herself for the present.
Helen quickly made her way from the church, anxious to get away from the crowd, and, crossing the street, entered Central Park. She was nearly spent with the inward conflict she had been undergoing during the last hour, and she was eager to get out into the open, under the blue sky and green trees, to be alone, to think, to analyze the new and startling phase of her own character that had been so strangely revealed to her.
She glanced at the card in her hand. "Mrs. Raymond B. Everleigh," she read, and somehow the euphonious name soothed and appealed to her even as the beautiful face and winning voice of the woman had done.
She strolled slowly about for a while, thinking deeply along the new lines suggested by what she had just heard within the church. Love, she had learned, was not a mere emotion or sentiment, to be put on or off according to the attraction to or repulsion for the personality of those with whom one lives or mingles. No, she had just been awakened to see it possessed a far deeper, higher significance than that.
Love—to be love—must be a motive power, an indwelling principle, an all-absorbing desire always impelling one to do good. To do good to whom? To all men, she had been told.
And hate? "Hate is criticism, condemnation, resentment," she repeated, a shiver sweeping swiftly through her frame.
"Oh, I have never reallyloved!" she breathed, with an inward sense of aversion for herself. "But—I have hated all my life! I have simply been clinging to selfish, pleasurable emotions and sentiment, which have been aroused by the personal attractions and pleasing qualities of my friends, my child, and other dear ones, and which I havecalledlove; but I begin to see something which I have never dreamed of before."
She dropped upon a near-by seat, to try to think out the problem more clearly; but the subject seemed infinite, and a sense of depression began to fall upon her as she became more and more involved in its intricacies.
A sudden burst of merry laughter at length aroused her from her reverie, and she gradually became interested in other visitors to the park, and particularly in some happy children, who were abandoning themselves to the charms and freedom of the place and to their games.
Carriages and other equipages were continually passing along the broad avenue, and presently her attention was attracted by a party of gay people who were approaching in an automobile. They were laughing and talking boisterously, and, as they drew nearer and then passed, a woman leaned forward in the vehicle and leered at her.
It was Marie Duncan, the soubrette!
Helen was almost convulsed with inward terror as she met her eyes, but she made no visible sign that she had recognized her, and the car swept on.
It could not have been more than five or ten minutes later, and before she had recovered any degree of composure, when rapidly approaching footsteps caused Helen to turn and glance over her shoulder, to find the actress almost beside her.
"Mrs. Hungerford appears to be enjoying an outing this bright day, as well as others," the woman observed, in a flippant tone.
Helen shrank sensitively at the sound of the old name, but made no reply, and arose to pass on.
"Sit down!" curtly commanded her companion. "I have something to say to you; you need not pretend that you do not know me, for you do, and I have no intention of being ignored."
"You certainly can have nothing to say to me that I care to hear," Helen quietly returned.
"Indeed!" retorted Marie, with a short laugh. "Well, now, perhaps you may find yourself mistaken. At any rate, it may be for your interest to listen to me. To begin with, and not to mince matters, I want some money."
"Money!" repeated Helen, amazed at the audacious demand.
"Exactly. You appear to be in very comfortable circumstances, Mrs. Hungerford," said the actress, sweeping a comprehensive glance over Helen's rich and tasteful costume. "Fate seems to have treated you very kindly during the last ten years, and it is only fair that you should share the good things the gods have bestowed upon you with one less fortunate. Really, madam," she continued, with insolent sarcasm, "you appear to have gotten on better without your husband than you did with him; you must have become possessed of some potent mascot which has enabled you to rise above adverse circumstances and provide so handsomely for yourself. I heard, the last time I was in San Francisco, that you were in New York, making a lot of money as a crack music teacher; that you had given your daughter a fine education and many accomplishments; that you were living in luxury, and had made many influential friends. All this must have cost you a pretty sum, and your accounts can't be very small with your milliner and tailor, either, both of whom certainly do you and themselves great credit. Pray tell me how you have accomplished it all? I know you are a good manager; John told me that, and——"
"Where is he?" The question slipped out almost before Helen was aware of what she was saying. She only knew she feared he might have been with the party in the auto and would also appear upon the scene before she could get away.
"Blessed if I know, or care!" was the indifferent response. "I gave him the grand bounce three years ago."
"Do you mean——" Helen began, then checked herself. Why should she lower herself talking with this coarse creature? Why ask questions or seek information from her? What did it matter to her what she had or had not done, or what her relations with John now were?
"Do I mean that I divorced him?" the actress surmised the import of her question, and caught her up. "That is exactly what I did, and glad enough I was to be free from the lazy hanger-on! I was a fool ever to have anything to do with him. He had quite a bunch of money when we first went abroad, but when that was gone he just played the gentleman, and let me take care of him. I haven't seen him since—he may be dead, for all I know."
The heartlessness of her tone as she concluded implied that she did not care if he were dead, and Helen remembered with a thrill of horror how a sense of freedom had come to her with the same thought, not long ago. Could it be possible that she had fallen to the level of this vulgar woman? What was the motive that prompted them both to wish another human being out of the world? What but hate, the deadliest of all impulses. The words she had recently heard smote her again, with accusing force: "He that hateth his brother is a murderer."
The thought was so repulsive to her that involuntarily she threw out her hand in a gesture of repugnance and self-aversion.
"I'm looking out for number one now, but I've had hard luck the past year," the actress resumed, her eyes dropping, with a look of greed, to the silver purse in Helen's hand. "I'vegotto have some money, and I—I think, madam, you will find it to your interest to—to hand over a few dollars to me now and then."
Helen's eyes began to blaze, in view of the underlying menace implied more by the woman's tone than by her words.
"I! Why shouldIgive you money?" she indignantly demanded.
"Well, I think you owe me something for taking care of that husband of yours for seven or eight years."
"He wasn't my husband!" Helen sharply interposed.
The woman laughed derisively.
"Well, then, for taking him off your hands; surely that was doing you a good turn, and you should not begrudge me a share in the luck you have had since you got rid of him."
Helen was disgusted. She felt degraded to be standing there and bandying words with her, and she turned resolutely away, determined to put an end to the revolting interview.
Her companion planted herself in her path.
"Oh, don't be in such a hurry, Mrs. Hungerford; for really you will have to open that pretty purse for me before you go," she said peremptorily.
"I shall give you no money," Helen firmly replied.
"I—think you—will, or——"
"What do you mean to imply?"
"I don't believe you would like to have that old scandal rehearsed here in New York," said the actress, in a menacing tone.
"You would not dare——" began Helen excitedly, and heartsick at the thought.
"One will dare most anything when one comes to the end of one's rope, and hasn't any friends to fall back on," was the dogged response.
"Aren't you on the stage now?"
"No."
"Why not?"
The erstwhile actress shrugged her shoulders and made a grimace.
"Passée," she observed laconically, adding: "Besides, it has got to be a grind, as John used to say when he had anything like work to do."
Helen with difficulty repressed a cry as this old, familiar phrase fell upon her ears; but she drew herself haughtily erect.
"I shall give you no money," she reiterated.
The actress laughed in her face.
"I was told in San Francisco that your daughter has grown to be a beautiful young woman," she said. "How do you think she would enjoy having her father's history served up in the newspapers here? It would be a sweet morsel for your fine acquaintances—wouldn't it?—with the pictures of all three of you, and mine to go with them, to head the chapter! And I have them; I found them among John's things, and have kept them all these years. Now, I will sell them to you for a fair consideration, or I will give them, with that savory story, to the first reporter who will make it worth my while."
This terrible threat nearly caused Helen to collapse. At the same time her brain was very active as she reviewed the situation. Marie had several times addressed her as Mrs. Hungerford, which convinced her that, although she had managed to obtain considerable information regarding her in San Francisco—how, she could not comprehend—it was evident she had not learned that she had repudiated her name; consequently, even if she attempted to give her story to the newspapers, it was doubtful if any one would suspect that Madam Helen Ford, the popular drawing-room artiste, of New York, was once the wronged and deserted wife of John Hungerford, of California.
She had changed much in appearance, and Dorothy had entirely outgrown her girlish looks; hence those old photographs, even if reproduced in the newspapers, would not be associated with either herself or her daughter, for such cuts were seldom much better than caricatures, even at their best. She believed she would really gain nothing if she yielded to the actress' demand that she buy them from her, for, having once obtained money in this way, she would doubtless follow up her advantage with other efforts of a similar nature, and thus subject her to an intolerable bondage.
As these thoughts flashed through her mind, Helen took courage and began to lose her temper at the same time.
"I shall pay you nothing for those photographs, or bribe you to silence," she spiritedly returned, "and if you are so lost to all sense of honor and humanity as to seek to bring disgrace upon two innocent and long-suffering people, who, for years, have patiently struggled to rise above the desperate conditions imposed upon them through no fault of their own, you will have to take whatever satisfaction you may reap in carrying out your malicious purpose——"
"You will be sorry for this, madam——"
"You have told me that John had plenty of money when he went abroad with you," Helen continued, without heeding the interruption, while she looked straight into the bold, insolent eyes of her companion. "Do you know where he got that money which he frittered away upon you and his selfish, ignoble, unlawful pleasures?He stole it from his own child! It was a small legacy left me by my father, and, when I began to realize how improvident John was, I put it sacredly away in Dorothy's name, to save it for her education. When I was about to leave San Francisco, I went to the bank where this money had been deposited, to withdraw it, to help me make a new start in life. I was told that Mr. Hungerford, as the legal guardian of his child, had closed the account some months previous. This dastardly deed left us penniless. The blow crushed me—bereft me of both courage and hope, for the time. How much of this legacy John may have spent upon you I have no means of knowing! Doubtless no small part of it, for he was lavish as long as he had a dollar in his pocket. Now, in view of these circumstances, my refusal to comply with your present demand may not, perhaps, seem so unreasonable as at first you appeared to regard it."
A great change had come over the actress while Helen was talking. At first she had faced her with brazen assurance, her eyes flashing anger and defiance when Helen dared her to carry out her malicious purpose; but when she had told her that John had stolen the money from his child, immediately following his desertion of his family, a hot, swift flush mounted to her brow, her face fell, and her aggressive attitude was supplanted by evident discomfiture and humiliation.
She stood silent and thoughtful for a full minute after Helen ceased speaking, and when at length she slowly lifted her heavily fringed lids the previous expression of mockery and malice in her eyes had been replaced by a look of mingled dejection and shame.
"Well—you've won!" she began, in a low, repressed tone; then she suddenly turned her back upon Helen, and stood looking stoically off over the green slope beyond them, where the happy children were still playing, their fresh young voices and joyous laughter falling musically upon the summer air.
Helen watched her curiously, something in her attitude instinctively appealing to her, and preventing her from using her opportunity to slip away from the place, as she was half tempted to do.
Presently the woman turned back to her, with an evident effort to control the emotions that had well-nigh overcome her.
"Yes, you've won," she repeated, her chin quivering in spite of her. "You've given me a facer I didn't expect, and I have nothing more to say. You needn't be afraid, either, that I will ever lift a finger to harm you or the girl, after this. You're game, through and through, to have stood up under all that I know you have—to say nothing about that money—and weathered the breakers. I'm far from being a saint, but I am not all bad, and I do love little children. I used to think I would love to have a home, like other people, and a little daughter of my own, and I would live on crusts before I would ever rob a child of its birthright, and if I have helped to squander your girl's, why—I—it won't be very comfortable to remember for the rest of my days."
Her voice suddenly broke, and she was obliged to pause.
"Life is a strange muddle," she presently went on, with a queer catch in her breath, while she searched Helen's white face with a look of mingled respect and yearning, "and woman, somehow, seems to get the worst of it in the struggle. Some of us drift with the current when troubles come, and go steadily downstream to our ruin; others, like you, resolutely grip the helm, and work their way back to a safe harbor. I will never cross your path again, Helen Hungerford—you are justly entitled to the victory you have gained over adverse circumstances without being made to fight your battles all over again. I've envied you, and I've hated you, for John was continually throwing your superior virtues in my face; but you have robbed me of my fangs today, and from now on I will never place a straw in your path."
Without pausing for a reply, the woman turned abruptly, and walked swiftly away, leaving Helen dazed and speechless, in view of this unexpected termination of the exciting interview.
When she began to recover from her astonishment the actress was out of sight, and a sudden revulsion of feeling assailed her. A great pity welled up in her heart for the unfortunate woman whose lot in life, she was sure, had not been an easy one; perchance it had been even harder than her own. She had acknowledged that she was passée, that her profession had become a grind, and that she was in desperate need of money. Her clothing was cheap—shabby genteel—perhaps she even knew what it was to be hungry—and Helen wished now she could call her back and give her some money.
"Truly life is a strange problem," she said to herself, as she slowly wended her way from the park and boarded her car for home, her spirit chastened by the experiences of the day, her heart strangely softened toward Marie Duncan, for whom she had always entertained only condemnation and resentment—bitter hate—because she had robbed her of her husband, and entailed a lifelong blight upon her own future.
Now she was almost moved to tears for her. Surely she was "not all bad," as she had said, for, down deep in her heart, there was a germ of good, some redeeming qualities, which, under right conditions, might have expanded and ripened into a noble womanhood; for she "loved little children;" she had even yearned for "a little daughter" of her own. Who could say, had that sacred heart longing for motherhood been gratified, but that she might have become a power for great good in the world—the matron of a happy home, the mother of a promising family?
Three days later, on taking up the morning paper, Helen read of a shocking accident that had occurred the previous evening. A party of actors and actresses had been precipitated down an embankment while returning from an out-of-town automobile trip. The chauffeur had lost control of his car, which he was running at a reckless speed; two had been instantly killed and three badly injured. Two of the latter were in a fair way to recover, but the once brilliant and beautiful Marie Duncan, of light-opera fame, was now lying in the Mercy Hospital, hovering between life and death, with no hope of recovery.