Helen sighed regretfully over the time which had been so wantonly wasted in Paris, and during which, under the skillful supervision of Monsieur Jacques, he might have finished much of his work, and at the same time perfected himself upon many important points. She preserved a thoughtful silence for several moments; then gravely inquired:
"Do you suppose, John, that, with another year of study, with some good teacher, you could finish and dispose of the various subjects you have begun?"
"Possibly I might," he briefly observed, but there was very little enthusiasm in his tone or manner.
"Do you feel in the mood? Have you any ambition for honest, painstaking effort—for hard work, John, to attempt this under a first-class artist?" Helen persisted.
The man began to grow restive; he could never bear to be pinned down to committing himself to anything, or to yield a point.
"You have no idea, Helen, what a grind it is to sit before an easel day after day, and wield a brush," he said, in an injured tone, and with a frown of annoyance.
"Everything is a grind unless you put your heart into your work—unless one is governed by principle and a sense of moral responsibility," said Helen gravely.
"Is that the way you have baked and brewed, washed dishes and made beds the past year?" queried her husband, with a covert sneer.
"I certainly never baked and brewed, or washed dishes, solely from love of the work," she quietly but significantly replied, as her glance rested upon her wrist, where a faint scar was visible—the fading reminder of a serious burn sustained when she first began her unaccustomed duties as cook and maid of all work.
John observed it also, then quickly looked away, as he remembered that she had never murmured or neglected a single duty on account of it.
"But where is the money for a teacher coming from?" he inquired, after a moment, and referring to Helen's unanswered question regarding his unfinished work.
"You know Dorothy's money has been accumulating all these years," she began in reply. "The interest now amounts to upward of fifteen hundred dollars, and I will consent to use it for this purpose, if you will agree to do your level best to make your unfinished pictures marketable during the coming year."
Her husband flushed hotly—not because he experienced either gratitude or a sense of shame in view of becoming dependent upon his wife's bounty, but because it angered him to have conditions made for him.
He appeared to be utterly devoid of ambition for his future, and Helen's suggestion possessed no real attraction for him. Painting had become a bore—the last thing he had really taken any interest in having been the portrait his wife had discovered in his studio just previous to the sailing of its original for Australia.
John Hungerford had never performed a day's manual labor in his life, and even though he had said he might ask his uncle for a position on his arrival in San Francisco, he had no relish for the prospect of buckling down to a humdrum routine of duties in Nathan Young's flourishing manufactory.
He sat chewing the cud of sullen discontent for some time, while considering the situation, and finally gave Helen a half-hearted promise to stick to his art, under a teacher, for another year. But his consent had been so reluctantly given, his manner was so indifferent, Helen felt that she had received very little encouragement to warrant that the future would show any better results than the past, and the outlook seemed rather dark to her.
Upon their arrival in San Francisco, the Hungerfords took a small apartment in a quiet but good location, where Helen felt she could ask her friends, and they would not hesitate to come to see her.
This she tastefully fitted up with some of the simplest of her old-home furniture, which her father's lifelong friend and lawyer had carefully stored for her against her return. The more expensive pieces, with some massive, valuable silver, and choice bric-a-brac that Mr. Appleton had purchased to embellish the beautiful new residence which he had built a few years previous to his death—these extravagances having really been the beginning of his undoing—she sold, thus realizing several hundred dollars, which would go far, with careful management, toward tiding over the interval during which John was working to turn his paintings into money.
As yet Dorothy had never attended school, Helen having systematically taught her at home; but the child was bright and quick to learn, and was fully up to the standard with, if not in advance of, girls of her own age. She could speak French like a Parisian, and her mother had also given her excellent training in music.
Helen, thus far, had been very wise in her management of Dorothy. Profiting by the mistakes which she realized her own indulgent parents had made in rearing herself, as well as by the faults she had detected in her husband's character, she had determined that her daughter should not suffer in the future, along the same lines, for lack of careful discipline. At the same time, she by no means made her government irksome; indeed, it never seemed to the child that she was being governed, for the companionship between them was so close and tender that she fell naturally into her mother's way of thinking, and seldom rebelled against her authority, even though she was by no means devoid of spirit or a mind of her own.
Now, however, feeling that Dorothy needed a wider horizon, with different environment and training, as she pursued her education, her mother decided to put her into the public school.
This would relieve Helen of much care, and also give her more time to take up a systematic course of piano and voice culture, which she had determined to do, with the view of turning her talent for music to some practical purpose, at least until her husband was better equipped to provide suitably for his family.
She had been cordially received on her return by most of her old friends, even though she had made no secret of the change in her circumstances. She had been a great favorite before her marriage, and her family highly respected; hence her reverses did not now appear to affect her social standing, at least among those who knew her best.
Very grateful and happy in view of this proof of real friendship, Helen was encouraged to quietly seek pupils in music, and easily secured a class of ten, which were all she felt she could do justice to with her domestic duties and other cares.
She felt very independent and not a little proud of the money thus earned, while she found it a great help in meeting the many expenses of her household.
During the first year after their return from abroad, John also worked well. He liked his teacher—a German, who had studied many years in Italy—who spoke in high praise of his talent, as well as of the thoroughness of the instruction he had received from Monsieur Jacques, all of which was apparent in his beautiful but unfinished work, he said.
Although Herr Von Meyer was not permanently located in San Francisco, his work had become popular, and he had quite a large following as students. He might almost have been called an itinerant artist, for he had traveled extensively in the United States and Canada, stopping for a longer or shorter time, as his fancy dictated, in numerous places, painting and sketching American life and scenery. He was now planning to return to his own country at the end of another year, to again take up work in his own studio in Berlin.
It was, therefore, a rare opportunity for John to have found so talented a teacher just at this time; and, under his supervision, he completed and disposed of a goodly number of his paintings. Some of these were so well appreciated that he received orders to duplicate them, and the future looked promising.
This success so elated and encouraged him that at the end of a year he concluded he was now competent to do business for himself without further assistance or instruction. Accordingly, he hired some rooms, furnished them attractively, and launched out upon an independent career with something like real enthusiasm.
For a time all went well; more pictures were painted and sold, bringing good prices; while, after the departure of Herr Von Meyer, students began to flock to him. Young Hungerford, the artist, was beginning to be talked about in society and at the various clubs; he was also much sought after and admired in fashionable circles; his studio became a favorite resort for people interested in art, and here John shone a bright particular star.
Helen became happy in proportion to her husband's advancement; she grew radiant with health; the lines of care and worry all faded out of her face; she was like a light-hearted girl, and John told her she was prettier than ever.
It was almost too good to be true, she sometimes said to herself, as she remembered the sad conditions that had prevailed while they were in Paris. But she would not allow herself to dwell upon those unhappy experiences; the present was full of hope and promise, and she firmly believed that her husband's fame and fortune were assured.
Had John Hungerford possessed "the stable mind," as Monsieur Jacques once expressed it, all must have gone well; if he had been less egotistical, selfish, and vain, more persevering and practical; had he not been naturally so indolent—"lazy," to quote his former teacher again—and pleasure-loving, he might have risen rapidly, and maintained his position.
But, as time wore on, and the novelty of his popularity and prosperity began to pall upon him; as the demands upon his patience became greater, and the supervision of students required more concentration and attention to detail; as the filling of increasing orders for his own work made it necessary to stick closer to his easel, day after day, life began to seem "a grind" again.
He grew discontented, irritable, restless. He lost patience with his students, and became indifferent to his duty to them, until they began to be disaffected, and dropped away from him. He neglected orders until his patrons became angry and withdrew them, and finally, becoming dissatisfied with his own work, he dropped back into his old habit of starting subject after subject, only to set them aside to try something else, rarely completing anything; all of which tended toward the ruin of his once prosperous business, as well as his reputation as an artist.
All this came about so gradually that, for a long time, no one save Helen suspected how matters were going. She begged him to wake up and renew his efforts, both for her sake and Dorothy's, as well as for his own; and she encouraged him in every possible way. But nothing that she could say or do served to arouse him from the mental and moral lethargy that possessed and grew upon him.
Fortunately, in spite of their recent prosperity, Helen had retained her pupils in music, more because of her love for the work than because she felt the need of money, as at first. Thus, when her husband's income began to fall off, she dropped, little by little, into the way of sharing the household expenses from her own earnings, and so assumed burdens which he should have borne himself.
As month succeeded month, things continued to grow worse, until rumors of the truth got afloat, and his friends and patrons began to show their disapproval of his downward course, and even to shun his society.
Yet these significant omens did not serve to arouse him. On the contrary, his indifference and indolence increased, and his old love for wandering returned; his studio would frequently be closed for days, sometimes for weeks, at a time, and only his boon companions knew where he could be found.
Helen regarded these evidences of deterioration with a sinking heart, yet tried to be patient. She did not complain, even when their funds ran very low, but cheerfully supplied the needs of the family, and bravely tried to fortify herself with the hope that John could not long remain oblivious to his responsibilities, and would eventually retrieve himself.
During all this time she had been making splendid progress in her own musical training—especially in the cultivation of her voice. She had often given her services in behalf of charitable entertainments, and not infrequently assisted her friends to entertain by singing a charming group of songs at parties and receptions; thus she had gained for herself the reputation of being a most pleasing vocalist.
Recently these same friends, who sympathized with her domestic trials, and, recognizing her financial difficulties, had arranged for several musical functions, asking her to superintend them, and had paid her liberally for her services.
This new departure seemed to Helen like the pointing of Providence to a more promising future, by making her entirely independent of her husband, and it would also enable her to give Dorothy advantages which she could never hope—judging from present indications—to receive from her father. Accordingly, she immediately issued attractive cards, advertising to provide musical entertainment for clubs, receptions, or social functions of any kind.
It was somewhat late in the season when she conceived this project, and she secured only a limited number of engagements; but as she gained fresh laurels and had delighted her patrons in every instance, she believed she had paved the way for a good business by the following fall.
During the month of May of this year John began to talk of going out of town for the summer.
"We cannot afford it," Helen objected. "My pupils will leave me in June, and will not return to me until September, and we must not spend the money it would cost for such an outing."
"But you need a change, as well as I, and—and some of—of Dorothy's money would be well spent in giving us all a good vacation," her husband argued.
"That money is not to be touched," said Helen firmly. "That is sacredly devoted to a college course for her as soon as she leaves the high school. Dorothy and I are perfectly well; we have more comforts at home than we could find elsewhere without paying an extravagant price, and, with a short trip now and then, to some point of interest, we can manage to be very happy without going away."
"We could go into the mountains, and camp out—that wouldn't cost very much," John persisted.
"Camp out!" Helen exclaimed, astonished. "And where would we get our meals? You know very well that Hannah would not put up with the poor accommodations of any camp."
"Oh, dismiss Hannah for a couple of months! We could get our own meals, and make them as simple as we chose," her husband suggested.
Helen smiled wanly. She wondered what he meant by simple meals, for he was, as a rule, very particular what he had to eat and how it was cooked. She realized that such a move would result in simply making her a drudge, under very uncomfortable conditions, for the summer; she would lose a good maid, and be in no way refreshed on her return to town.
"I think it would be very unwise," she gravely returned; "such an outing as that would have no rest or attraction for me; besides, I had planned to work diligently at my music during the next three months, to prepare for the winter."
John was not at all pleased with this decided rejection of his proposition, as a protracted and sullen silence plainly indicated.
"Well,Iam not willing to swelter in the hot city during the next three months, if you are," heat length burst forth, "and I want a change."
"Oh, John, you ought to stay right here, and go to work for your family," said his wife, with a note of appeal in her tremulous tones. "We have hardly money enough left to pay our bills until fall, as it is."
"I tell you I will not!" he said crossly, adding: "You can, of course, do as you choose. If you and Dorothy will not go with me, I'll turn Bohemian, take my kit along, and make sketches for work when I return."
Helen knew it would be useless to oppose him, so said no more. All the same, judging from the past, she had little faith that his sketching would amount to much, and so when June opened she saw him depart with a heavy heart.
She received brief letters from him from time to time; but he told her very little of what he was doing. His chief desire seemed to be to let her know where her letters and remittances would reach him.
He returned in September, to find his wife and child blooming and happy. It was evident that they had enjoyed the summer far better than he, for he appeared jaded and spiritless, while he had very little to produce as material for the coming winter's work—a few rough sketches, carelessly done, were all he had to show.
Helen, however, had worked to good purpose. Her voice was in splendid condition. She had added several choice selections to her repertoire; while Dorothy showed marked improvement upon the piano, and had learned to accompany her mother very effectively in some of her simpler songs. But it had not been all work and no play with them. They went out somewhere every fine day. They had little picnics to the park; they had sails upon the bay, sometimes visiting a popular resort; and once an old friend of Helen's asked them, for a week, to her summer home, a few miles out of the city. Dorothy was perfectly satisfied, even though most of her school friends were away, and once remarked to a friend who called upon them: "Mamma and I do have just the nicest times together; it's great fun to go about with her."
John had very little to say relative to his own vacation, or the companions with whom he had spent it; he certainly gave no sign of renewed vigor, and showed no inclination to take up his long-neglected painting; but Helen asked no questions, made no comments or criticisms. Neither did she manifest either surprise or disapproval when he came in one day, a month after his return, and informed her that he had given up his studio and accepted a position in his Uncle Nathan's establishment.
"Painting pictures, as a business, is fluctuating, monotonous, unsatisfactory," he said. "He believed it would be far better to have a salary, on which he could depend."
Helen sighed for the money that had been wasted in rent for the studio during the summer; also for the rejected art for which John possessed talent, if not genius. But he lacked force, he hated personal responsibility, as well as work, and perhaps the salary, even though it was to be a moderate sum for the first year, would be better. The monthly payments from Mr. Young could be relied upon, and thus her own burdens would be somewhat lightened.
Helen had entered three new pupils on her books at the beginning of the fall, these increasing her class to thirteen, and she had also been engaged, for an early date in October, to sing at a charity fair, to be held under the auspices of one of the wealthy clubs of the city. This seemed quite a promising outlook so early in the season, and she was also hoping much from her new venture as entertainer at private social functions.
The fair was extensively advertised, and was held for four afternoons and evenings of the second week in October, Helen appearing twice upon each occasion, and proving such a drawing card that a score of engagements for fashionable receptions was the result of her success.
This was far more than she had dared to expect, and she was much elated over her good fortune. Everything moved along peacefully and prosperously until spring, John bearing his confinement in his uncle's office better than she had anticipated, and was apparently content with his salary. But as the warm weather came on again she could see that he began to chafe under his confinement in the city and to his work. He had his vacation of two weeks in August, however, when he made a trip to Chicago, instead of going into the country, greatly to his wife's astonishment at the time. On his return he seemed in high spirits, saying he had had a fine trip, and resumed his duties with apparent cheerfulness.
A week later there appeared upon the billboards about the city flaring advertisements stating that the Wells Opera Company, with beautiful Marie Duncan as star, would present the "Prince of Pilsen" early in October. The newspapers also contained notices of the same fact, and stated that Miss Duncan had just concluded a summer engagement in Chicago, and was now resting for a few weeks before taking up her work in San Francisco.
At once Helen understood John's motive in going to Chicago to spend his vacation; also his unusual cheerfulness upon his return; and a foreboding of impending trouble began to haunt her from that moment.
When the Wells Opera Company arrived, Helen made it a point to attend a matinee, to ascertain for herself what the personality of the popular favorite was like.
That she was exceedingly beautiful and peculiarly fascinating there was no denying, and her voice was a marvel of sweetness.
John had never painted anything more true to life than the portrait she had discovered in his studio in Paris; although, if that were possible, the siren's charms were riper and even more alluring than at that time.
Nevertheless, there was a vein of coarseness in her manner, a boldness in her glance and smile, a voluptuous abandon in her acting, that offended and repelled Helen's finer sensibilities, and sent her home sick at heart, with mingled fear and jealousy; for, down deep in her consciousness, she was forced to acknowledge that it was just these elements in Marie Duncan that appealed to something of the same nature in her husband's character, and was winning him from his allegiance to his wife.
She wondered what had become of that portrait. She had never seen it since that never-to-be-forgotten day when she had visited Monsieur Jacques in such distress, to seek some explanation of John's prolonged absence from home.
John certainly had not brought it back to America with him. Whither had it disappeared? Had he destroyed it, fearing it might some time betray him?
Suddenly her outraged heart awoke to the truth, and her face flamed hotly with indignation and humiliation as she recalled the reproduction she had seen in the magazine she had found under John's pillow in his berth on the steamer, as they were returning from France.
John had finished his picture; he had given it to the actress before she sailed for Australia, and she had allowed it to be copied by the press.
It seemed to Helen that her cup of woe was filled to the brim—her endurance taxed to the limit, as she began to query within herself what would be the outcome of Marie Duncan's present engagement in San Francisco. But the courage that is born in heroes had also been planted in Helen Hungerford's heart, and, after the first shock of dismay had passed, she began to ask what she could do to counteract Marie's influence and keep her husband loyal to her and true to himself. To reveal her suspicions, to voice complaints, criticisms, or reproaches would only serve to make matters worse; for John was one who would never bear censure or opposition in any form. Her only hope lay in being tactful and diplomatic, in trying to make herself and their home so attractive that he would be weaned from his infatuation for the opera star, and realize the folly of ruining his reputation and domestic peace.
So she bravely resolved to conceal every evidence of anxiety. John was in absolute ignorance of the fact that she even dreamed of his interest in the actress, and she realized the wisdom of still concealing it from him. She said nothing of her afternoon at the matinee; she never referred to the opera, or expressed a desire to see it; neither did her husband invite her to go, as was usual whenever anything new, of a musical nature, was running; but she began a systematic course of acting herself, using every possible device to keep him with his family, catering to his tastes and humoring his lightest wish or whim. She asked him to be her escort to and from the social functions at which she was entertaining; she planned pleasures that would include them all, and tried to interest him in books she was reading.
But all was of no avail. He always had some plausible excuse to get away from home evenings, and often did not return until the small hours of the morning; he manifested less and less interest in his family; he was morose and preoccupied, avoiding conversation, and at times was exceedingly irritable with Dorothy.
Previous to this, since he had been in his uncle's employ, he had cheerfully contributed a part of his salary to help defray household expenses; but now he suddenly began to withhold his money, or, if reminded that funds were needed, doled out a mere pittance so grudgingly that Helen shrank from the humiliation of asking assistance and being so inconsiderately treated.
This state of things continued far into the winter, the breach between the man and his family continually widening, for Dorothy was beginning to take notice, while he began to be irregular at his business and to show the effect of late hours and dissipation.
One afternoon, on returning from an engagement at an out-of-town reception, Helen found, to her great surprise, Mr. Nathan Young, John's uncle and employer, awaiting her. It was the first time she had seen him for many months, for, aside from his one act of giving her husband his present position, he had never manifested the slightest interest in the family.
He was rated a very rich man, but, having a fashionable wife and four daughters to maintain, he was wholly absorbed in his business and individual responsibilities.
Helen had never been asked to entertain at any of Madam Young's receptions, although she had sent her, early in the season, a card announcing her intentions; neither had she ever met any of the family in the homes of her patrons; and now, when, after greeting her visitor with graceful courtesy, she threw aside her wrap and stood before him in her fresh young beauty and charming costume, the man stared at her in astonishment.
"Really, Mrs. John Hungerford, you look like the wife of a millionaire," he brusquely observed, a note of keen irony in his tones.
Helen flushed consciously.
She realized that she must appear extravagantly attired to one who did not understand the situation. The next moment she smiled frankly up into her companion's face.
"Perhaps you do not know, Mr. Young, that, for two years, I have been singing at social functions given by fashionable people, to help John meet the expenses of the family?" she explained.
"No, I didn't know it," he curtly returned, his shrewd eyes still studying her costume.
"Of course," Helen went on, "going before such audiences, I am obliged to dress well; but"—with an air of quiet dignity, for she felt that the man was rude to her—"as I earn all my own clothes, as well as Dorothy's, I am wronging no one."
"Humph!" Nathan Young grunted, although his glance softened; for truly Helen was very pleasant to look upon as she stood before him in her trailing gown of soft blue silk, tastefully trimmed with real lace that had belonged to her mother; she also wore some fine jewels which had come to her from the same source, and the man, now that he comprehended, secretly liked her spirit and frankness in telling him just how matters stood.
She showed a turn for business that pleased him, and he chuckled within himself over her statement that she earned all her own and Dorothy's clothes. Money getting had been his one aim from his youth up; he liked to see people work hard for money; he had no patience with drones. He had always viewed John's idiotic dabbling in paints with undisguised contempt, and had never shown the least interest in his career as an artist.
Presently he broke forth, almost sharply:
"Where is that husband of yours?"
"John? Hasn't he been at the office to-day?" Helen inquired, in a startled tone.
"I've seen nothing of him for nearly a week," the gentleman replied, with a frown of displeasure.
"You have not seen John for nearly a week!" repeated the astonished wife, aghast.
"That is what I said," was the curt rejoinder. "And this isn't the first time he has neglected his business, by any means, though he has never stayed away so long before. I'm tired of his shilly-shallying, and he has always worked with an air of protest, as if he felt the position beneath him. I just dropped in to see if he were ill, or had any good reason to offer for his absence."
"No, John is perfectly well, and I am amazed at what you have told me, Mr. Young," Helen observed, with tremulous lips, her composure sadly shaken.
The man arose, an ominous gleam in his eyes.
"Well, then, you can tell him from me that he need not show up at the office again," he coldly observed, at the same time laying an envelope on the table before Helen. "Here is his pay up to the end of the month. He hasn't earned it, but it's what I agreed to give him, and I'm a man of my word. I hoped," he continued, less sharply, after a momentary pause, during which his glance fell upon his companion's colorless face, "when he came to me for a position he had given up his nonsense about art, and had made up his mind to settle down to something worth while, and I meant to do well by him—take him in with me, by and by, perhaps, if he showed any backbone or interest in the business; but it is evident that he cares more for his own ease and pleasure than for anything else, and—I'm through with him."
Helen's heart sank within her. She dare not think what might be the consequences if John lost his position just at this time. It would leave him with no responsibility, and with nothing to do but to dance attendance upon Marie Duncan.
She felt it would mean utter ruin for their domestic happiness. He might not mend his ways even if his uncle retained him in his service, since his infatuation for the actress had become so strong; but it would at least be something to hold him from spending all his time with her. To be suddenly cut off like this seemed like the parting asunder of the cable that held their only anchor of hope, thus leaving them drifting helplessly upon a treacherous sea.
"Oh, pray do not say that, Mr. Young!" she pleaded, with whitening lips. "John needs to be encouraged, to be held by some responsibility. Will you not kindly give him another trial?"
"No, I have borne all I shall from him," gruffly replied Nathan Young, but shifting uneasily under the look in her imploring eyes. "John has no sense of responsibility, no idea of duty in connection with himself or any one else. His only thought is to drift comfortably with the current; when there is any rowing to be done he thrusts it upon some one else every time. I've been studying him ever since he came to me, and I know. He will never be 'held,' as you put it, except by his own will—at least, until he has had some lesson in life that will make a stronger impression upon him than any he has had yet. There, I've had my say! It has taken me longer to make up my mind to this, perhaps, than you have any idea, for he was my sister's boy, and I owed her something; but when I finally come to a decision about anything the matter is settled. I am sorry for you, though, Mrs. Hungerford—upon my word, I am. I don't believe it has been easy navigating for you, in spite of the brave front you show to the world," he concluded, with a touch of honest sympathy, while he wondered if she had any suspicion of how or where her husband was spending the most of his time.
He had been investigating the movements of his recreant nephew of late, and he had learned that his companions and pursuits were not at all to his credit.
Helen stood cold and haughty before him. She was stung to the quick by the man's harsh arraignment and curt dismissal of her husband; yet she knew, in her heart, that he was justified in both. At the same time, John was her husband, and the father of her child, and she was bound to defend him—to be loyal to him as long as defense and loyalty were possible.
She saw that it was useless to expect any concession from Mr. Young, that it would be a waste of time and energy to argue with him. So she braced herself to meet the inevitable with what composure she could command, and observed, with an air of quiet dignity:
"I will give Mr. Hungerford your message, Mr. Young. I deeply regret that you have been so disappointed in your expectations regarding him. I feel confident, however, that there is good in him," she went on, with wifely fealty; "that some time it will be developed, and that he will win for himself a place and a name in the world. I trust Madam Young and the young ladies are well?" she graciously concluded, as she saw that her visitor was becoming restive and anxious to terminate the interview.
"Thank you; they are in their usual health," he replied, eagerly seizing the opportunity she had so gracefully made for him, and his hat at the same time.
Helen followed him to the door, where she bade him a courteous "good afternoon;" then, as he passed from her presence, she sank, strengthless, upon a chair, looking the picture of despair.
"Truly my burden is becoming heavier than I can bear," she moaned, in bitterness of spirit.
When John Hungerford returned to his home and learned of his summary dismissal from his uncle's employ, instead of appearing disturbed by the unexpected information, he manifested undisguised relief and satisfaction.
"Thank the propitious Fates! So the old crank has given me the grand bounce, has he?" he exclaimed, with sneering levity.
"'PropitiousFates!'" repeated Helen, with grave disapproval. "I regard it as a great misfortune. Pray, what do you intend to do for a living in the future, John?"
"Oh, I'll look about and see what I can find—I reckon something will turn up," he returned, with an air of indifference that smote his wife keenly.
Whether he "looked about," or made any effort to obtain a position, Helen had no means of knowing. But weeks passed, and he was still idle, having done absolutely nothing during that time for the provision of his family. He was sullen and disagreeable when at home, and resented all inquiries regarding his movements. Thus the husband and wife could only drift farther and farther apart; for Helen was becoming both discouraged and indignant in view of John's increasing apathy and neglect, which seemed to imply that he felt no personal responsibility and experienced no moral discomfort in allowing her to supply all the needs of the household indefinitely.
Dorothy was now fourteen years of age, a very bright, attractive girl. She was keenly observant of what was going on around her, and, as she not infrequently was a sufferer from the inharmony pervading her home, she was beginning to realize that something was very wrong between her father and mother. Helen, however, never encouraged either comments or questions from her, and always evaded any reference to the strained relations between her husband and herself.
But matters continued to grow worse, and were finally brought to a climax one day when Dorothy burst in upon her, on returning from school, in a state of great excitement, her face crimson from shame, her eyes flashing with anger.
"Mamma, whatwillyou say?" she passionately exclaimed. "I saw papa, just now, riding in an auto with Marie Duncan, that opera singer who has been singing at the Grand Theater all winter. They were laughing, and joking, and having a great time together. Grace Winthrop was with me, and I was so mortified I thought I'd die!"
Helen Hungerford lifted an ashen face to the speaker.
"Dorothy, are yousure?" she gasped, the startled throbbing of her heart making her voice almost inaudible.
"Of course I am sure!" was the positive reply. "There were so many teams in the street the auto had to slow down as it passed the car we were in, and papa saw us, and got awful red in the face. He nodded to us, but I just looked him straight back in the eye—I wouldn't notice him. Mamma, what makes him do such horrid things? Why can't he be nice, like other gentlemen? Oh, I am so ashamed! What will Grace think? What will everybody think?" she concluded wildly.
"Hush, Dorrie, dear; it can do no good to get so excited over it," said Helen, her own lips quivering painfully as she folded the trembling girl in her arms and kissed her tenderly.
Dorothy convulsively returned her embrace; then threw herself in a torrent of tears upon the couch beside which her mother had been sitting when she came in.
Helen allowed her to weep unrestrained, believing that the storm would soonest spend itself in that way. She sat beside her, white-faced, heavy-hearted, and tried to confront the situation.
John, openly riding, in broad daylight, through the streets of the city, with the opera star, betrayed a wantonness that defied all conventionality or decorum. It was an evidence of indifference to public opinion, to his own respectability, and to the notoriety that must reflect upon his family, which showed how thoroughly infatuated he had become.
And in an automobile! Whose car was it? Did it belong to the actress, or was John guilty of the extravagance of hiring it to take the woman about? If so, where did he get the money to pay for it, when he was not supplying a dollar toward his own support or that of his family?
When John Hungerford entered his home that night, late as it was, he found a wan-faced, hollow-eyed woman sitting up for him; yet, despite the serpent sting in her heart, busy at work upon the week's mending.
"Well," he observed, in a half-jocose, half-defiant tone, although a flush of shame swept his face as he met his wife's sad eyes, "I suppose the kid told you?"
"Yes, Dorothy has told me where, and with whom, she saw you this afternoon. John, what does it mean?" Helen gravely returned.
Her manner, as well as his own accusing conscience, angered him, and he swore—another evidence of his degeneration, for, as a rule, he had been a gentleman, rarely allowing himself to use either profane or vulgar language. He had been deeply chagrined, that afternoon, on coming almost face to face with Dorothy and her friend, the daughter of one of San Francisco's highly respected citizens. He had known, of course, that Dorothy would tell her mother, which nettled him still more, and now to be arraigned by Helen, to have her presume to dictate terms to him, as he felt she would do, caused him to lose all control of himself.
"I don't know that I am accountable to you for where I go, or with whom I spend my time," he sullenly replied.
Helen sat erect, her own spirit now thoroughly aroused.
"Yes, youareaccountable to me when you compromise the honor of your family—and in the presence of your own child," she said, her blazing eyes looking straight into his; then she added, with quiet but convincing firmness: "And the way we have been living of late cannot go on any longer."
He regarded her with mingled surprise and inquiry. Had the worm turned at last? Had his gentle, loyal, patient wife reached the limit of her endurance? Would she—did she mean that she would leave him? It had never occurred to him that she would take such a stand as this.
"What do you mean, Helen?" he demanded, with compressed lips.
"I mean that you are making my life intolerable—my burdens are heavier than I can bear."
"You are jealous of Marie Duncan?" he said, a slight smile curling his lips.
"Jealous—ofher?No!" cried Helen scornfully. "A woman who will accept the exclusive attentions of a married man, allowing him to lavish upon her money that is needed by and rightly belongs to his family, is worthy only of contempt. But Iamconcerned for my own good name and yours, for the future of my child, that no taint shall mar her prospects and sap the joy from her life. So I say this state of things muststop."
"Very well; let it stop, then!" John flung back angrily. "Do you want a divorce?"
"A divorce!I?" cried Helen, scarce able to restrain a shriek of aversion at the suggestion. Then, swallowing hard, she panted: "I could not be divorced."
"You are mistaken; the law will free you if you desire."
"Thelaw! It is an unholy law, made to accommodate vacillating natures that lightly wed to-day and weary of their bonds to-morrow; it is a blot and a shame upon the constitution that permits it, upon the country that tolerates it. No, no—it is not possible for me!"
She sat silent for a moment or two, her companion studying her uneasily meanwhile.
"John," she presently resumed, bending nearer to him, and he could see the pulses beating in her white throat from the intensity of her emotion, "when I married you it was no light thing I did. I gavemyselfto you—all that I was then, or ever hoped to be in this life—until death should part us—death, do you understand?—not until you should become weary of me, or until I found my burdens heavier than I had thought, but for better or for worse, as long as time should endure for us. It was a vow that can never be annulled—a hundred divorces would avail nothing; I marvel that you could suggest the measure to me! I am your wife, united to you not only by that solemn ceremony that made us one, but by an indissoluble bond that involves my honor, my love, and my loyalty—by that moral law that never releases one from his voluntary oath—and your wife I shall remain as long as I draw breath."
John Hungerford's face had changed many times from crimson to white as he sat spellbound while his wife poured forth this passionate revelation of her inmost self to him.
"Do you mean that you would not,under any circumstances, seek a divorce from me?" he inquired, shifting uneasily in his chair, when she ceased.
"Yes, that is what I mean."
"Suppose—that I should seek a divorce for myself?"
Helen's hand clenched spasmodically within the sock she had been mending.
"I should still hold myself bound by my vows to you," she said, with white lips.
The man shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably.
"Just what did you mean by saying that things cannot go on any longer as they are going with us now?" he questioned.
"I meant that it devolves upon you to assume your share of the burden of providing for your family; that I will not support you in idleness any longer."
This was surely straightforward speaking, and John regarded his wife curiously for a moment. Hitherto she had been so patient and yielding he had not believed her capable of taking such a stand.
"Well, if you wish to be rid of me, I suppose I can relieve you of my presence."
"Where will you go? How will you live?"
"Oh, I suppose 'the wind will be tempered to the shorn lamb,'" he quoted, with mocking irreverence.
Helen sprang to her feet, and faced him with flaming eyes. She felt disgusted with and outraged by his utter indifference to her long-suffering patience under many trials, and by his deplorable lack of manliness.
"John Hungerford, where is your manhood?" she demanded, with cold scorn. "Where your respect for your wife, or your love for your child? Do you not even possessself-respect?"
"I warn you not to push me too far," he retorted hotly, adding: "Perhaps you really want me to get out—do you?" and he leaned toward her, with a menacing look and air.
"No, for your own sake, I do not wish you to do that; but I do want you to show yourself a man, and some recognition of your duty as a husband and father," Helen spiritedly replied. Then she dauntlessly continued: "But I tell you again we cannot live this way any longer."
"'Duty!' 'Duty!' That is always a woman's fling at a man, even if he is down on his luck. I'm not at all fond of this nagging, and I believe, on the whole, we'd be better off apart," he angrily shot back at her.
For a full minute Helen silently searched his face. It was flushed, sullen, dogged.
Was he really weary of the ties that bound him? Was he tired of her and of Dorothy? Was he seeking an excuse to get out, hoping to rid himself thereby of his moral responsibility, and be free to indulge his admiration for the fascinating soubrette? She was forced to believe that he was—everything seemed to point to that end, and it was evident that he had no intention of yielding to her terms; he would assume no responsibilities that were irksome to him; no burdens to cumber him; and suddenly all her outraged womanhood, wifehood, motherhood were aroused to arms, overleaping the last point of endurance.
She drew herself to her full height, and confronted him with a spirit he had never seen her manifest before.
"As—you—please!" she said, with freezing deliberation; and, pulling from her hand the silken sock she had been mending for him when he came in, she tossed it upon the floor at his feet. She held his eye for another brief moment, and he cringed visibly beneath the contemptuous renunciation that he read in the look. The next he was alone. Helen had fled to her chamber, where she fell, half fainting, upon her bed, her heart broken, her spirit crushed.
A little later she heard the outer door close with a bang, and knew that her husband had left the house. Would he ever return? Would she really care if he never returned?
Her burdens and trials had been very heavy and perplexing during most of her married life. She had tried to be brave, loyal, and self-sacrificing; she had laid her all upon the altar of her love for this man, only to have her unceasing immolation ignored, as of no special value, except in so far as it had relieved him of care, clothed, fed, and sheltered him. Now the last straw had been laid upon her by his shameless devotion to a brazen actress, regardless of the taint upon his own reputation and the scandal it must entail upon his family. It seemed, as she lay there, half conscious, as if this blow had crushed every atom of affection for him out of her heart, and she began to feel that, as far as she was concerned, it might be a blessed release to be free from him forever. Yet for his own and Dorothy's sake, she would have continued to bear her cross indefinitely and without a murmur, to save him from sin and to shield her child from the disgrace that now threatened them all.
Days passed and lengthened into weeks, during which she did not once see or hear from her husband; but one afternoon, upon returning from an engagement out of town, she found that he had been in the house and removed all of his personal belongings, together with the choicest of his paintings and some rare curios which he had collected during their honeymoon abroad. This act convinced her that he intended their separation to be final.
She had told Dorothy something of the recent stormy interview between her husband and herself, because she believed it best to prepare her for what she feared might be the outcome of it before very long.
During the earlier portion of her brief life Dorothy had been very fond of her father, and he had always manifested a strong affection for her; but during the last two years Helen had observed that the girl often avoided him, that she grieved over his growing indifference to his obligations and his home; while not infrequently she had openly resented his treatment of her mother.
When Helen told her she thought it probable that her father would leave them altogether, the girl sat in silent thought for several minutes. Then she lifted adoring eyes to her mother's face.
"Mamma, if hewantsto go away from such a lovely wife as you have been, because he—he likes that coarse, loud-talking woman I saw him with that day, I—I'd justlethim go, and—and be glad to have him away," she said, her face growing crimson, her eyes flashing resentment in view of her father's wrongdoing.
"But, Dorrie, dear, he is your father, and——"
"Myfather! He hasn't acted much like a father who cared anything for his daughter!" Dorothy indignantly interposed. "And he's been horrid toyou, lots of times. He's been solazy, too, lounging around the house and letting you work so hard, and taking yourmoney. I've been so ashamed that he couldn't be like other gentlemen, and take care ofus. I used to think I was proud of him, and loved him, for heishandsome and can be nice when he feels like it. I—I don't like to go near him now, though, and I haven't wanted to kiss him for a long time. But I loveyou, mamma, dear, with all my heart; and if he does go away I will try to be so good to you that—that perhaps you won't mind it quite so much," the child concluded, with a burst of tears, as she threw herself into her mother's arms, and clung to her convulsively.
Helen was deeply touched by this spontaneous outburst of love and loyalty, and, as she thought the matter over more and more, she began to feel that if John's infatuation could not be broken—if he was past redemption—it would be better for Dorothy, perhaps, to be away from his influence.
A month later Helen received notice from a lawyer, informing her of her husband's intention of applying for a divorce; he also stated that Mr. Hungerford desired a personal interview for the purpose of definitely arranging the matter with her.
Helen acceded to this request, and the scene recorded in our opening chapter followed a few days later, when John Hungerford learned, much to his surprise, that his wife would oppose no obstacle to his desire and efforts to secure a legal separation from her; when she had told him he might go free, as soon as the law would allow, provided he would relinquish all claim to Dorothy and did not attempt to compromise herself in any way.
The result we already know. The divorce was granted. John Hungerford went immediately abroad, ostensibly to resume his art studies, but really to follow the woman who had won his allegiance from his wife, and Helen was left to meet the situation alone as best she could.
"I have decided to leave San Francisco. I will not have Dorothy's life spoiled by this wretched scandal, which she will never be allowed to forget if we remain here. I am going to put three thousand miles between our past history and ourselves. I am going to New York City to live."
Thus announced Helen Hungerford while discussing her future with her lifelong friend, Mrs. Horace Hamilton, who had been not only her chum throughout their college course, and her maid of honor at her marriage, but had faithfully stood by her in all her trials since her return from Europe. It was she who had helped her to secure music scholars, who had been first and foremost in introducing her as a chamber-concert singer, and launching her upon the career that had proved such a signal success. She had also been especially kind and loyal at the time of her husband's desertion, and shielded her in every possible way from the gossip and scandal attending the unfortunate separation.
"Mercy, dear, won't it be flying in the face of Providence for you to race wildly off to the other side of the continent?" exclaimed Mrs. Hamilton, in a startled tone, adding sympathetically: "I am forced to admit that your position here is certainly very trying, Helen; but this seems to me like a perfectly mad scheme. Do you know a single soul in New York?"
"No, I do not; and that is just the reason why I am going there."
"But you are so well established, and have so many stanch friends here; the sympathies of every one who knows you and the trials you have had to encounter are with you," objected her companion.
"I know that; everybody has been heavenly kind to me, and I fully appreciate it," said Helen, with starting tears. "But I don't wantsympathy—I simply want to forget; and I will not have Dorothy weighed down with pity, and all the brightness and hope crushed out of her life," she concluded passionately, and flushing with hot resentment against her hard lot.
"But I am afraid you will have an awfully hard struggle all alone in New York," said her friend, looking deeply troubled. "And yet—I don't know"—her face clearing suddenly—"Lena Jerome, Horace's sister, is prominent in society there. She is a dear, and would do anything to help a friend of ours. You certainly are a fine music teacher, Helen—you make all your pupils love you, and I believe that is one secret of your success; and you sing divinely at drawing-room functions. Lena would be just the one to aid you in securing the right kind of scholars, and to secure for you the entrée to society for entertaining, as you have done here. After all, I do believe it will be the very best thing for you to do, if—if the expense of such a change will not be too much for you," Mrs. Hamilton concluded, with some embarrassment, for she believed that John Hungerford had left his wife absolutely penniless.
"I have saved some money from my own earnings," Helen explained. "It has been uphill work since John gave up business, but I have never allowed myself to spend every dollar of my income; I have managed to put away something every month—'an emergency nest egg,' I have called it. Then, the little my father left me I have sacredly hoarded to defray the expense of a college course for Dorothy; so I am sure I can manage very well, even in New York, until I can secure pupils and engagements. I shall be very grateful to Mr. Hamilton's sister if she will take me under her friendly wing for a little while, until I become established. Belle, what should I have done without you? You have been my sheet anchor in this heartbreaking storm."
She reached out, clasped her friend's hand, and laid it against her lips, as she ceased speaking.
Mrs. Hamilton slipped an affectionate arm about her waist, and drew her close, hot tears of rebellion welling to her eyes as she recalled the evening of Helen's brilliant wedding, when they had stood side by side beneath the great arch of white roses in the Appletons' lovely home, and contrasted the seemingly bright outlook of that occasion with her present blighted hopes and broken heart.
"Well, you know it was always 'you and I together, love,' in the old days at college—one never had a pleasure or a trouble that the other did not share, and I am sure we love each other as well to-day, if not better, than we did then," she fondly replied; then added, with cheerful animation: "Now, let me tell you that your plan appeals to me more and more. I can see that you and Dorothy will escape a great deal of depressing and exasperating scandal by this change; thus, as you have said, the dear child's future will not be marred by continual reminders of the unhappy experiences of the last few years. You have brought her up admirably thus far, Helen—she gives promise of becoming a beautiful and talented woman; and I believe when we have you well settled in New York you will both be happier than you have been for a long time."
"What a blessing it is to have a loyal friend!" breathed Helen gratefully. "You have cheered me more than I can tell you, and, with your assurance of Mrs. Jerome's influence to help me in my future career, my courage is greatly strengthened. I—I shall ask you to introduce us to her as—Mrs. and Miss DorothyFord," she concluded, with some hesitation, as she searched her friend's face to see how she would receive this suggestion.
"That is another plan of which I heartily approve," returned Mrs. Hamilton, with unfeigned satisfaction. "Put away from you—forget—all that is possible pertaining to the sad past, and take a new lease of life and happiness. But for Dorothy, I would have advised that you resume your maiden name. 'Ford' will do very nicely, though. A new name may have the effect of strengthening your feeling of independence, and will not expose you to inquiries concerning John Hungerford. Now, dear heart, I must go straight home—it is almost dinner time, and I am eager to tell Horace of your plan for the future. I feel sure that he also will think well of it. I will send the car around for you and Dorrie to come and dine with us to-morrow night, and we will all talk it over together more at length."
Mr. Hamilton, who was a wise counselor, did think well of Helen's contemplated change of residence, and as he advised her to get away as early as practicable from all unpleasant reminders, she began at once to prepare for her departure.
She disposed of all her household furniture, knowing it would be very expensive and troublesome to move it across the continent; and, as she still had some fine old pieces that had been in her family for many years, she realized from this sale a snug sum, that would go far toward furnishing her new home upon reaching her destination.
This involved much care and labor, and she found her fortitude and strength were well-nigh spent when all was over, and her once pretty apartment shorn of all that had once made it an attractive home.
The Hamiltons had insisted upon having Dorothy and herself spend a week with them and have a good rest before leaving for New York, and Helen had deferred until this time a few errands and small matters of business that remained to be attended to.
One of these was the withdrawal of Dorothy's money from the institutions where it had been deposited. But when she opened her treasure box, where she had always kept important papers, her mother's jewelry, and other choice mementoes, the bank books were not to be found.
She could not believe the evidence of her own eyes, and searched the contents of the receptacle over and over, with, alas! the same result.
With a sinking heart, she flew to the bank officials, to make inquiries, only to be told, with evident surprise, in view of her ignorance of the fact, that Mr. Hungerford had, as Dorothy's legal guardian, closed the accounts some three months previous.
This terrible and unlooked-for blow was the overflowing drop in Helen's cup of woe, and for the first time in her life she was utterly prostrated, the shock resulting in a serious illness that kept her in bed for three miserable weeks.
Once again faithful Belle Hamilton and her good husband proved the unfailing loyalty of their friendship. The pleasantest room in their beautiful home was assigned to the suffering woman; the family physician and a good nurse were drafted into her service, and nothing spared that would contribute to her comfort and restoration.
But Helen was not only physically exhausted; she was also heartsick and weary of the struggle to live, and, for a time, it seemed doubtful which way the tide would turn. But her motherhood was her salvation, and the crisis was at length safely passed.
"If it were not for Dorrie, I would gladly give up the battle," she said weakly to her friend one day, when she was beginning to convalesce, yet with her strength at a very low ebb. "If—if Ihaveto leave her, Belle, I know you will still be a good friend to her, as you have been to me."
"Next to Horace and you, Dorrie is my best beloved, and I have no children of my own. I do not need to say more, Helen," returned Mrs. Hamilton, her composure sadly shaken. "But, dearie," she added cheerily, as she fondly stroked the brown head upon the pillow, "you will not have to leave her. Doctor Allen told Horace yesterday that you are coming out all right, and I beg you will not allow yourself to think anything else, for Dorrie needs hermother; no one else can do for her what you can do. Now, Helen," she went on, with grave authority, "you simplymustput out of your consciousness every desponding thought, for your own sake, as well as ours. Don't worry about money, or how you are going to manage when you get to New York; everything will be taken care of for you until you can take care of yourself, and I know if you will only call back your courage, take a fresh grip on hope, and do your best to get well, you will ultimately conquer every adverse circumstance, and you and Dorothy will yet have a beautiful and happy life together."
This sensible advice, together with the love and cheerful atmosphere surrounding her, was very helpful to the invalid, and she improved more rapidly from that time.
Shehad"worried about money" and what would be the outcome of her overwhelming misfortune, for, with what little she had left, she knew it would be impossible to defray the expenses of the journey to and make a home upon her arrival in New York. It had almost seemed as if she were fated to remain in San Francisco and meekly take up again the work she had just relinquished, even though Dorothy's whole future might be marred thereby.
But her friend's reassuring talk had put new heart into her, and she immediately began to plan her work for the coming winter. By another week she was able to be up and dressed, and, with her physician's sanction, the day of her departure was set seven days later.
One evening, on coming home to dinner, Mr. Hamilton informed his wife, after they were all seated at the table, that important business called him to New York, and, with the time it would take going and returning, he would probably be absent from home nearly a month. He concluded by inquiring, in a matter-of-fact tone:
"How would you like to come with me, Belle, and make that long-promised visit to Lena?"
"How delightful! I should like it exceedingly," replied Mrs. Hamilton, lifting a searching look to her husband's face. This was the first she had heard about "business in New York," and she had a strong suspicion that some other motive had prompted this sudden trip.
A twinkle shot into the gentleman's eyes as they met her own, which quickly suffused with tears as she realized that this plan was simply a ruse to protect and support Helen throughout her long journey and see her comfortably settled in her new home upon the far side of the continent.
Mr. Hamilton hastened to her rescue, for he saw that she was very near losing her composure and spoiling everything.
"We haven't had a real outing together, dear, for a long time," he smilingly observed; "and when Mr. Ashley told me this morning he thought we'd better send some one to New York and Washington to look into some complications that have arisen in connection with our new patents, I told him I would be glad to go myself. I thought it would be very pleasant for you and me to bear our departing friends company on their long journey—oh, Dorrie, what do you think of it?" he concluded, turning to the girl, who always sat at his right hand at table—a privilege she greatly appreciated.
"Oh, Uncle Horace, I think it will be just—grand!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands for joy. "It won't seemquiteso much like going away from you and Aunt Belle altogether."
He reached out a shapely hand and patted her softly on the shoulder, a suspicion of tears in his own eyes, for the child had greatly endeared herself to him during her stay in the house.
"Well, then, Belle, dear, if you can get your grip packed by Monday morning, I will be ready to act as escort for the party to the great and terrible city of Gotham."
"Grip, indeed!" exclaimed his wife, in mock indignation, but giving him a roguish look. "I am expecting to take a trunk, containing several empty trays, with me, if you please. Pray, did you imagine that you were going to take me to New York—the Paris of America—and bring me home again, without being well stocked with the prettiest things I could find?"
Mr. Hamilton gravely put down his knife and fork, drew forth a very flat-looking wallet, and laid it upon the table before Dorothy, with a dejected air.
"Open it, sweetheart, and tell me if you do not think your auntie is a very unreasonable woman and your uncle a much-abused man," he said, in an injured tone.
Dorothy unfolded the receptacle, carefully looked it through, and brought to light a single twenty-dollar bill.
Her brows contracted in perplexity. She studied the crisp note for a moment, then naïvely returned:
"Why, Uncle Horace, that isn'tallyou will have to spend in New York, is it? I—I thought you were—were very rich!"
A burst of laughter greeted her innocent remark, at which Dorothy flushed rosily, to find a joke had been played upon her; then, quietly returning the bill to its place, she passed the wallet to Mr. Hamilton, and observed demurely:
"I guess auntie knows what she is about, and where to find more when she wants it," at which a second outburst brought a dimple into her own cheeks.
"Dorothy, I did not think that of you! Do you know what faithful Mrs. Micawber was in the habit of saying to Mr. Micawber?" inquired Mr. Hamilton, with an assumption of severity.
"Yes, sir; but I don't thinkMr.Micawber was in the habit of playingtricksuponMrs.Micawber," retorted Dorothy, the mischievous dimples deepening, while Mrs. Hamilton applauded gleefully with both hands.
"So you are going to desert me, if I play tricks upon you! Well, I can't afford to lose my sweetheart, so we will try to be good friends—at least until we reach New York, and I promise you auntie shall not suffer for pretty things," said the gentleman, bestowing a fond look upon her and a smile upon his wife.
"Oh, Uncle Horace, I wishyouwere going to live in New York, too," the girl observed wistfully. "If I could only have you, and Aunt Belle, and Grace Winthrop, I would be perfectly happy."
"You will miss Grace, but you will find nice friends wherever you go," said Mrs. Hamilton kindly; then the conversation turned upon plans for the coming trip.
The next few days were busy ones, and Monday morning found the party of four en route for the East; and with her good friends to bear her cheerful company Helen bade a final farewell to her "Valley of Achor," and turned her face toward the rising sun, with something of hope in her heart, to begin anew the battle of life for herself and her child, in a great, unknown city.
Upon their arrival in New York, the Hamiltons helped her to find and furnish a small apartment in a good location, these faithful friends manifesting a keen enjoyment and interest in their work that was most inspiring to Helen.
It certainly was a very attractive little nest when the last touches were put to it—"a haven of rest," she told them, after her battle with the rough storms and winds that had wrecked her bark and left her bruised and broken upon the barren shore of despair.
Before it was time for the Hamiltons to return to San Francisco, both mother and daughter began to feel quite at home in their quiet corner of the mighty city, and to manifest a serenity, even something of happiness, that was very gratifying to these good people, who felt deeply concerned for their future.
They had been introduced to the Jeromes, who had cordially opened their hearts and home to them, and who assured Mr. Hamilton that they would do everything in their power to launch Mrs. Ford upon her career during the coming season; while Mollie Jerome, their daughter, about the same age of Dorothy, was at once greatly attracted to her new little friend.
"Mamma, I think she isalmostas nice as Grace, and isn't it beautiful to have found some one to love so quickly?" Dorothy confided to her mother one night, on her return after having been entertained all day in the elegant home of the Jeromes.
By the first of October, through the influence of Mrs. Homer Jerome, Helen had secured a number of pupils and an engagement to sing at a fashionable reception, the date of which was set for the third of November.
With this small but promising beginning, her spirits began to rise, and she found all her former energy and love for her work returning.
She was gaining rapidly in flesh and strength; the lines of care and trouble were fast fading out of her face, even though there were times when she was broken-hearted and passionately rebellious, in view of her husband's dishonor and faithlessness, and her own miserable position as a deserted wife.
Her first work, after getting settled in her little home, was to put Dorothy into a good school, after which she gave herself up for several hours of every day to systematic practice to get in good voice for her first appearance in New York society as a drawing-room artiste.