CHAPTER XIII.

A TRYING INTERVIEW.

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've _got_ to 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 should _I_ give 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.

"How strange, and how dreadful!" murmured Helen, in a tone of awe. Marie had told her that she was no longer before the public, that she was "passée," and without money; that she had, in fact, "come to the end of her rope." It seemed now almost like a prophecy come true. Helen wondered if she had a friend in the world to be with her, or to do anything for her in this supreme hour of her life.

She sat thinking for a long time, evidently seriously considering some important move, for her face wore a grave and perplexed expression, while every now and then she restlessly changed her position, as if her thoughts annoyed her.

At length she aroused herself, and deliberately tore the paper she had been reading into atoms.

"Dorrie must not see this," she muttered, an anxious look in her eyes. Then she started violently, sprang to her feet, scattering the fragments upon the floor, and went directly to her telephone.

"Good morning, Mr. Alexander! I hoped you would answer me," she said, when the connection she had asked for was made. "Everything is well with you all, I trust? Dorrie not down yet! Well, it is a little early, perhaps. Have you seen the morning papers? Have you read about the shocking accident of last evening?

"Oh, thank you! How very thoughtful! I could not rest until I had asked you to destroy it," she said tremulously, as the answer to her query had come back, assuring her that the paper had already been burned, and Dorothy should be tenderly guarded from every possible chance of seeing the name that could not fail to recall the unhappy past.

They conversed for a moment or two longer; then Helen hung up the receiver, the cloud of anxiety gone from her brow and a great burden from her heart.

She gathered up the pieces of torn paper and threw them into the wastebasket; then, hurriedly dressing for the street, she went out.