CHAPTER XIV.

"LOVE THY NEIGHBOR."

Helen hastened to the Mercy Hospital with all possible speed. At the office she gave her name as Mrs. Helen Hungerford, and was quick to observe that a peculiar look flitted over the face of the gentlemanly attendant as she did so.

She inquired for Marie Duncan, and was told that although the woman was comparatively free from pain, and her mind clear, her injuries were of such a nature that she could not live many hours.

"Would it be possible for me to see her?" Helen inquired.

She believed that the once popular favorite was utterly friendless, as well as penniless--in fact, she had practically admitted as much, and with the revulsion of feeling that had followed after Marie had shown the better side of her nature, there had come the desire to help the unfortunate woman in some way. Hence, when she had read of the terrible accident and its probable fatal termination, she had hurried to the hospital to ascertain if she could be of some comfort to her in this bitter extremity, all her aversion and resentment submerged in pity for one who was nearing the dark river of death.

She was not a little surprised, however, when in response to her inquiry the attendant observed:

"It really seems a singular coincidence, madam, but the woman has begged at intervals during the night that we should send for a Mrs. Helen Hungerford; however, as she was unable to give us the address, and it could not be found in the directory, it has, of course, been impossible to grant her request. If you will be seated, I will send some one to ascertain if you can be admitted to the patient," he concluded, as he courteously placed a chair for her.

Helen marveled at what she had heard. What could Marie Duncan want of her? It certainly was a peculiar situation--unique, she believed, in the annals of history, that she, the discarded wife of John Hungerford, should be entreated to come to the bedside of the dying woman who had robbed her of her husband! It was even more strange that she should have been impelled to come to her without a suspicion of Marie's desire for her presence. Perhaps she wished to leave with her some message for John, in case he were still living, and ever sought her again.

Helen shrank with repulsion from the thought, and almost regretted that she had come. She had no desire ever to see him again, much less to be the bearer of any last words from Marie to him. She was beginning to be exceedingly nervous and uncomfortable, the more she thought of the approaching interview, when the messenger returned and said the nurse wished her to come immediately upstairs.

She was presently ushered into a small room on the second floor, at the back of the building, and experienced a great sense of relief upon finding that she was not to be subjected to the trying scenes of a ward, as she had feared.

Marie Duncan, white and wan, but looking far more womanly with the paint and powder of a few days previous removed from her face, threw out an eager hand to her as she drew near her cot.

"Oh, I am sure God must have sent you!" she said weakly. "I have wanted you so, but they"--glancing at the nurse, who, having placed a chair for the visitor, was moving toward an adjoining room--"could not find your name in the directory, and I thought I'd have to go without seeing you."

Almost unconsciously Helen clasped the hand extended to her, and dropped into the rocker beside the bed.

"I came just as soon as I read about the accident," she said.

"_Why_ did you come?" questioned Marie, her beautiful dark eyes hungrily searching Helen's face.

"I--don't know--unless it was because you told me you had no friends."

"What could it matter to you whether I had or not?" almost sharply demanded the patient. "You must hate me like the d----"

She checked herself suddenly, with a gasp and an appealing look at Helen for pardon, in view of her slip.

Helen bent nearer to her as she replied, with grave gentleness:

"I am afraid I have thought very unkindly of you--at least, until last Sunday. I am glad to say I do not feel the same to-day."

"And I tried to _blackmail_ you last Sunday!" said Marie, with a bitter curl of her white lips.

"I know; but you also showed me something of your better self, which made me regret that I had not been a little more kind to you. I would have given you some money after that, if you had not left me so suddenly. But," Helen continued, with a glance at the door through which the nurse had disappeared, "I am afraid we are talking too much for your good----"

"Talking won't harm me now," the woman interposed, her brows contracting painfully. "I know I have, at last, really got to the 'end of my rope.' I'm glad, though, it is not an end of my own making. I've sometimes thought that might be the easiest way out of this muddle we call life; but somehow I was ashamed to sneak out of a hard place in such a way, even though I'd leave nobody behind to care."

"They told me downstairs that you were wishing to see me," Helen broke in to change the gruesome subject. "Why did you want them to send for me? Is there anything I can do for your comfort, now that I am here?"

Marie lifted her great eyes and searched her companion's face curiously.

"For my comfort! _You!_" she cried; then hastened to add: "No, but _I_ wanted to do something for you and your girl. I haven't had a very pleasant time since you told me about that money, and I want to give you those newspapers and photographs, so that they will not fall into the hands of any one else, to make mischief for you. This is my bag, hanging here on the bed; will you open it for me?"

Helen took down the receptacle, and did as she had been requested.

"There is a ring of keys in it. This one"--as Helen handed them to her--"is the house key--number one hundred and one Fourth Street, where I've lived lately; this unlocks the door of my room, and this is the key to my trunk--I've got reduced to one, and there isn't very much that is worth anything in it, either," she interposed, with a bitter smile. "Those newspapers and pictures are at the bottom; take them, and do what you choose with them. My marriage certificate is there, too, in a wallet. I'd like you to destroy it. It hasn't meant very much to me, for I have never felt as if I were really John's wife, or that I had any guarantee in it that he would remain true, and not divorce me, the same as he did you. In my opinion, divorces are worse than Mormonism," she sarcastically interposed, "for Mormons can't shirk their responsibilities after they have got tired of one wife and taken another."

She paused to rest for a moment or two; then resumed:

"I have never used his name very much, and I would prefer no one else to see the certificate; most people have always called me, and I am perfectly willing to have them remember me only as, Marie Duncan."

Helen was surprised and deeply touched as she listened to her. What she had said hinted at more depth of character than she had ever given her credit for; while her wish to have only herself see the certificate, and her evident desire to be remembered only by her stage name, betrayed a delicate consideration for her and Dorothy that caused her to feel even more kindly toward her.

"I know it will not be a very pleasant task for you to do what I ask," Marie went on apologetically; "but I thought you would like to have those papers----"

"I would, indeed," said Helen earnestly, "and it is very thoughtful in you to arrange for me to get them. I will do anything else you wish that will be of any comfort to you."

"The daughter of the woman with whom I have lived has been very good to me, and you can give her everything in the room and trunk belonging to me," said Marie, after thinking a moment. "My jewelry is all gone; this one ring"--holding up her left hand, on which there was a plain band of gold--"is, like my trunk, all I have left, and it can stay just where it is. But I have one nice stone in my purse"--glancing at the bag in Helen's lap.

Helen drew forth the purse and searched until she found a small wad of tissue paper tucked into an inside pocket. Removing the wrapping, a diamond worth, perhaps, two hundred dollars fell into her hand; and there were also a few dollars in money in the purse.

"I have kept that for--for such a time as--this," Marie faltered, "though there have been times when I've thought I would have to let it go. I'd like you to hand it, with what money there is, in at the office downstairs, to--to----"

"I will; but pray do not try to talk any more now," interposed Helen, for she saw that, in spite of the brave front the woman was trying to keep up, she was stricken with terror whenever she thought of the fast-approaching end.

The nurse now entered the room with a cup of nourishment in her hand.

Helen arose to make room for her, saying inquiringly:

"I think perhaps I ought to go now?"

"No! Oh, please do not!" weakly pleaded Marie.

"If you _can_ stay, it will be a comfort to her, and"--with a significant look which her patient could not see--"it will do her no harm."

"Very well, then, I will remain for a while longer," Helen returned, as she moved to a window and stood looking out upon the grounds below while the nurse fed her patient.

What a strange experience! she said to herself. What mysterious influence could have guided her steps thither that morning, in direct answer, as it seemed, to Marie's desire to see her? She could understand how Marie, awed and softened by the knowledge that she was soon to go out into the great beyond, might wish to make some restitution for the wrong in which she had been a partner, by trying to protect her own and Dorothy's future from the old scandal; but she could not account for the revulsion of feeling that had obliterated all ill will and resentment from her own consciousness, making her oblivious to everything but the fact that her rival was a suffering, dying woman, alone in a great extremity, and in sore need of being comforted and sustained as the shadows closed around her.

A great peace fell upon her, and she was glad that she had come. Perhaps, she thought, she was beginning to learn something of the love of which Mrs. Everleigh had told her the previous Sunday--the desire to do good for the sake of doing good.

When she looked around she found the nurse had gone, and Marie was in a light sleep.

She went noiselessly back to her chair by the bed, to wait for her to waken, and as she studied the colorless face upon the pillow she was impressed more than ever by the remarkable beauty with which she had been endowed. The features were very symmetrical, and just now seemed more refined than she had ever seen them.

She had smooth, shapely brows, and an abundance of dark-brown hair, while the tips of her white, still perfect, teeth were just visible between her slightly parted lips. She did not seem at all like the coarse, defiant, passée person, in tawdry attire, whom she had met only a few days before.

Suddenly Marie opened her eyes; there was a wild, terrified look in them; but they at once softened into an expression of content as they rested upon Helen.

"Oh, you _are_ here!" she breathed. "How good of you! I dreamed it was growing dark, and I could not find you."

"I will stay as long as you wish me to," Helen assured her.

"I am--_afraid_!" said Marie, after a moment of silence, a gray pallor settling over her face. "I haven't been a very good woman. What is there beyond? Oblivion, or doom?"

"Neither," said Helen, with gentle compassion; "but, instead, an awakening to larger, better experiences and fresh opportunities."

"How do you know?" And her listener's face and voice were full of eagerness.

"I cannot say that I really '_know_' anything about what is beyond us when we go away from here," Helen gravely returned; "but I have grown to think that we are like children going to school. We have our various classes, or grades, and merge from one into another, according as we have done our work ill or well----"

"I think that is beautiful!" broke in Marie, a thrill of something like hope in her tone. "Then, if one has wasted one's time, and learned nothing good here, one can begin all over again--one will have another chance?"

"I believe so," Helen replied.

"I believe it, too!" said Marie, after another interval of silence. "It seems reasonable, and surely all nature teaches it. A man may sow poor seed to-day and reap a poor harvest; but he will see his mistake, and have a chance to do better another season. I am so glad you told me--I don't seem to mind what is coming quite so much."

She lay quietly thinking for a while, and Helen hoped she would fall asleep, but presently she resumed:

"I have done you a great wrong, Helen Hungerford, for I knew about you in Paris; but I liked a good time, and I led John on--away from you. I am sorry now. And your daughter! I have never forgotten her face, that day in San Francisco, when my auto was detained beside the car she was in, and she saw her father with me--it was so ashamed, so distressed----"

"I am sure you ought to rest--do not talk any more now," Helen again pleaded, for Marie was showing signs of weakness, while she herself shrank from these references to her unhappy past.

She leaned forward to straighten her covering, which had become slightly disarranged, when Marie lifted a corner of the lace scarf she was wearing, and humbly laid it against her lips. Then she closed her eyes wearily, and was presently asleep.

The nurse, coming in soon after, felt her pulse, and, turning to Helen, observed:

"If you would like to go, I think you may; I do not believe she will waken again."

"Perhaps I will, a little later," said Helen, who was not quite ready to forsake her post so soon after telling Marie that she would remain as long as she wished her to.

An hour slipped by almost in silence, when, without a movement to show that she had wakened, Marie's white lids were lifted, and the ghost of a smile curled her lips, as her dark eyes met Helen's.

"I--shall have another--chance! I shall--begin all over--again," she breathed weakly, but with no sign of fear.

Once more she seemed to sleep, and at the end of another hour Helen went home.