CHAPTER XVI.

SACKCLOTH AND ASHES.

John Hungerford flushed suddenly crimson; then paled to a sickly hue at Helen's words.

Evidently her statement that Dorothy's life and happiness would be most tenderly shielded by a considerate and devoted husband aroused memories of the past that were far from pleasant. He stood silently studying the photograph for several minutes, his face showing evidence of deep inward emotion. Finally replacing it upon the mantel, he moved on, curiously observant of the handsome furniture, choice bric-a-brac, draperies, and pictures that were tastefully arranged about the room.

As he drew near a door leading into an adjoining apartment that was used as a library, he paused, and stood irresolute.

"Helen--may I look through the suite?" he eagerly questioned, but with evident embarrassment. "May I see Dorothy's room? I--I would like to know how you two have been living; it will be something to--to remember."

Helen's head sank wearily back against her chair. She was white to her lips from her efforts at self-control.

"I don't care--go where you like," she breathed, in a scarcely audible voice.

The man passed noiselessly into the library, where he was no less observant of what it contained than he had been in the parlor. Presently he moved out into the hall, and on to a chamber which he realized at a glance must be Helen's. Leading from it was another and smaller one, and this, he was sure, as he entered it, had been Dorothy's.

It was the daintiest room imaginable. Excepting the bed, which was of brass, the furniture was all of white enamel and willow ware in graceful designs. Spotless draperies of muslin over white shades hung at the windows, and were slightly looped with broad blue ribbons. A beautiful blue-and-white rug lay upon the light hardwood floor, and the fireplace was also tiled in the same colors.

Here John Hungerford lingered for a long time, moving silently, and treading softly, as if he felt himself intruding upon some sacred place. He paused before each piece of furniture, noting every detail in outline and upholstery. Not an article of the frosted-silver toilet set upon the pretty dresser escaped his notice; he even noted her class pin and two small baby pins which he remembered seeing Dorothy wear as a child, that were stuck into the blue-and-white satin pin-cushion under the looking-glass. He examined all her books, the pictures on the walls, and studied the photographs of her friends and schoolmates, of which she had many.

Now and then he would softly touch and caress a vase or an ornament with reverent, trembling fingers. A little workbasket, made of sweet grass, and sending its delicate perfume to his nostrils, stood upon a table, and some great tears splashed into it as he bent over it and noted a small silver thimble lying among its other implements. When he came to the pretty brass bed, with its dainty lace spread and shams, he seemed almost overcome. His head sank heavily upon his breast, and, reaching out a trembling hand, he gently patted one of the pillows, a great sob heaving his chest and shaking his entire frame as he did so. Then, with a gesture of despair that seemed also to imply the renunciation of some previous purpose, he turned abruptly away, and went back to a group of photographs fastened to the wall, where he had noticed a likeness of Dorothy. It was a class picture that had been taken of her in her graduating dress, just before leaving Vassar.

The man studied it intently, his hungry, yearning eyes devouring its every detail. At last, with a stealthy glance over his shoulder, he reached up, took it down, pressed it passionately to his lips; then, hastily concealing it inside his coat, he left the room.

He merely glanced into the pretty dining room beyond, without attempting to go farther, after which he slowly retraced his steps through the hall to the reception room, and paused in the doorway leading to the parlor, where Helen was still sitting.

"I am going now, Helen," he observed, in a spiritless tone. "Thank you for letting me look around."

She rose and went toward him. He was standing where the light fell full upon his face, and she was shocked to see how ghastly and ill he looked.

"Where are you going?" she briefly inquired.

"I don't quite--know; I----"

"How did you find me?"

"You didn't think I would lose sight of you, did you, after once getting a glimpse of you? I had to know something about Dorothy; I couldn't stand it--the silence and the uncertainty--any longer."

"You will not come here again?"

There was a note of blended authority and appeal in Helen's tone.

"No, I will never trouble you again. I don't think I'll trouble anybody long," he said grimly. "But, Helen"--a scarlet streak shot vividly across his forehead--"could you let me have a little money? I have only a few cents, and I haven't had anything to eat since----"

He broke off suddenly, and began to cough distressingly, his head bowed low in humiliation because of his destitution.

Helen's heart bounded into her throat.

John Hungerford hungry--begging for something to eat! The epicure, the prodigal, who, in days gone by, had never denied himself any luxury that he had craved, now absolutely penniless and shabby, almost starving! And that cough--how it racked him!

A thrill of horror ran through her; she clenched her hands in an effort to repress the cry of dismay that arose to her lips.

"Where are you staying?" she forced herself to inquire, with an appearance of composure.

"I don't know where I shall stay to-night," he faltered. "To-morrow I am going back to San Francisco; Uncle Nathan has sent me a ticket."

So he had not even a place to lay his head that night, and the few cents which he claimed to have surely would not provide him the humblest lodging, let alone something to appease his hunger.

"Wait," said Helen, and, turning abruptly from him, a choking sensation in her throat, she swept into the library. Going to her desk, she wrote a few words upon a blank card, after which she opened a drawer, drew forth a crisp new bank note, and hastily folded it, with the numerals out of sight. She then returned to the hall, and slipped the card, with the money underneath, into the man's hand.

"Here is the address of a good woman who sometimes works for me," she said. "She lives not far from here; take the first turn to the right, going downtown; the third street from there is Broad Street. Turn to your left, find number ninety-five, and Mrs. Harding lives on the lower floor. She will give you a comfortable room for the night and a good breakfast in the morning."

As she concluded, Helen turned the catch and opened the door leading to the outer hall. She was trembling violently, and her face was as colorless as marble.

John Hungerford stood for a moment, regarding her with a hopeless, heartbroken look; then, with bowed head and faltering steps, he passed out upon the landing.

"Thank you; good-by--Helen," he breathed hoarsely.

"Good-by, John," she mechanically returned, and the door was shut between them.

She stood listening until she heard him leave the house. Then, after carefully fastening the burglar chain, she staggered to her chamber, where, falling face downward upon her bed, she collapsed in violent hysterics.

"Oh, if it were only a horrible dream from which I could wake!" she moaned. "It cannot--cannot be possible that I have seen him again, and in such a miserable plight!"

How would it all end? she wondered, as she lay there in abject misery. Would the shameful past, which she had believed forever annihilated, by the death of Marie Duncan and the destruction of those menacing newspapers and photographs, be resurrected, and the fair fabric of social prestige, almost of celebrity, which she had reared for herself and her child during the last ten years be ruthlessly overthrown, and crush them both to earth beneath the ruins?

She had firmly believed for many years that she would never again meet the faithless man who had once been her husband. She had fondly imagined that she was absolutely free to live out the beautiful future she had grown to anticipate without once having her peace disturbed by any fear that he would ever cross her path again. But, alas, for the frailty of human hopes! To be sure, he had told her that he would never trouble her again, and there had been a hopeless finality in both his manner and words when he left her to-night, that seemed convincing. But would he keep his word? Would he--oh, would he?

And to what depths he had fallen!

Could that homeless, penniless, pitiful tramp be the once light-hearted, care-free John Hungerford? The man who had been her husband, and in whose companionship she had once believed herself to be supremely happy! And now--she cringed with shame and repugnance at the mere remembrance of his presence.

How could he ever have sunk so low? Ah, she knew but too well! He had always depended upon some one else to make life easy for him, to help him over hard places, to care for his comfort, and cater to his entertainment; while he gathered only the honey along the way, shirking every manly duty, ignoring every sacred responsibility; and when his props, one by one, had fallen away from him, he had drifted aimlessly and helplessly with the current, sinking lower and lower, until, ill, hungry, and desperate, he had--as a last shameless resort--turned to her, his divorced wife, for help.

Helen spent a wretched night. To sleep was impossible, with that gaunt figure, haggard face, and racking cough continually haunting her. Again and again she wished that she had given John twenty, instead of ten, dollars. How was he ever to get to California with any degree of comfort upon so small a sum? He certainly could not take a sleeper; he would have to ride all the way in a day coach, or go hungry--unless, perchance, his uncle had also sent him a ticket for a berth, which was doubtful. And what would become of him upon reaching San Francisco? He did not look fit for work, and she knew well, from past experience, that Nathan Young was not likely to tolerate laggards in his employ.

What possible hope could the future hold for him--sick, spiritless, and with not a friend in the world to really care what became of him? She shivered as a vision of the home for the poor arose before her. Would he be driven to that? Or, something even worse, perhaps--the coward's refuge--suicide?

These were some of the distracting thoughts that thronged her brain and drove sleep from her pillow during that long night.

At the same time she was greatly relieved to know that the continent would separate them. He had promised that he would never trouble her again, and if he kept his word he would be gone to-morrow, and Dorothy need never know aught of this night's dreadful experience.

Somewhat calmed by these reflections, she finally, just as day began to dawn, dropped into a profound slumber, from which she did not awaken until nearly ten in the morning.

Fortunately it was Saturday; she had no pupils for that day, and her time was her own. But she was far from happy as she tried to busy herself with some light duties about the house. Her thoughts constantly reverted to her interview with John, and a sense of self-condemnation began to fasten itself upon her, in view of the attitude she had maintained toward him.

She knew that she had not been kind to him; she had flung scorn and taunts at him when he was already crushed beneath a heartrending load of misery and shame. She had manifested antagonism, bitterness, and resentment toward him. These, summed up, meant hate, and hate meant--what? "He that hateth his brother is a murderer," was the text that came to her again with a revolting shock, in reply. John had implied that perhaps she had wished him dead. She knew, now, that she had, and involuntarily she passed her hand across her forehead as she thought of that old-time brand upon the brow of Cain. Had she fallen so low as that? Had she been simply a whited sepulcher all these years, showing an attractive, gracious, irreproachable surface to the world, while in her heart she had been nursing this deadly viper, hate? John had deeply wronged her, but he had wronged himself far more, and now his sins had brought their own punishment--had stripped and left him wounded by the wayside; while she, instead of binding up his wounds, pouring in the oil of kindness and the wine of cheer and good will, had smitten him afresh. Surely she would not have treated the veriest stranger like that! True, she had given him money, but how had she given it--what had been the motive? She knew it had been merely to get rid of him and to save herself the pain of thinking of him as a starving man.

All this was something similar to, though more effective than, the sifting she had experienced that never-to-be-forgotten Sunday in church, so long ago. She realized now that she had not rooted out, but simply buried a little deeper, for the time being, the corroding bitterness within her heart. Her interest in Marie Duncan, the kindness and sympathy she had shown her during her last hours, the change in her own and in the woman's mental attitude toward each other, together with Marie's surrender of the menacing newspapers and photographs, which had eliminated all fear of exposure, had brought to her a deceptive peace, which she had believed to be a purified conscience. But the test that had come to her now proved to her that the serpent had only been sleeping, that she still had her battle to fight, her victory to win, or the evil would recoil upon herself, warp her nature, and poison her whole future.

It was a season of sackcloth and ashes for Helen, but the searching introspection to which she subjected herself had uncovered the appalling effects which long years of secret brooding, self-pity, and self-righteousness had produced upon her, and awakened a wholesome sense of self-condemnation and repentance, thus opening the way for a more healthful mental condition and growth.

She realized all this, in a way; but she did not know how to begin to tread down the conflicting forces that were rampant within her; how to silence the mental arguments that were continually affirming that she had been deeply wronged--that she might, perhaps, forgive, but could never forget; that John had made his own bed and must lie in it--he had no legal or moral right to expect either aid or sympathy from her--and so on to the end of the chapter--or, rather, the chapter seemed to have no end.

"What shall I do?" she finally exclaimed, with a feeling of exhaustion. "The evil talks to me incessantly, and I do not know how to get the better of it."

Suddenly she started from her chair, and, going to her desk, opened a drawer and found a card.

"Mrs. Raymond B. Everleigh, number ---- Riverside Drive, New York," she read aloud, and then stood gravely thinking for a minute or two.

Then she opened her telephone book, found the name and address she wanted, and called the number opposite over the phone.

"Is this Mrs. Raymond B. Everleigh?" she inquired, when the connection had been made.

The answer came back: "Yes, I am Mrs. Everleigh."

"Does Mrs. Everleigh remember the lady who sat with her in church the third Sunday in May, and to whom she gave her card, asking her to come again?" Helen questioned.

"Yes, indeed; and I have hoped to see her again--wondered why I have not."

"It is she who is talking with you now. May I come to see you to-day? I know it is asking a great favor from a stranger, but----"

Helen's appealing voice ceased while she listened to something that came from the other end.

"At two o'clock? Oh, thank you! I will be there," she gratefully returned, as she hung up her receiver and hastened to her room to dress for the street.