CHAPTER VII.

SERIOUS DOMESTIC COMPLICATIONS.

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.

"'_Propitious_ Fates!'" 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, what _will_ you 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 you _sure_?" 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, you _are_ accountable 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--of _her_? _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 I _am_ concerned 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 must _stop_."

"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."

"The _law_! 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 gave _myself_ to 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 possess _self_-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 he _wants_ to 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 just _let_ him 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----"

"My _father_! He hasn't acted much like a father who cared anything for his daughter!" Dorothy indignantly interposed. "And he's been horrid to _you_, lots of times. He's been so _lazy_, too, lounging around the house and letting you work so hard, and taking your _money_. I've been so ashamed that he couldn't be like other gentlemen, and take care of _us_. I used to think I was proud of him, and loved him, for he _is_ handsome 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 love _you_, 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.