Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: "WHO IS SHE?" SHE DEMANDED ALMOST SHARPLY.
Frontispiece--Page 46.]
REDEEMED
BY
Mrs. GEORGE SHELDON DOWNS
AUTHOR OF
"Gertrude Elliott's Crucible," "Step by Step,"
"Katherine's Sheaves," etc.
Illustrations by
CLARENCE ROWE
M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY
CHICAGO NEW YORK
Copyright, 1910 and 1911
By VICKERY & HILL PUB. CO.
Copyright, 1911
By G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
_Redeemed_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I A WIFE REPUDIATED
II THE FINAL RUPTURE
III A BACKWARD GLANCE
IV A YOUNG WIFE'S BRAVE STRUGGLES
V FLUCTUATING EXPERIENCES
VI AN OLD TEMPTATION REVIVED
VII SERIOUS DOMESTIC COMPLICATIONS
VIII HELEN PLANS HER FUTURE
IX AFTER TEN YEARS
X A BRIEF RETROSPECT
XI A SEALED BOOK REOPENED
XII THE SOUBRETTE
XIII A TRYING INTERVIEW
XIV "LOVE THY NEIGHBOR"
XV A STARTLING APPARITION
XVI SACKCLOTH AND ASHES
XVII AS WHEAT IS SIFTED
XVIII LOVING SERVICE
XIX JOHN HUNGERFORD BEGINS LIFE ANEW
XX FIVE YEARS LATER
XXI SOME INTERESTING REVELATIONS
XXII A HAPPY REUNION
XXIII A FINAL RENUNCIATION
XXIV A MASTERPIECE
ILLUSTRATIONS
"Who is she?" she demanded almost sharply . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
"To begin with, and not to mince matters, I want some money"
She found herself face to face with John Hungerford
"The stranger was--my father"
[Transcriber's note: The last three illustrations were missing from the
source book]
REDEEMED
CHAPTER I.
A WIFE REPUDIATED.
Two lives that once part are as ships that divide,
When, moment on moment, there rushes between
The one and the other a sea--
Ah, never can fall from the days that have been
A gleam on the years that shall be.
BULWER LYTTON.
"Very well, John; I have nothing more to say. You can commence
proceedings as soon as you choose. I shall not contest them."
The speaker was a slight, graceful woman of perhaps thirty-five years.
Her figure was a little above the medium stature, and symmetrical,
almost perfect, in its proportions. Her beautiful, refined face and
proudly poised, shapely head were crowned with a wealth of soft brown
hair, in which there was a glint of red, and which lay in bright
profusion above her white forehead, in charming contrast with the
delicate fairness of her skin, which, at the present moment, was
absolutely colorless.
Drawn to her full height, she was standing opposite her companion, her
large, expressive gray eyes, in which pity and scorn struggled for
supremacy, lifted to his in a direct, unflinching gaze which bespoke
the strength of purpose and straightforward character of one who
possessed the courage of her convictions; while, in her rich-toned
voice, as well as in her crisp, decisive sentences, there was a note of
finality which plainly indicated that she had taken her stand regarding
the matter under discussion, and would abide by it.
"What! Am I to understand that you do not intend to contest
proceedings for a divorce, Helen?"
Surprise and an unmistakable intonation of eagerness pervaded John
Hungerford's tones as he spoke, while, at the same time, he searched
his wife's face with a curious, almost startled, look.
At a casual glance the man impressed one as possessing an unusually
attractive personality.
He had a fine, athletic figure--tall, broad-shouldered,
well-proportioned--which, together with an almost military bearing,
gave him a distinguished air, that instantly attracted attention
wherever he went. A clear olive complexion, dark-brown eyes and hair,
handsomely molded features, and a luminous smile, that revealed white,
perfect teeth, completed the _tout ensemble_ that had made havoc with
not a few susceptible hearts, even before he had finally bestowed his
coveted affections upon beautiful Helen Appleton, whom later he had
made his wife. But upon closer acquaintance one could not fail to
detect disappointing lines in his face, and corresponding flaws in his
character--a shifty eye, a weak mouth and chin, an indolent,
ease-loving temperament, that would shirk every responsibility, and an
insatiable desire for personal entertainment, that betrayed excessive
selfishness and a lack of principle.
"No," the woman coldly replied to her husband's exclamation of
astonishment, "I have no intention of opposing any action that you may
see fit to take to annul our union, provided----"
She paused abruptly, a sudden alertness in her manner and tone.
"Well?" he questioned impatiently, and with a frown which betokened
intolerance of opposition.
"Provided you do not attempt to take Dorothy from me, or to compromise
me in any way in your efforts to free yourself."
The man shrugged his broad shoulders and arched his fine eyebrows.
"I am not sighing for publicity for either you or myself, Helen," he
observed. "I simply wish to get the matter settled as quickly and
quietly as possible. As for Dorothy, however----"
"There can be no question about Dorothy; she is to be relinquished
absolutely to me," Helen Hungerford interposed, with sharp decision.
"You appear to be very insistent upon _that_ point," retorted her
companion, with sneering emphasis and an unpleasant lifting of his
upper lip that just revealed the tips of his gleaming teeth.
"I certainly am; that my child remains with me is a foregone
conclusion," was the spirited reply.
"The judge may decree differently----"
"You will not dare suggest it," returned the wife, in a coldly quiet
tone, but with a dangerous gleam in her eyes. "No judge would render
so unrighteous a decree if I were to tell my story, which I certainly
should do if driven to it. I have assented to your demand for this
separation, but before I sign any papers to ratify the agreement you
will legally surrender all claim to, or authority over, Dorothy."
"Indeed! Aren't you assuming a good deal of authority for yourself,
Helen? You appear to forget that Dorothy is my child as well as
yours--that I love her----"
"_Love her!_" Exceeding bitterness vibrated in the mother's voice.
"How have you shown your love for her? However, it is useless to
discuss that point. I have given you my ultimatum--upon no other
condition will I consent to this divorce," she concluded, with an air
of finality there was no mistaking.
"I swear I will not do it!" John Hungerford burst forth, with sudden
anger.
An interval of silence followed, during which each was apparently
absorbed in troubled thought.
"Possibly it will make no difference whether you do or do not accede to
my terms," Mrs. Hungerford resumed, after a moment, "for it has
occurred to me that there is already a law regulating the guardianship
of minors, giving the child a voice in the matter; and, Dorothy being
old enough to choose her own guardian, there can be little doubt
regarding what her choice would be."
"You are surely very sanguine," sneered her husband.
"And why should I not be?" demanded the woman, in a low but intense
tone. "What have you to offer her? What have you ever done for her,
or to gain her confidence and respect, that could induce her to trust
her future with you? How do you imagine she will regard this last
humiliation to which you are subjecting her and her mother?"
John Hungerford flushed a conscious crimson as these pertinent
questions fell from the lips of his outraged wife. His glance wavered
guiltily, then fell before the clear, accusing look in her eyes.
"Oh, doubtless you have her well trained in the rôle she is to play,"
he sullenly observed, after an interval of awkward silence, during
which he struggled to recover his customary self-assurance. "You have
always indulged her lightest whim, and so have tied her securely to
your apron strings, which, it goes without saying, has weakened my hold
upon her."
His companion made no reply to this acrid fling, but stood in an
attitude of quiet dignity, awaiting any further suggestions he might
have to offer.
But, having gained his main point--her consent to a legal
separation--the man was anxious to close the interview and escape from
a situation that was becoming exceedingly uncomfortable for him. At
the same time, he found it no easy matter to bring the interview to a
close and take final leave of the wife whom he was repudiating.
"Well, Helen," he finally observed, assuming a masterful tone to cover
his increasing embarrassment, "I may have more to say regarding
Dorothy, later on--we will not discuss the matter further at present.
Now, I am going--unless you have something else you wish to say to me."
Helen Hungerford shivered slightly at these last words, and grew marble
white.
Then she suddenly moved a step or two nearer to him, and lifted her
beautiful face to him, a solemn light in her large gray eyes.
"Yes, I have something else I would like to say to you, John," she
said, her voice growing tremulous for the first time during their
interview. "This separation is, as you know, of your own seeking, not
mine. A so-called divorce, though sanctioned a thousand times by
misnamed law, means nothing to me. When I married you I pledged myself
to you until death should part us, and I would have held fast to my
vows until my latest breath. I may have made mistakes during the years
we have lived together, but you well know that whenever I have taken a
stand against your wishes it has always been for conscience's sake. I
have honestly tried to be a faithful wife--a true helpmeet, and a wise
mother. I have freely given you the very best there was in me to give.
Now, at your decree, we are to part. I make no contest--I hurl no
reproaches--I simply submit. But I have one last plea to make: I beg
of you not to ruin your future in the way you are contemplating--you
know what I mean--for life is worthless without an honored name,
without the respect of your fellow men, and, above all, without
_self-respect_. You have rare talent--talent that would lift you high
upon the ladder of fame and success, if you would cease to live an
aimless, barren existence. For your own sake, I pray you will not
longer pervert it. That is all. Good-by, John; I hear Dorothy coming,
and you may have something you would like to say before you go."
She slipped quietly between the portières near which she had been
standing, and was gone as a door opened to admit a bright, winsome
lassie of about fifteen years.
Dorothy Hungerford strongly resembled her mother. She was formed like
her; she had the same pure complexion, the same large, clear gray eyes
and wealth of reddish-brown hair, which hung in a massive braid--like a
rope of plaited satin--between her shoulders, and was tied at the end
with a great bow of blue ribbon.
The girl paused abruptly upon the threshold, and flushed a startled
crimson as her glance fell upon her father.
"Where--is mamma?" she inquired, in evident confusion.
"Your mother has just gone to her room," the man replied, his brows
contracting with a frown of pain as he met his daughter's beautiful but
clouded eyes. "Come in, Dorothy," he added, throwing a touch of
brightness into his tones; "I wish to have a little talk with you."
The maiden reluctantly obeyed, moving forward a few paces into the room
and gravely searching her father's face as she did so.
"I suppose you know that I am going away, Dorothy? Your mother has
told you--ahem!--of the--the change I--we are contemplating?" John
Hungerford inquiringly observed, but with unmistakable embarrassment.
"Yes, sir," said Dorothy, with an air of painful constraint.
"How would you like to come with me, dear? You have a perfect right to
choose with whom you will live for the future."
"I choose to live with my mother!" And there was now no constraint
accompanying the girl's positive reply.
The man's right hand clenched spasmodically; then his dark eyes blazed
with sudden anger.
"Ha! Evidently your mother has been coaching you upon the subject," he
sharply retorted.
"Mamma hasn't said a word to me about--about that part of the--the
plan," Dorothy faltered.
"Then you mean me to understand that, of your own free will, you prefer
to remain with your mother altogether?"
Dorothy nodded her drooping head in assent, not possessing sufficient
courage to voice her attitude.
"Pray tell me what is your objection to living with me--at least for a
portion of each year?"
The child did not immediately answer. The situation was an exceedingly
trying one, and she appeared to be turning her father's proposition
over in her mind.
At length she lifted her head, and her eyes met his in a clear, direct
gaze.
"Where are you going to live?" she questioned, with significant
emphasis.
Her companion shrank before her look and words as if he had been
sharply smitten.
"That is not the question just at present," he said, quickly recovering
himself. "I asked what objection you have to living with me. Don't
you love me at all?"
Again Dorothy's head fell, and, pulling the massive braid of her ruddy
hair over her shoulder, she stood nervously toying with it in silence.
"Dorothy, I wish you to answer me," her father persisted, greatly
irritated by her attitude toward him, and growing reckless of
consequences in his obstinate determination to force her to give him a
definite answer.
But Dorothy was not devoid of obstinacy herself. She pouted
irresolutely a moment; then, tossing her braid back into its place,
stood erect, and faced her father squarely.
"Why are you going away--why will you not live here with mamma?"
Again the man flushed hotly. He was guiltily conscious that she knew
well enough why.
"I--we are not congenial, and it is better that we live apart," he
faltered, as he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
Then, becoming suddenly furious in view of being thus arraigned by his
own child, he thundered: "Now I command you to give me your reason for
refusing to live with me during some portion of each year! I know," he
went on, more temperately, "that you love your mother, and I would not
wish to take you from her altogether; but I am your father--I certainly
have some claim upon you, and it is natural that I should desire to
keep you with me some of the time. Now, tell me at once your
objections to the plan," he concluded sternly.
The interview had been a severe strain upon the delicately organized
and proud-spirited girl, and she had found great difficulty in
preserving her self-control up to this point; but now his tone and
manner were like spark to powder.
"Because---- Oh, because I think you are just horrid! I used to think
you such a gentleman, and I was proud of you; but now you have shamed
me so! No, I don't love you, and I wouldn't go to live with you
and--and _that dreadful woman_ for anything!" she recklessly threw back
at him.
For a minute John Hungerford stood speechless, staring blankly at his
child, his face and lips colorless and drawn. Her words had stabbed
him cruelly.
"Dorothy, you are impertinent!" he said severely, when he could command
his voice.
She caught her breath sharply; she bit her lips fiercely, her white
teeth leaving deep imprints upon them; then passion swept all before it.
"I know it--I _feel_ impertinent! I feel awful wicked, as if I could
do something dreadful!" she cried shrilly and quivering from head to
foot from mingled anger and grief. "You have broken mamma's heart, and
it breaks mine, too, to see her looking so crushed and getting so white
and thin. And now you are going to put this open disgrace upon
her--upon us both--just because you are tired of her and think you like
some one else better. I do love my mother--she is the dearest mother
in the world, and I'm glad you're going. I--I don't care if I
never----"
Her voice broke sharply, at this point, into something very like a
shriek. She had wrought herself up to a frenzy of excitement, and now,
with great sobs shaking her slight form like a reed, she turned
abruptly away, and dashed wildly out of the room, slamming the door
violently behind her.