A BACKWARD GLANCE.
Helen Gregory Appleton was the only child of cultured people, who,
possessing a moderate fortune, had spared no pains or expense to give
their daughter a thorough education, with the privilege of cultivating
whatever accomplishments she preferred, or talent that she possessed.
Helen was an exceptionally bright girl, and, having conscientiously
improved her opportunities, she had graduated from high school at the
age of seventeen, and from a popular finishing school at twenty, a
beautiful and accomplished young woman, the joy and pride of her
devoted parents, who anticipated for her not only a brilliant social
career, but also an auspicious settlement in life.
Her only hobby throughout her school life had been music, of which,
from childhood, she had been passionately fond. "I don't care for
drawing or painting," she affirmed, "so I will stick to music, and try
to do one thing well." And with no thought of ever making it a
profession, but simply for love of it, she had labored tirelessly to
acquire proficiency in this accomplishment, with the result that she
not only excelled as a pianist, but was also a pleasing
vocalist--attainments which, later in life, were destined to bring her
rich returns for her faithful study.
It was during her last year in school that she had met John Hungerford,
a graduate of Yale College, and a promising young man, possessing great
personal attractions. He was bright, cheerful, and witty, always
looking for the humorous side of life; while, being of an easy-going
temperament, he avoided everything like friction in his intercourse
with others, which made him a very harmonious and much-sought-after
companion. Naturally courteous, genial, and quick at repartee,
enthusiastically devoted to athletic sports, ever ready to lead in a
frolic and to entertain lavishly, he was generally voted an "all-around
jolly good fellow." Hence he had early become a prime favorite with
his class, and also with the faculty, and remained such throughout his
course.
He was not a brilliant scholar, however, and barely succeeded in
winning his degree at the end of his four years' term. He did not love
study; he lacked application and tenacity of purpose, except in sports,
or such things as contributed to his personal entertainment. At the
same time, he had too much pride to permit him to fail to secure his
diploma, and he managed to win out; but with just as little work and
worry as possible.
The only direction in which he had ever shown a tendency to excel was
in art, the love of which he had inherited from his paternal
grandfather, who, in his day, had won some renown, both abroad and in
his own country, as a landscape painter; and from early boyhood "John
Hungerford, Second"--his namesake--had shown unmistakable talent in the
same direction.
Possessing a small fortune, which had fallen to him from this same
relative, the young man had given scarcely a serious thought to his
future.
Life had always been a bright gala day to him; money was easy, friends
were plenty, and, with perfect health, what more could he ask of the
years to come? And when questioned regarding what business or
profession he purposed to follow, on leaving college, he would reply,
with his usual irresponsible manner: "It will be time enough to decide
that matter later on. I propose to see something of the world, and
have some fun, before settling down to the humdrum affairs of life."
Once the formality of their introduction was over, John had proceeded
forthwith to fall desperately in love with beautiful Helen Appleton,
and, as she reciprocated his affection, an early engagement had
followed. Six months later they were married, and sailed for Europe,
with the intention of making an extensive tour abroad.
Helen's parents had not sanctioned this hurried union without
experiencing much anxiety and doubt regarding the wisdom of giving
their idolized daughter to one whom they had known for so short a time.
But young Hungerford's credentials had appeared to be unquestionable,
his character above reproach, his personality most winning, and his
means ample; thus there had seemed no reasonable objection to the
marriage.
The young man's wooing had been so eager, and Helen so enamored of her
handsome lover, who swept before him every argument or obstacle
calculated to retard the wedding with such plausible insistence, that
the important event had been consummated almost before they could
realize what it might mean to them all when the excitement and glamour
had worn away.
Frequent letters came to them from the travelers, filled with loving
messages, with enthusiastic descriptions of their sight-seeing, and
expressions of perfect happiness in each other; and the fond father and
mother, though lonely without their dear one, comforted themselves with
assurances that all was well with her, and they would soon have her
back with them again.
After spending a year in travel and sight-seeing, the young couple
drifted back to Paris, from which point they intended, after John had
made another round of the wonderful art galleries, which had enthralled
him upon their previous visit, to proceed directly home. But the
artist element in him became more and more awakened, as, day after day,
he studied the world-renowned treasures all about him, until he
suddenly conceived the idea of making art his profession and life work;
whereupon, he impulsively registered himself for a course in oils,
under a popular artist and teacher, Monsieur Jacques by name.
Helen would have preferred to return to her parents, for she yearned
for familiar scenes, and particularly for her mother at this time; but
she yielded her will to her husband's, and they made a pretty home for
themselves in an attractive suburb of Paris, where, a little later,
there came to the young wife, in her exile--for such it almost seemed
to her--a great joy.
A little daughter, the Dorothy of our opening chapter, was born to John
and Helen Hungerford a few weeks after the anniversary of their
marriage; and, being still deeply in love with each other, it seemed to
them as if their cup of happiness was filled to the brim.
Shortly afterward, however, with only a few days between the two sad
events, cable messages brought the heartbreaking tidings that Helen's
father and mother had both been taken from her, and the blow, for the
time, seemed likely to crush her.
John, in his sympathy for his wife, was for immediately throwing up his
work, and taking her directly home; but Helen, more practical and less
impulsive than her husband, reasoned that there was nothing to be
gained by such a rash move, while much would have to be sacrificed in
forfeiting his course of lessons, which had been paid for in advance;
while she feared that such an interruption would greatly abate his
enthusiasm, if it did not wholly discourage him from the task of
perfecting himself in his studies.
She knew that her father's lawyer, who had been his adviser for many
years, was amply qualified to settle Mr. Appleton's business; and,
having unbounded confidence in him, she felt that whatever would be
required of her could be done as well by correspondence as by her
personal presence. Consequently it was decided best to remain where
they were until John should become well grounded in his profession, and
able to get on without a teacher.
But when Mr. Appleton's affairs were settled it was learned that the
scant sum of five thousand dollars was all that his daughter would
inherit from his estate. This unlooked-for misfortune was a great
surprise to the young husband and wife; a bitter disappointment, also,
particularly to John Hungerford, who had imagined, when he married her,
that Helen would inherit quite a fortune from her father, who, it was
generally believed, had amassed a handsome property.
Helen very wisely decided that the five thousand dollars must be put
aside for Dorothy's future education, and she directed the lawyer to
invest the money for the child, as his best judgment dictated, and
allow the interest to accumulate until they returned to America.
Three years slipped swiftly by after this, and during this time John,
who seemed really to love his work, gave promise of attaining
proficiency, if not fame, in his profession. At least, Monsieur
Jacques, who appeared to take a deep interest in his student's
progress, encouraged him to believe he could achieve something worth
while in the future, provided he applied himself diligently to that end.
Helen, though chastened and still grieving sorely over the loss of her
parents, was happy and content to live very quietly, keeping only one
servant, and herself acting the part of nurse for Dorothy. Before her
marriage she had supposed John to be the possessor of considerable
wealth, and this belief had been confirmed during their first year
abroad by his lavish expenditure. He had spared no expense to
contribute to her pleasure, had showered expensive gifts upon her, and
gratified every whim of his own. But when her father's estate had been
settled he had betrayed deep disappointment and no little anxiety in
view of the small amount coming to Helen; and it had finally come out
that his own fortune had been a very moderate one, the greater portion
of which had been consumed during their extravagant honeymoon.
This startling revelation set Helen to thinking very seriously. She
realized that the limited sum remaining to them would have to be
carefully husbanded, or they would soon reach the end of their
resources. John's studies were expensive, and it might be some time
yet before he could expect to realize from his profession an income
that could be depended upon, while, never yet having denied himself
anything he wanted, he had no practical idea of economy.
At length he sold a few small pictures, which, with some help in
touching up from monsieur, were very creditable to him. But instead of
being elated that his work was beginning to attract attention and be
appreciated, he was greatly chagrined at the prices he received for
them, and allowed himself to become somewhat discouraged in view of
these small returns; and, during his fourth year, it became evident
that his interest was waning, and he was growing weary of his work.
He had never been a systematic worker, much to the annoyance of his
teacher, who was rigidly methodical and painstaking in every detail.
John would begin a subject which gave promise of being above the
ordinary, and work well upon it for a while; but after a little it
would pall upon his fancy, and be set aside to try something else,
while Monsieur Jacques would look on with grave disapproval, and often
sharply criticize such desultory efforts. This, of course, caused
strained relations between teacher and student, and conditions drifted
from bad to worse, until he began to absent himself from the studio; at
first for only a day in the week; then, as time went on, he grew more
and more irregular, and sometimes several days would elapse during
which he would do nothing at his easel, while no one seemed to know
where, or with whom, he was spending his time.
Monsieur Jacques was very forbearing. He knew the young man possessed
rare talent, if not real genius; he believed there was the promise of a
great artist in him, and he was ambitious to have him make his mark in
the world. He was puzzled by his peculiar moods and behavior, and
strove in various ways to arouse his waning enthusiasm. He knew
nothing of his circumstances, except that he had a lovely wife and
child, of whom he appeared to be very fond and proud, and he believed
him to be possessed of ample means, for he spent money freely upon
himself and his fellow students, with whom he was exceedingly popular;
hence he was wholly unable to account for his growing indifference and
indolence, unless there were some secret, subtle influence that was
leading him astray--beguiling him from his high calling.
Two years more passed thus, and still he had made no practical
advancement. He worked by fits and starts, but rarely completed and
sold anything, even though everything he attempted was, as far as
developed, alive with brilliant possibilities.
Helen had also realized, during this time, that something was very
wrong with her husband. He was often away from home during the
evening, and had little to say when she questioned him regarding his
absence; sometimes he told her he had been at the theater with the
boys, or he had been bowling at the club, or having a game of whist at
the studio.
She was very patient; she believed in him thoroughly, and not a
suspicion arose in her loyal heart that he would tell her a falsehood
to conceal any wrongdoing on his part.
But one night he did not return at all; at least, it was early morning
before he came in, and, not wishing to disturb his wife, he threw
himself, half dressed, upon the couch in the library, where Helen found
him, in a deep sleep, when she came downstairs in the morning. She
appeared relieved on seeing him, and stood for a minute or two
curiously searching his face, noting how weary and haggard he looked
after his night of evident dissipation, while the odor of wine was
plainly perceptible in his heavy breathing.
Her heart was very sore, but she was careful not to wake him, for she
felt he needed to sleep, and she presently moved away from him,
gathering up the light overcoat he had worn the previous evening, and
which he had heedlessly thrown in a heap upon a chair on removing it.
She gently shook out the wrinkles, preparatory to putting the garment
away in its place, when something bright, hanging from an inner pocket,
caught her eye.
With the color fading from her face, she drew it forth and gazed at it
as one dazed.
It was a long, silken, rose-hued glove, that exhaled a faint odor of
attar of roses as it slipped from its hiding place. It was almost new,
yet the shape of the small hand that had worn it was plainly
discernible, while on one of the rounded finger tips there was a slight
stain, like a drop of wine.
To whom did the dainty thing belong? How had it come into her
husband's possession? Had it been lost by some one returning from a
ball, or the opera, and simply been found by him? Or had it some more
significant connection with the late hours and carousal of the previous
night and of many other nights?
A hundred questions and cruel suspicions flashed thick and fast through
her mind and stung her to the quick, as she recalled the many evenings
he had spent away from her of late, and his evasive replies whenever
she had questioned him regarding his whereabouts.
She shivered as she stood there, almost breathless, with that creepy,
slippery thing that seemed almost alive, and a silent, mocking witness
to some tantalizing mystery, in her hand.
What should she do about it? Should she wake John, show him what she
had found, and demand an explanation from him? Or would it be wiser to
return the glove to its place of concealment, say nothing, and bide her
time for further developments?
She had never been a dissembler. As a girl, she was artless and
confiding, winning and keeping friends by her innate sincerity. As a
wife, she had been absolutely loyal and trustful--never before having
entertained the slightest doubt of her husband's faithfulness to her.
Could she now begin to lead a double life, begin to be suspicious of
John, to institute a system of espionage upon his actions and pursuits,
and thus create an ever-increasing barrier between them? The thought
was utterly repulsive to her, and yet it might perhaps be as well not
to force, for a time, at least, a situation which perchance would ere
long be unfolded to her without friction or estrangement.
She glanced from the rose-hued thing in her hand to the sleeper on the
couch, stood thoughtfully studying his face for a moment; then she
silently slipped the glove into the pocket where she had found it,
dropped the coat back in a heap upon the chair, and stole noiselessly
from the room.