A YOUNG WIFE'S BRAVE STRUGGLES.
Another year slipped by, with no change for the better in the domestic
conditions of the Hungerfords. When he felt like it, John would work
at his easel; when he did not, he would dawdle his time away at his
club, or about town, with companions whom, Helen began to realize, were
of no advantage to him, to say the least. Meantime, his money was fast
melting away, and there seemed to be no prospect of a reliable income
from his art.
Helen became more and more anxious regarding their future, and often
implored her husband to finish some of his pictures, try to get them
hung at different exhibitions, and in this way perhaps find a market
for them.
He was never really unkind to her, though often irritable; yet he was
far from being the devoted husband he had been during the first three
or four years of their married life. He would often make fair promises
to do better, and perhaps work well for a while; then, his interest
flagging again, he would drop back into his indolent ways, and go on as
before.
One morning, just as he was leaving the house, John informed his wife
that he was going, with several other artists, to visit a noted château
a few miles out of Paris, where there was a wonderful collection of
paintings, comprising several schools of art, some of the oldest and
best masters being represented; and the owner of these treasures, the
Duc de Mouvel, had kindly given them permission to examine them and
take notes at their leisure. It was a rare opportunity, he told her,
and she was not to be anxious about him if he did not reach home until
late in the evening.
Helen was quite elated by this information; it seemed to indicate that
John still loved his art, and she hoped that his enthusiasm would be
newly aroused by this opportunity to study such priceless pictures, and
he would resume his work with fresh zeal upon his return.
She was very happy during the day, refreshing herself with these
sanguine hopes, and did not even feel troubled that John did not come
back at all that night. The owner of the château had probably extended
his hospitality, and given the students another day to study his
pictures, she thought.
The third day dawned, and still her husband had not returned; neither
had he sent her any message explaining his protracted absence.
Unable longer to endure the suspense, Helen went in town, to the
studio, hoping that Monsieur Jacques might be able to give her some
information regarding the expedition to the Château de Mouvel.
But her heart sank the moment she came into the artist's presence.
He greeted her most cordially, but searched her face curiously; then
gravely inquired:
"And where is Monsieur Hungerford, madame? I hope not ill? For a week
now his brushes they have been lying idle."
"A week!" repeated Helen, with an inward shock of dismay. "Then,
Monsieur Jacques, you know nothing about the excursion to the château
of le Duc de Mouvel?"
"Excursion to the galleries of le Duc de Mouvel!" exclaimed the artist,
astonished. "But surely I know nothing of such a visit--no, madame."
Helen explained more at length, and mentioned the names of some of
those whom John had said were to be of the party.
Her companion's brow contracted in a frown of mingled sorrow and
displeasure.
"I know nothing of it," he reiterated; "and the persons madame has
named are dilettante--they are 'no good,' as you say in America. They
waste time--they have a love for wine, women, and frolic; and it is
regrettable that monsieur finds pleasure in their company."
Helen sighed; her heart was very heavy.
"Monsieur is one natural artist," the master resumed, bending a
compassionate gaze on her white face; "born with talent and the love of
art. He has the true eye for color, outline, perspective; the free,
steady, skillful hand. He would do great work with the stable mind,
but--pardon, madame--he is what, in English, you call--lazy. He will
not exercise the necessary application. To make the great artist there
must be more, much more, than mere talent, the love of the beautiful,
and skillful wielding of the brush; there must be the will to work,
work, work. Ah, if madame could but inspire monsieur with
ambition--real enthusiasm--to accomplish something, to finish his
pictures, he might yet win fame for himself; but the indifference, the
indolence, the lack of moral responsibility, and the love of
pleasure--ah, it all means failure!"
"But--the Duc de Mouvel--is there such a man? Has he a rare
collection?" faltered Helen, thus betraying her suspicion that her
husband had deceived her altogether regarding the motive of his absence.
"Yes, my child; I have the great pleasure of acquaintance with le Duc
de Mouvel," kindly returned Monsieur Jacques, adding: "He is a great
connoisseur in, and a generous patron of, all that is best in art; and
if he has extended to your husband and his friends an invitation to
view the wonderful pictures in his magnificent château at ---- they
have been granted a rare honor and privilege."
In her heart, Helen doubted that they had ever been the recipients of
such an invitation; she believed it all a fabrication to deceive her
and perhaps others. It was a humiliating suspicion; but it forced
itself upon her and thrust its venomed sting deep into her soul.
"If there is anything I can do for madame at any time, I trust she will
not fail to command me," Monsieur Jacques observed, with gentle
courtesy, and breaking in upon the troubled reverie into which she had
fallen.
Helen lifted her sad eyes to his.
"I thank you, monsieur," she gratefully returned. "You are--you always
have been--most kind and patient." Then, glancing searchingly around
the room, the walls of which were covered with beautiful paintings, she
inquired: "Are there any of Mr. Hungerford's pictures here?"
"Ah! Madame would like to see some of the work monsieur has been doing
of late?" said the artist alertly, and glad to change the subject, for
he saw that his proffered kindness had well-nigh robbed her of her
composure. "Come this way, if you please, and I will show you," he
added, turning to leave the room.
He led her through a passage to a small room in the rear of the one
they had just left; and, some one coming to speak to him just then,
excusing himself, he left her there to look about at her leisure.
This was evidently John's private workroom; but it was in a very dusty
and untidy condition, and Helen was appalled to see the many unfinished
subjects which were standing against the walls, in the windows, and
even upon chairs. Some were only just begun; others were well under
way, and it would have required but little time and effort to have
completed them and made them salable.
She moved slowly about the place, pausing here and there to study
various things that appealed to her, and at the same time recognizing
the unmistakable talent that was apparent in almost every stroke of the
brush.
At length she came to a small easel that had been pushed close into a
corner. There was a canvas resting on it, with its face turned to the
wall, and curiosity prompted her to reverse it to ascertain the
subject, when a cry of surprise broke from her lips as she found
herself gazing upon the unfinished portrait of a most beautiful woman.
John had never seemed to care to do portraits--they were uninteresting,
he had always said--and she had never known of his attempting one
before; hence her astonishment.
The figure had been painted full length. It was slight, but perfect in
its proportions; the pose exceedingly graceful and natural, the
features delicate, the coloring exquisite. The eyes were a deep blue,
arch and coquettish in expression; the hair a glossy, waving brown, a
few bewitching locks falling softly on the white forehead, beneath a
great picture hat. The costume was an evening gown of black spangled
net, made _décoletté_, and with only an elaborate band of jet over the
shoulders, the bare neck and beautifully molded arms making an
effective contrast against the glittering, coal-black dress.
The girl was standing by a small oval table, one hand resting lightly
upon it, the other hanging by her side, and loosely holding a pair of
long silken gloves.
Helen's face flooded crimson as her glance fell upon the gloves. Even
though they were black, they were startlingly suggestive to her, and
her thought instantly reverted to the one, so bright-hued, which she
had found in the inner pocket of her husband's overcoat some months
previous.
Had she to-day inadvertently stumbled upon the solution of that mystery
which had never ceased to rankle, with exceeding bitterness, in her
heart from that day to this?
There was still much to be done before the picture would be finished,
though it was a good deal further along than most of its companions.
Enough had been accomplished, however, to show that there had been no
lack of interest on the part of the artist while at work upon it.
Who was she--this blue-eyed, brown-haired siren in glittering black?
When and where had the portrait been painted? Had the woman come
there, to John's room, for sittings? Or was she some one whom he met
often, and had painted from memory? Helen did not believe she could be
a model; there was too much about her that hinted at high life, and of
habitual association with the fashionable world--possibly of the stage.
She stood a long time before the easel, studying every line of the
lovely face until she found that, with all its beauty, there was a
suggestion of craftiness and even cruelty in the dark-blue eyes and in
the lines about the mouth and sensuous chin.
A step behind her caused Helen to start and turn quickly, to find
Monsieur Jacques almost beside her, his eyes fastened intently, and in
unmistakable surprise, upon the picture she had discovered.
"Who is she?" she demanded, almost sharply, and voicing the query she
had just put to herself.
"Madame, I have never before looked upon the picture--I did not even
know that Monsieur Hungerford had attempted a portrait," gravely
returned the artist. "It is finely done, however," he added
approvingly.
"Has no woman been here for sittings?"
"No, madame; no one except our own models--I am sure not. That is not
allowed in my studio without my sanction and supervision," was the
reply. "It may be simply a study, original with monsieur; if so, it is
very beautiful, and holds great promise," the man concluded, with
hearty appreciation.
Helen replaced the portrait as she had found it, somewhat comforted by
her companion's assurance and high praise of her husband's effort; then
she turned to leave the room.
"I thank you, monsieur, for your courtesy," she said, holding out to
him a hand that trembled visibly from inward excitement.
"Pray do not mention it, but come again, my child, whenever I can be of
service to you. _Au revoir_," he responded kindly, as he accompanied
her to the door and bowed her out.
Helen went home with a heavy heart. She was well-nigh discouraged with
what she had heard and seen. She had long suspected, and she was now
beginning to realize, that her husband's chief aim in life was personal
entertainment and love of ease; that he was sadly lacking in force of
character, practical application, and moral responsibility; caring more
about being rated a jolly good fellow by his boon companions than for
his duties as a husband and father, or for attaining fame in his
profession.
Thus she spent a very unhappy day, haunted continually by that
portrait, and brooding anxiously over what the future might hold for
them; while, at the same time, she was both indignant and keenly
wounded in view of John's improvidence, prodigality, and supreme
selfishness, and of his apparent indifference to her peace of mind and
the additional burdens he was constantly imposing upon her.
John returned that evening, in a most genial mood. He made light of
his protracted absence and of Helen's anxiety on account of it, but
offered no apologies for keeping her in suspense for so long. He
briefly remarked that the party had concluded to extend their tour, and
make more of an outing than they had at first planned. It had
evidently been a very enjoyable one, although he did not go into detail
at all, and when Helen inquired about the Duc de Mouvel's wonderful
collection of paintings, he appeared somewhat confused, but said they
were "grand, remarkable, and absolutely priceless!" then suddenly
changed the subject.
Helen's suspicion that the party had never been inside the Château de
Mouvel was confirmed by his manner; but she was too hurt and proud to
question him further, and so did not pursue the subject. She thought
it only right, however, to tell him of her visit to Monsieur Jacques,
and what the artist had said about his talent, and the flattering
possibilities before him, if he would conscientiously devote himself to
his work. She referred to his disapproval of his present course, and
the company he was keeping; whereupon John became exceedingly angry, in
view of her "meddling," as he termed it; said Monsieur Jacques would do
better to give more attention to his own affairs, and less to his;
then, refusing to discuss the situation further, he abruptly left the
room in a very sulky frame of mind.
Helen had debated with herself as to the advisability of telling him of
her discovery of the portrait. She did not like to conceal anything
from her husband. She felt that every such attempt only served to
establish a more formidable barrier between them; but after the
experience of to-night she thought it would be wiser not to refer to
the matter--at least until later.
John evidently did some thinking on his own part that night, for he was
more like his former self when he appeared at breakfast the next
morning, and proceeded directly to the studio on leaving the house. He
did better for a couple of months afterward, manifested more interest
in his work, and finished a couple of pictures, which, through the
influence of Monsieur Jacques, were hung at an exhibition and sold at
fair prices, greatly to Helen's joy.
But instead of being inspired to even greater effort by this success,
John seemed content to rest upon his honors, and soon began to lapse
again into his former indolent ways, apparently indifferent to the fact
that his money was almost gone, and poverty staring himself and his
family in the face.
Long before this, Helen had given up her maid, had practiced economy in
every possible way, and denied herself many things which she had always
regarded as necessary to her comfort. But the more she gave up, the
more John appeared to expect her to give up; the harder she worked, the
less he seemed to think he was obliged to do himself. Thus, with her
domestic duties, her sewing, and the care of Dorothy, every moment of
the day, from the hour of rising until she retired at night, the young
wife was heavily burdened with toilsome and unaccustomed duties.
It was a bitter experience for this delicately nurtured girl, but no
word of repining ever escaped her lips. She had pledged herself to
John "for better or worse," and, despite the unremitting strain upon
her courage, patience, and strength, despite her increasing
disappointment in and constantly waning respect for her husband, she
had no thought but to loyally abide by her choice, and share his lot,
whatever it might be.
The day came, however, when John himself awoke to the fact that he had
about reached the end of his rope--when he was startled to find that
less than two hundred dollars remained to his credit in the bank, and
poverty treading close upon his heels. He knew he could no longer go
on in this desultory way; something radical must be done, and done at
once. He was tired of his art; he was tired of facing, day after day,
Monsieur Jacques' grave yet well-deserved disapproval; while, for some
reason, he had become weary of Paris, and, one morning, to Helen's
great joy--for she believed it the best course to pursue--he suddenly
announced his intention to return to the United States.
They sublet their house, and were fortunate in selling their furniture,
just as it stood, to the new tenant, thus realizing sufficient funds,
with what money they already possessed, to comfortably defray all
expenses back to San Francisco, which had been their former home, and
to which Helen had firmly insisted upon returning, although John had
voiced a decided preference for New York.
"No, I am going home--to my friends," she reiterated, but with her
throat swelling painfully as she thought she would find no father and
mother there to greet her. "I have lived in exile long enough; I
need--I am hungry to see familiar faces."
"But----" John began, with a rising flush.
"Yes, I know, we are going back poor," said his wife, reading his
thought as he hesitated; "but my real friends will not think any the
less of me for that, and they will be a comfort to me. Besides, all
the furniture of my old home is stored there, and it will be useful to
us in beginning life again."
During the voyage Helen seemed happier than she had been for months.
The freedom from household cares and drudgery was a great boon to her,
and the rest, salt air, and change of food were doing her good; while
the anticipation of once more being among familiar scenes and faces was
cheering, even exhilarating, to her.
To Dorothy the ocean was a great marvel and delight, and it was a
pleasant sight to see the beautiful mother and her attractive little
daughter pacing the deck together, enjoying the novelty of their
surroundings, watching the white-capped waves, or the foaming trail in
the wake of the huge vessel, their bright faces and happy laughter
attracting the attention of many an appreciative observer.
John, on the contrary, was listless and moody, spending his time mostly
in reading, smoking, and sleeping in his steamer chair, apparently
taking little interest in anything that was going on about him, or
giving much thought to what was before him at his journey's end.
One morning Helen came on deck with two or three recent magazines,
which a chance acquaintance had loaned her. She handed two of them to
her husband, and, tucking herself snugly into her own chair, proceeded
to look over the other, with Dorothy standing beside her to see the
pictures.
By and by the child ran away to play, and Helen became interested in a
story. A half hour passed, and she had become deeply interested in the
tale she was reading, when she was startled by a smothered exclamation
from John.
She glanced at him, to find him gazing intently at a picture in one of
the magazines she had given him. The man's face was all aglow with
admiration and pleased surprise, and she noted that the hand which held
the periodical trembled from some inward emotion.
Wondering what could have moved him so, yet feeling unaccountably
reluctant to question him, she appeared not to notice his excitement,
and composedly went on with her reading. Presently he arose, saying he
was going aft for a smoke, and left her alone; but, to her great
disappointment, taking the magazine with him.
Later in the day, on going to their stateroom, however, she found it in
his berth, tucked under his pillow!
Eagerly seizing it, she began to search it through, when suddenly, on
turning a leaf, a great shock went quivering through her, for there on
the page before her was the picture of a woman, the exact counterpart
of the half-finished portrait she had seen in John's work-room during
her visit to Monsieur Jacques.
Like a flash, her eyes dropped to the name beneath it.
"Marie Duncan, with the Wells Opera Company, now in Australia," was
what she read.
On the opposite page was a brief account of the troupe and the musical
comedy, which, during the past season, had had an unprecedented run in
Paris, and was now making a great hit in Melbourne, Miss Duncan, the
star, literally taking the public by storm.
"Well, _that_ mystery is finally solved! And doubtless she was the
owner of that pink glove, also," mused Helen, her lips curling with
fine scorn, as she studied the fascinating face before her. "Thank
fortune," she presently added, with a sigh of thankfulness, as she
closed the book and replaced it under the pillow, "she is away in
Australia, and we are every day increasing the distance between us."
She kept her own counsel, however, and gave no sign of the discovery
she had made.
The day preceding their landing in New York, Helen asked her husband
what plans he had made for their future, how he expected to provide for
their support upon reaching San Francisco.
"Oh, I don't know!" he replied, somewhat irritably. "Possibly I may
ask Uncle Nathan to give me a position in his office."
"And give up your art, John!" exclaimed Helen, in a voice of dismay,
adding: "You are better fitted for that than for anything else."
"But I shall have to do something to get a start. You know, it takes
money to live while one is painting pictures," he moodily returned.
"But it would not take very long to finish up some of them--the best
ones; and I feel sure they would sell readily," said his wife.
"The best ones would require the help of a good teacher, or an expert
artist, to complete," her husband curtly replied.
Helen sighed regretfully over the time which had been so wantonly
wasted in Paris, and during which, under the skillful supervision of
Monsieur Jacques, he might have finished much of his work, and at the
same time perfected himself upon many important points. She preserved
a thoughtful silence for several moments; then gravely inquired:
"Do you suppose, John, that, with another year of study, with some good
teacher, you could finish and dispose of the various subjects you have
begun?"
"Possibly I might," he briefly observed, but there was very little
enthusiasm in his tone or manner.
"Do you feel in the mood? Have you any ambition for honest,
painstaking effort--for hard work, John, to attempt this under a
first-class artist?" Helen persisted.
The man began to grow restive; he could never bear to be pinned down to
committing himself to anything, or to yield a point.
"You have no idea, Helen, what a grind it is to sit before an easel day
after day, and wield a brush," he said, in an injured tone, and with a
frown of annoyance.
"Everything is a grind unless you put your heart into your work--unless
one is governed by principle and a sense of moral responsibility," said
Helen gravely.
"Is that the way you have baked and brewed, washed dishes and made beds
the past year?" queried her husband, with a covert sneer.
"I certainly never baked and brewed, or washed dishes, solely from love
of the work," she quietly but significantly replied, as her glance
rested upon her wrist, where a faint scar was visible--the fading
reminder of a serious burn sustained when she first began her
unaccustomed duties as cook and maid of all work.
John observed it also, then quickly looked away, as he remembered that
she had never murmured or neglected a single duty on account of it.
"But where is the money for a teacher coming from?" he inquired, after
a moment, and referring to Helen's unanswered question regarding his
unfinished work.
"You know Dorothy's money has been accumulating all these years," she
began in reply. "The interest now amounts to upward of fifteen hundred
dollars, and I will consent to use it for this purpose, if you will
agree to do your level best to make your unfinished pictures marketable
during the coming year."
Her husband flushed hotly--not because he experienced either gratitude
or a sense of shame in view of becoming dependent upon his wife's
bounty, but because it angered him to have conditions made for him.
He appeared to be utterly devoid of ambition for his future, and
Helen's suggestion possessed no real attraction for him. Painting had
become a bore--the last thing he had really taken any interest in
having been the portrait his wife had discovered in his studio just
previous to the sailing of its original for Australia.
John Hungerford had never performed a day's manual labor in his life,
and even though he had said he might ask his uncle for a position on
his arrival in San Francisco, he had no relish for the prospect of
buckling down to a humdrum routine of duties in Nathan Young's
flourishing manufactory.
He sat chewing the cud of sullen discontent for some time, while
considering the situation, and finally gave Helen a half-hearted
promise to stick to his art, under a teacher, for another year. But
his consent had been so reluctantly given, his manner was so
indifferent, Helen felt that she had received very little encouragement
to warrant that the future would show any better results than the past,
and the outlook seemed rather dark to her.