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.