THE SOUBRETTE.
Helen had seemed almost to renew her youth while making ready for
Dorothy's marriage, and had thrown herself into the business before her
with no less enthusiasm than that manifested by the fair bride-elect
herself.
She simply reveled in choosing the dainty and pretty things that were
to comprise the trousseau, while with her own skillful fingers she
fashioned many lovely accessories, which, had she purchased them, would
have been very expensive, if not entirely beyond her means.
Dorothy was to go into a beautiful and sumptuous home; she would mingle
with fashionable and wealthy people, whom, in turn, she would also have
to entertain; and, with rare judgment and faultless taste, Helen had
planned an ample outfit for her, that was both elegant and suitable for
all occasions, yet without being too costly for her income.
One morning, a few days after Dorothy had related the story of their
early troubles to her lover, mother and daughter started forth upon one
of their interesting shopping expeditions. They were in their
brightest mood, for, with the happy termination of the much-dreaded
ordeal which their sense of honor had compelled them to face, with a
free conscience, and increased love and respect for the man who was
soon to assume closer relations with them, the world seemed all rose
color and gold to these devoted chums as they pursued their way
downtown with a long list of items upon their memorandum tablets.
They spent a busy morning together, after which they had a light lunch,
when, at one o'clock, Dorothy had an appointment with her dressmaker,
and Helen went back to the stores alone.
Among other things, there were handkerchiefs to be selected, and she
slipped into Rolston's to see what she could find there. As she paused
before the counter, she found herself standing beside a woman who was
evidently waiting for her change and her purchase to be returned.
Something about her figure and the contour of her face--which, she
observed, was heavily powdered and rouged--impelled Helen to take a
second look; when, as if actuated by some occult influence, the
stranger turned a bold, rude stare upon her, and chain lightning could
hardly have been more swift or blinding than the blazing, spiteful look
which leaped into her eyes as they swept Helen from head to foot.
A vindictive sneer began to curl her full, red lips; her heavy brows
contracted in an ugly, frown, as, with a mocking shrug of her shapely
shoulders, she shot forth a single venom-barbed word:
"Well!"
Instantly, with a shock that seemed to cleave her heart in twain, Helen
recognized her.
She was the soubrette, Marie Duncan, with whom John Hungerford had gone
abroad ten years ago, and whom he had afterward married. But she was
no longer the gay, captivating coquette she had been when she had lured
him from his allegiance to his family. Her form had grown stout, less
symmetrical than of yore; her features coarse and sensuous; her skin
had become rough and porous, from too free use of cosmetics, and
evidently the world was not at present using her very well, for she was
cheaply clothed, though with a tawdry attempt at style which only
accentuated the fact of her poverty.
The terror inspired by this startling encounter was simply paralyzing
to Helen. She deigned no reply to the actress' rude salutation; but,
with a mighty effort to preserve her self-control, turned to a clerk,
and, with a semblance of composure which she was far from feeling,
inquired for what she wanted.
The woman stood watching her for a minute or two, the sneer still
curling her lips, as, with jealous eyes, she noted every detail of her
costly, tailor-made costume, her simple though stylish hat, her
perfectly fitting gloves, and the elegant shopping bag which she
carried. Then, with a mocking, sibilant laugh that made her listener's
flesh creep with painful revulsion, she swept insolently past her, and
was lost in the crowd.
Helen selected a dozen handkerchiefs at random, gave her address to
have them sent to her; then, half fainting, a blinding haze before her
eyes, a deafening ringing in her ears, groped her way from the store,
and boarded a car for home.
All the way uptown she sat like one dazed, vaguely wondering what had
happened to her. Her heart lay like a great stone in her bosom; all
her strength and vigor seemed suddenly to have withered within her, and
the whole world to have grown dark, and desolate, and threatening.
"It cannot be," she moaned, as she entered her apartment and
mechanically began to remove her hat and coat. "How can I bear it?
Oh, to have struggled all these years to outlive that dreadful
experience, only to be faced with it anew at such a time as this!"
She shivered as she recalled the brazen, defiant, mocking looks the
woman had bestowed upon her; and that hissing, menacing laugh--what did
she mean by it? She wondered if John had come back to this country
with her--where and how they were living. Marie's clothing had told
its own story of poverty and makeshift; perhaps now they would try to
find her again; John might even seek to extort money from her as of
old, and she would be subjected to a system of blackmail to protect
herself and Dorothy from a harrowing scandal.
She had tried to make herself believe that she would never see either
of them again; she had long ago felt a sense of freedom in the thought
that John must be dead, or she certainly would have heard something of,
or from, him; and she shuddered now as she remembered that she had
never quite dared to hope he was. It was a murderous thought, she
knew; but, living, she felt she could never forgive him--dead, she
could at least try to forget him.
She was almost in despair, in view of this unexpected reappearance of
Marie, which threatened to make havoc of her life. Must she tell
Dorothy, to spoil her present happiness and cloud her approaching
nuptials? No, she would not, she resolutely affirmed. It would be
hard to bear her burden in silence, and wear a happy exterior, but she
would, she must, rise to the occasion and help her carry out her plans
as if nothing had happened--unless circumstances made it impossible to
do so.
She sat for hours, brooding wretchedly upon the situation--until she
heard Dorothy's step on the stairs, when she braced herself to greet
her with her usual welcoming smile as she entered the room.
The following week Dorothy was invited to spend a few days with the
Alexanders, at their delightful home on the Hudson. Helen had also
been included in the invitation, but excused herself because of
appointments with pupils and an entertainment for which she had to
prepare. She thought it would, perhaps, be a relief to have Dorothy
away for a while, at least, until she could recover more fully from the
shock she had received, and she willingly let her go alone.
While engaged with her pupils Helen found no time for brooding; but
when the lessons were over and she was released from all restraint, she
could not control her thoughts, and the fear and unrest of the previous
week assailed her again.
The second day of Dorothy's absence, which was the Sabbath, she felt
that she could no longer bear the loneliness and silence, which were
intensified and made hideous by haunting memories of her unhappy past;
and she now deeply regretted that she had not heeded Mrs. Alexander's
plea that she would at least join their house party for over Sunday.
She was half tempted even now to take an early boat and go to them,
just for the day; but, having once definitely refused the invitation,
she did not like to retract; but do something, go somewhere, she must
to distract her mind; she could not spend that long day alone with her
wretched thoughts.
She mechanically dressed herself for the street, and, boarding an
uptown car, finally alighted near one of the entrances to Central Park.
As she stepped upon the sidewalk her attention was attracted by a
stream of well-dressed people that were pouring into a great church not
a stone's throw beyond where she stood.
Almost unconsciously she mingled with the crowd, passing with it into
the beautiful temple, and up into the great auditorium, where the
mellow sunlight, streaming in through the richly tinted windows, seemed
to fall upon the gathering hundreds like a sacred, soothing
benediction; while the wonderful organ, responding to the touch of
skillful hands, rolled forth its paean of joyous greeting.
A gentlemanly usher approached and offered to give her a seat, leading
her almost to the center of the house, where, thanking him for his
courtesy, she dropped into a luxuriously cushioned pew, wondering, with
a sense akin to dismay, what occult influences could have combined to
guide her wandering feet thither, instead of into the park, for which
she had started.
Presently she began to look about the elegantly appointed edifice,
noting its softly tinted walls and beautiful windows; its rich and
massive woodwork, its costly carpeting and upholstery.
Then her glance swept over the congregation, and she found herself
mentally exclaiming, with a pang of keen pain piercing her heart: "What
a multitude of happy, peaceful faces! Where did they come from? What
is the secret of their joy?"
Presently the organ ceased, and the opening hymn was announced--an old,
familiar tune, and lines that her mother had once loved to sing:
In heav'nly love abiding,
No change my heart shall fear.
Quick, tender tears welled to her eyes--it almost seemed as if her
mother were there beside her as the organ softly played it through;
then a sense of awe fell upon her at the sublime burst of harmony that
followed. She had never heard anything like it before. Everybody was
singing, and yet the magnificent volume of sound that surged upward
into space from that many-throated congregation was like one grand,
gloriously inspired voice pouring forth its harmonious notes of praise
to the author of "heavenly love."
She never forgot it; it was like the momentary lifting of the opaque
curtain 'twixt earth and heaven, beyond which she caught a fleeting
glimpse of fields elysian, the entrance to which must be through the
Gate of Love alone.
The Bible reading followed, but she did not give much heed to it, for
the spell produced by the music was still upon her, though now and then
she caught a phrase which impressed her that Love was the subject or
text chosen for the day, until suddenly, like a solemn message from
Sinai, thundered out to her alone, came the startling words: "Whosoever
hateth his brother is a murderer."
She sat erect, every sense now alert, and listened to the closing
passage: "He that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he
love God, whom he has not seen?"
She did not hear another consecutive sentence. She sat like one
benumbed throughout the service, but with her heart in a turmoil such
as she had never experienced before--the words "love" and "hate"
ringing continual changes in her thought.
She thought she had always known their full import; she had read those
passages from the Bible perhaps a hundred times; but never until now
had she been arraigned before the bar of an inexorable judge, to be
sifted as wheat in the thought, and purpose, and intents of her heart
toward her brother man.
When the benediction was pronounced, a richly clad woman who had been
sitting beside her turned, with cordially extended hand, to greet her.
She was very beautiful to look upon, with peace written on every line
of her face, love shining in her clear blue eyes, and a crown of
snow-white hair rippling above her forehead; and yet she could not have
been fifty years of age.
"I think you are a stranger here?" she observed, with a smile that
almost made Helen weep, it was so sunny, yet so sympathetic. "I hope
you have enjoyed our service."
What was there about her that so summarily broke down Helen's habitual
self-control? She never could account for it afterward, but before she
was really aware of what she was saying she burst forth:
"What _is_ love? What is--_hate_?"
"My dear," returned the stranger, with exceeding gentleness, while she
studied Helen's set features with compassionate eyes, "that is a
question which cannot be elucidated in a moment; but let me say, as I
read your thought just now, love is not emotion, sentiment, mere
personal attachment; it is the abiding desire to do good to our
neighbor--to all men--for the _love of doing good_. 'Hate' is
criticism, condemnation, resentment. Are you in haste?" she added,
with a winning smile. "Could you stop for a little talk with me?"
"I could not this morning," said Helen, with unsteady lips and voice,
and just on the verge of a nervous burst of tears.
"Then, will you come again some time? I am always in this pew on
Sunday morning, and will be glad to see you. Good-by, dear." She
slipped a card into Helen's hand, and turned to greet another, for she
saw that her recent companion needed to be left to herself for the
present.
Helen quickly made her way from the church, anxious to get away from
the crowd, and, crossing the street, entered Central Park. She was
nearly spent with the inward conflict she had been undergoing during
the last hour, and she was eager to get out into the open, under the
blue sky and green trees, to be alone, to think, to analyze the new and
startling phase of her own character that had been so strangely
revealed to her.
She glanced at the card in her hand. "Mrs. Raymond B. Everleigh," she
read, and somehow the euphonious name soothed and appealed to her even
as the beautiful face and winning voice of the woman had done.
She strolled slowly about for a while, thinking deeply along the new
lines suggested by what she had just heard within the church. Love,
she had learned, was not a mere emotion or sentiment, to be put on or
off according to the attraction to or repulsion for the personality of
those with whom one lives or mingles. No, she had just been awakened
to see it possessed a far deeper, higher significance than that.
Love--to be love--must be a motive power, an indwelling principle, an
all-absorbing desire always impelling one to do good. To do good to
whom? To all men, she had been told.
And hate? "Hate is criticism, condemnation, resentment," she repeated,
a shiver sweeping swiftly through her frame.
"Oh, I have never really _loved_!" she breathed, with an inward sense
of aversion for herself. "But--I have hated all my life! I have
simply been clinging to selfish, pleasurable emotions and sentiment,
which have been aroused by the personal attractions and pleasing
qualities of my friends, my child, and other dear ones, and which I
have _called_ love; but I begin to see something which I have never
dreamed of before."
She dropped upon a near-by seat, to try to think out the problem more
clearly; but the subject seemed infinite, and a sense of depression
began to fall upon her as she became more and more involved in its
intricacies.
A sudden burst of merry laughter at length aroused her from her
reverie, and she gradually became interested in other visitors to the
park, and particularly in some happy children, who were abandoning
themselves to the charms and freedom of the place and to their games.
Carriages and other equipages were continually passing along the broad
avenue, and presently her attention was attracted by a party of gay
people who were approaching in an automobile. They were laughing and
talking boisterously, and, as they drew nearer and then passed, a woman
leaned forward in the vehicle and leered at her.
It was Marie Duncan, the soubrette!
Helen was almost convulsed with inward terror as she met her eyes, but
she made no visible sign that she had recognized her, and the car swept
on.