SACKCLOTH AND ASHES.
John Hungerford flushed suddenly crimson; then paled to a sickly hue at
Helen's words.
Evidently her statement that Dorothy's life and happiness would be most
tenderly shielded by a considerate and devoted husband aroused memories
of the past that were far from pleasant. He stood silently studying
the photograph for several minutes, his face showing evidence of deep
inward emotion. Finally replacing it upon the mantel, he moved on,
curiously observant of the handsome furniture, choice bric-a-brac,
draperies, and pictures that were tastefully arranged about the room.
As he drew near a door leading into an adjoining apartment that was
used as a library, he paused, and stood irresolute.
"Helen--may I look through the suite?" he eagerly questioned, but with
evident embarrassment. "May I see Dorothy's room? I--I would like to
know how you two have been living; it will be something to--to
remember."
Helen's head sank wearily back against her chair. She was white to her
lips from her efforts at self-control.
"I don't care--go where you like," she breathed, in a scarcely audible
voice.
The man passed noiselessly into the library, where he was no less
observant of what it contained than he had been in the parlor.
Presently he moved out into the hall, and on to a chamber which he
realized at a glance must be Helen's. Leading from it was another and
smaller one, and this, he was sure, as he entered it, had been
Dorothy's.
It was the daintiest room imaginable. Excepting the bed, which was of
brass, the furniture was all of white enamel and willow ware in
graceful designs. Spotless draperies of muslin over white shades hung
at the windows, and were slightly looped with broad blue ribbons. A
beautiful blue-and-white rug lay upon the light hardwood floor, and the
fireplace was also tiled in the same colors.
Here John Hungerford lingered for a long time, moving silently, and
treading softly, as if he felt himself intruding upon some sacred
place. He paused before each piece of furniture, noting every detail
in outline and upholstery. Not an article of the frosted-silver toilet
set upon the pretty dresser escaped his notice; he even noted her class
pin and two small baby pins which he remembered seeing Dorothy wear as
a child, that were stuck into the blue-and-white satin pin-cushion
under the looking-glass. He examined all her books, the pictures on
the walls, and studied the photographs of her friends and schoolmates,
of which she had many.
Now and then he would softly touch and caress a vase or an ornament
with reverent, trembling fingers. A little workbasket, made of sweet
grass, and sending its delicate perfume to his nostrils, stood upon a
table, and some great tears splashed into it as he bent over it and
noted a small silver thimble lying among its other implements. When he
came to the pretty brass bed, with its dainty lace spread and shams, he
seemed almost overcome. His head sank heavily upon his breast, and,
reaching out a trembling hand, he gently patted one of the pillows, a
great sob heaving his chest and shaking his entire frame as he did so.
Then, with a gesture of despair that seemed also to imply the
renunciation of some previous purpose, he turned abruptly away, and
went back to a group of photographs fastened to the wall, where he had
noticed a likeness of Dorothy. It was a class picture that had been
taken of her in her graduating dress, just before leaving Vassar.
The man studied it intently, his hungry, yearning eyes devouring its
every detail. At last, with a stealthy glance over his shoulder, he
reached up, took it down, pressed it passionately to his lips; then,
hastily concealing it inside his coat, he left the room.
He merely glanced into the pretty dining room beyond, without
attempting to go farther, after which he slowly retraced his steps
through the hall to the reception room, and paused in the doorway
leading to the parlor, where Helen was still sitting.
"I am going now, Helen," he observed, in a spiritless tone. "Thank you
for letting me look around."
She rose and went toward him. He was standing where the light fell
full upon his face, and she was shocked to see how ghastly and ill he
looked.
"Where are you going?" she briefly inquired.
"I don't quite--know; I----"
"How did you find me?"
"You didn't think I would lose sight of you, did you, after once
getting a glimpse of you? I had to know something about Dorothy; I
couldn't stand it--the silence and the uncertainty--any longer."
"You will not come here again?"
There was a note of blended authority and appeal in Helen's tone.
"No, I will never trouble you again. I don't think I'll trouble
anybody long," he said grimly. "But, Helen"--a scarlet streak shot
vividly across his forehead--"could you let me have a little money? I
have only a few cents, and I haven't had anything to eat since----"
He broke off suddenly, and began to cough distressingly, his head bowed
low in humiliation because of his destitution.
Helen's heart bounded into her throat.
John Hungerford hungry--begging for something to eat! The epicure, the
prodigal, who, in days gone by, had never denied himself any luxury
that he had craved, now absolutely penniless and shabby, almost
starving! And that cough--how it racked him!
A thrill of horror ran through her; she clenched her hands in an effort
to repress the cry of dismay that arose to her lips.
"Where are you staying?" she forced herself to inquire, with an
appearance of composure.
"I don't know where I shall stay to-night," he faltered. "To-morrow I
am going back to San Francisco; Uncle Nathan has sent me a ticket."
So he had not even a place to lay his head that night, and the few
cents which he claimed to have surely would not provide him the
humblest lodging, let alone something to appease his hunger.
"Wait," said Helen, and, turning abruptly from him, a choking sensation
in her throat, she swept into the library. Going to her desk, she
wrote a few words upon a blank card, after which she opened a drawer,
drew forth a crisp new bank note, and hastily folded it, with the
numerals out of sight. She then returned to the hall, and slipped the
card, with the money underneath, into the man's hand.
"Here is the address of a good woman who sometimes works for me," she
said. "She lives not far from here; take the first turn to the right,
going downtown; the third street from there is Broad Street. Turn to
your left, find number ninety-five, and Mrs. Harding lives on the lower
floor. She will give you a comfortable room for the night and a good
breakfast in the morning."
As she concluded, Helen turned the catch and opened the door leading to
the outer hall. She was trembling violently, and her face was as
colorless as marble.
John Hungerford stood for a moment, regarding her with a hopeless,
heartbroken look; then, with bowed head and faltering steps, he passed
out upon the landing.
"Thank you; good-by--Helen," he breathed hoarsely.
"Good-by, John," she mechanically returned, and the door was shut
between them.
She stood listening until she heard him leave the house. Then, after
carefully fastening the burglar chain, she staggered to her chamber,
where, falling face downward upon her bed, she collapsed in violent
hysterics.
"Oh, if it were only a horrible dream from which I could wake!" she
moaned. "It cannot--cannot be possible that I have seen him again, and
in such a miserable plight!"
How would it all end? she wondered, as she lay there in abject misery.
Would the shameful past, which she had believed forever annihilated, by
the death of Marie Duncan and the destruction of those menacing
newspapers and photographs, be resurrected, and the fair fabric of
social prestige, almost of celebrity, which she had reared for herself
and her child during the last ten years be ruthlessly overthrown, and
crush them both to earth beneath the ruins?
She had firmly believed for many years that she would never again meet
the faithless man who had once been her husband. She had fondly
imagined that she was absolutely free to live out the beautiful future
she had grown to anticipate without once having her peace disturbed by
any fear that he would ever cross her path again. But, alas, for the
frailty of human hopes! To be sure, he had told her that he would
never trouble her again, and there had been a hopeless finality in both
his manner and words when he left her to-night, that seemed convincing.
But would he keep his word? Would he--oh, would he?
And to what depths he had fallen!
Could that homeless, penniless, pitiful tramp be the once
light-hearted, care-free John Hungerford? The man who had been her
husband, and in whose companionship she had once believed herself to be
supremely happy! And now--she cringed with shame and repugnance at the
mere remembrance of his presence.
How could he ever have sunk so low? Ah, she knew but too well! He had
always depended upon some one else to make life easy for him, to help
him over hard places, to care for his comfort, and cater to his
entertainment; while he gathered only the honey along the way, shirking
every manly duty, ignoring every sacred responsibility; and when his
props, one by one, had fallen away from him, he had drifted aimlessly
and helplessly with the current, sinking lower and lower, until, ill,
hungry, and desperate, he had--as a last shameless resort--turned to
her, his divorced wife, for help.
Helen spent a wretched night. To sleep was impossible, with that gaunt
figure, haggard face, and racking cough continually haunting her.
Again and again she wished that she had given John twenty, instead of
ten, dollars. How was he ever to get to California with any degree of
comfort upon so small a sum? He certainly could not take a sleeper; he
would have to ride all the way in a day coach, or go hungry--unless,
perchance, his uncle had also sent him a ticket for a berth, which was
doubtful. And what would become of him upon reaching San Francisco?
He did not look fit for work, and she knew well, from past experience,
that Nathan Young was not likely to tolerate laggards in his employ.
What possible hope could the future hold for him--sick, spiritless, and
with not a friend in the world to really care what became of him? She
shivered as a vision of the home for the poor arose before her. Would
he be driven to that? Or, something even worse, perhaps--the coward's
refuge--suicide?
These were some of the distracting thoughts that thronged her brain and
drove sleep from her pillow during that long night.
At the same time she was greatly relieved to know that the continent
would separate them. He had promised that he would never trouble her
again, and if he kept his word he would be gone to-morrow, and Dorothy
need never know aught of this night's dreadful experience.
Somewhat calmed by these reflections, she finally, just as day began to
dawn, dropped into a profound slumber, from which she did not awaken
until nearly ten in the morning.
Fortunately it was Saturday; she had no pupils for that day, and her
time was her own. But she was far from happy as she tried to busy
herself with some light duties about the house. Her thoughts
constantly reverted to her interview with John, and a sense of
self-condemnation began to fasten itself upon her, in view of the
attitude she had maintained toward him.
She knew that she had not been kind to him; she had flung scorn and
taunts at him when he was already crushed beneath a heartrending load
of misery and shame. She had manifested antagonism, bitterness, and
resentment toward him. These, summed up, meant hate, and hate
meant--what? "He that hateth his brother is a murderer," was the text
that came to her again with a revolting shock, in reply. John had
implied that perhaps she had wished him dead. She knew, now, that she
had, and involuntarily she passed her hand across her forehead as she
thought of that old-time brand upon the brow of Cain. Had she fallen
so low as that? Had she been simply a whited sepulcher all these
years, showing an attractive, gracious, irreproachable surface to the
world, while in her heart she had been nursing this deadly viper, hate?
John had deeply wronged her, but he had wronged himself far more, and
now his sins had brought their own punishment--had stripped and left
him wounded by the wayside; while she, instead of binding up his
wounds, pouring in the oil of kindness and the wine of cheer and good
will, had smitten him afresh. Surely she would not have treated the
veriest stranger like that! True, she had given him money, but how had
she given it--what had been the motive? She knew it had been merely to
get rid of him and to save herself the pain of thinking of him as a
starving man.
All this was something similar to, though more effective than, the
sifting she had experienced that never-to-be-forgotten Sunday in
church, so long ago. She realized now that she had not rooted out, but
simply buried a little deeper, for the time being, the corroding
bitterness within her heart. Her interest in Marie Duncan, the
kindness and sympathy she had shown her during her last hours, the
change in her own and in the woman's mental attitude toward each other,
together with Marie's surrender of the menacing newspapers and
photographs, which had eliminated all fear of exposure, had brought to
her a deceptive peace, which she had believed to be a purified
conscience. But the test that had come to her now proved to her that
the serpent had only been sleeping, that she still had her battle to
fight, her victory to win, or the evil would recoil upon herself, warp
her nature, and poison her whole future.
It was a season of sackcloth and ashes for Helen, but the searching
introspection to which she subjected herself had uncovered the
appalling effects which long years of secret brooding, self-pity, and
self-righteousness had produced upon her, and awakened a wholesome
sense of self-condemnation and repentance, thus opening the way for a
more healthful mental condition and growth.
She realized all this, in a way; but she did not know how to begin to
tread down the conflicting forces that were rampant within her; how to
silence the mental arguments that were continually affirming that she
had been deeply wronged--that she might, perhaps, forgive, but could
never forget; that John had made his own bed and must lie in it--he had
no legal or moral right to expect either aid or sympathy from her--and
so on to the end of the chapter--or, rather, the chapter seemed to have
no end.
"What shall I do?" she finally exclaimed, with a feeling of exhaustion.
"The evil talks to me incessantly, and I do not know how to get the
better of it."
Suddenly she started from her chair, and, going to her desk, opened a
drawer and found a card.
"Mrs. Raymond B. Everleigh, number ---- Riverside Drive, New York," she
read aloud, and then stood gravely thinking for a minute or two.
Then she opened her telephone book, found the name and address she
wanted, and called the number opposite over the phone.
"Is this Mrs. Raymond B. Everleigh?" she inquired, when the connection
had been made.
The answer came back: "Yes, I am Mrs. Everleigh."
"Does Mrs. Everleigh remember the lady who sat with her in church the
third Sunday in May, and to whom she gave her card, asking her to come
again?" Helen questioned.
"Yes, indeed; and I have hoped to see her again--wondered why I have
not."
"It is she who is talking with you now. May I come to see you to-day?
I know it is asking a great favor from a stranger, but----"
Helen's appealing voice ceased while she listened to something that
came from the other end.
"At two o'clock? Oh, thank you! I will be there," she gratefully
returned, as she hung up her receiver and hastened to her room to dress
for the street.