Читать книгу Redeemed - Mrs. George Sheldon Downs - Страница 5

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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.