Читать книгу Redeemed - Mrs. George Sheldon Downs - Страница 6

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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.