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.
CHAPTER IV.
A YOUNG WIFE'S BRAVE STRUGGLES.
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.