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.