When the Wells Opera Company arrived, Helen made it a point to attend a matinee, to ascertain for herself what the personality of the popular favorite was like.
That she was exceedingly beautiful and peculiarly fascinating there was no denying, and her voice was a marvel of sweetness.
John had never painted anything more true to life than the portrait she had discovered in his studio in Paris; although, if that were possible, the siren's charms were riper and even more alluring than at that time.
Nevertheless, there was a vein of coarseness in her manner, a boldness in her glance and smile, a voluptuous abandon in her acting, that offended and repelled Helen's finer sensibilities, and sent her home sick at heart, with mingled fear and jealousy; for, down deep in her consciousness, she was forced to acknowledge that it was just these elements in Marie Duncan that appealed to something of the same nature in her husband's character, and was winning him from his allegiance to his wife.
She wondered what had become of that portrait. She had never seen it since that never-to-be-forgotten day when she had visited Monsieur Jacques in such distress, to seek some explanation of John's prolonged absence from home.
John certainly had not brought it back to America with him. Whither had it disappeared? Had he destroyed it, fearing it might some time betray him?
Suddenly her outraged heart awoke to the truth, and her face flamed hotly with indignation and humiliation as she recalled the reproduction she had seen in the magazine she had found under John's pillow in his berth on the steamer, as they were returning from France.
John had finished his picture; he had given it to the actress before she sailed for Australia, and she had allowed it to be copied by the press.
It seemed to Helen that her cup of woe was filled to the brim—her endurance taxed to the limit, as she began to query within herself what would be the outcome of Marie Duncan's present engagement in San Francisco. But the courage that is born in heroes had also been planted in Helen Hungerford's heart, and, after the first shock of dismay had passed, she began to ask what she could do to counteract Marie's influence and keep her husband loyal to her and true to himself. To reveal her suspicions, to voice complaints, criticisms, or reproaches would only serve to make matters worse; for John was one who would never bear censure or opposition in any form. Her only hope lay in being tactful and diplomatic, in trying to make herself and their home so attractive that he would be weaned from his infatuation for the opera star, and realize the folly of ruining his reputation and domestic peace.
So she bravely resolved to conceal every evidence of anxiety. John was in absolute ignorance of the fact that she even dreamed of his interest in the actress, and she realized the wisdom of still concealing it from him. She said nothing of her afternoon at the matinee; she never referred to the opera, or expressed a desire to see it; neither did her husband invite her to go, as was usual whenever anything new, of a musical nature, was running; but she began a systematic course of acting herself, using every possible device to keep him with his family, catering to his tastes and humoring his lightest wish or whim. She asked him to be her escort to and from the social functions at which she was entertaining; she planned pleasures that would include them all, and tried to interest him in books she was reading.