The terror inspired by this startling encounter was simply paralyzing to Helen. She deigned no reply to the actress' rude salutation; but, with a mighty effort to preserve her self-control, turned to a clerk, and, with a semblance of composure which she was far from feeling, inquired for what she wanted.
The woman stood watching her for a minute or two, the sneer still curling her lips, as, with jealous eyes, she noted every detail of her costly, tailor-made costume, her simple though stylish hat, her perfectly fitting gloves, and the elegant shopping bag which she carried. Then, with a mocking, sibilant laugh that made her listener's flesh creep with painful revulsion, she swept insolently past her, and was lost in the crowd.
Helen selected a dozen handkerchiefs at random, gave her address to have them sent to her; then, half fainting, a blinding haze before her eyes, a deafening ringing in her ears, groped her way from the store, and boarded a car for home.
All the way uptown she sat like one dazed, vaguely wondering what had happened to her. Her heart lay like a great stone in her bosom; all her strength and vigor seemed suddenly to have withered within her, and the whole world to have grown dark, and desolate, and threatening.
"It cannot be," she moaned, as she entered her apartment and mechanically began to remove her hat and coat. "How can I bear it? Oh, to have struggled all these years to outlive that dreadful experience, only to be faced with it anew at such a time as this!"
She shivered as she recalled the brazen, defiant, mocking looks the woman had bestowed upon her; and that hissing, menacing laugh—what did she mean by it? She wondered if John had come back to this country with her—where and how they were living. Marie's clothing had told its own story of poverty and makeshift; perhaps now they would try to find her again; John might even seek to extort money from her as of old, and she would be subjected to a system of blackmail to protect herself and Dorothy from a harrowing scandal.
She had tried to make herself believe that she would never see either of them again; she had long ago felt a sense of freedom in the thought that John must be dead, or she certainly would have heard something of, or from, him; and she shuddered now as she remembered that she had never quite dared to hope he was. It was a murderous thought, she knew; but, living, she felt she could never forgive him—dead, she could at least try to forget him.
She was almost in despair, in view of this unexpected reappearance of Marie, which threatened to make havoc of her life. Must she tell Dorothy, to spoil her present happiness and cloud her approaching nuptials? No, she would not, she resolutely affirmed. It would be hard to bear her burden in silence, and wear a happy exterior, but she would, she must, rise to the occasion and help her carry out her plans as if nothing had happened—unless circumstances made it impossible to do so.
She sat for hours, brooding wretchedly upon the situation—until she heard Dorothy's step on the stairs, when she braced herself to greet her with her usual welcoming smile as she entered the room.
The following week Dorothy was invited to spend a few days with the Alexanders, at their delightful home on the Hudson. Helen had also been included in the invitation, but excused herself because of appointments with pupils and an entertainment for which she had to prepare. She thought it would, perhaps, be a relief to have Dorothy away for a while, at least, until she could recover more fully from the shock she had received, and she willingly let her go alone.