When she began to recover from her astonishment the actress was out of sight, and a sudden revulsion of feeling assailed her. A great pity welled up in her heart for the unfortunate woman whose lot in life, she was sure, had not been an easy one; perchance it had been even harder than her own. She had acknowledged that she was passée, that her profession had become a grind, and that she was in desperate need of money. Her clothing was cheap—shabby genteel—perhaps she even knew what it was to be hungry—and Helen wished now she could call her back and give her some money.
"Truly life is a strange problem," she said to herself, as she slowly wended her way from the park and boarded her car for home, her spirit chastened by the experiences of the day, her heart strangely softened toward Marie Duncan, for whom she had always entertained only condemnation and resentment—bitter hate—because she had robbed her of her husband, and entailed a lifelong blight upon her own future.
Now she was almost moved to tears for her. Surely she was "not all bad," as she had said, for, down deep in her heart, there was a germ of good, some redeeming qualities, which, under right conditions, might have expanded and ripened into a noble womanhood; for she "loved little children;" she had even yearned for "a little daughter" of her own. Who could say, had that sacred heart longing for motherhood been gratified, but that she might have become a power for great good in the world—the matron of a happy home, the mother of a promising family?
Three days later, on taking up the morning paper, Helen read of a shocking accident that had occurred the previous evening. A party of actors and actresses had been precipitated down an embankment while returning from an out-of-town automobile trip. The chauffeur had lost control of his car, which he was running at a reckless speed; two had been instantly killed and three badly injured. Two of the latter were in a fair way to recover, but the once brilliant and beautiful Marie Duncan, of light-opera fame, was now lying in the Mercy Hospital, hovering between life and death, with no hope of recovery.
"How strange, and how dreadful!" murmured Helen, in a tone of awe. Marie had told her that she was no longer before the public, that she was "passée," and without money; that she had, in fact, "come to the end of her rope." It seemed now almost like a prophecy come true. Helen wondered if she had a friend in the world to be with her, or to do anything for her in this supreme hour of her life.
She sat thinking for a long time, evidently seriously considering some important move, for her face wore a grave and perplexed expression, while every now and then she restlessly changed her position, as if her thoughts annoyed her.
At length she aroused herself, and deliberately tore the paper she had been reading into atoms.
"Dorrie must not see this," she muttered, an anxious look in her eyes. Then she started violently, sprang to her feet, scattering the fragments upon the floor, and went directly to her telephone.
"Good morning, Mr. Alexander! I hoped you would answer me," she said, when the connection she had asked for was made. "Everything is well with you all, I trust? Dorrie not down yet! Well, it is a little early, perhaps. Have you seen the morning papers? Have you read about the shocking accident of last evening?
"Oh, thank you! How very thoughtful! I could not rest until I had asked you to destroy it," she said tremulously, as the answer to her query had come back, assuring her that the paper had already been burned, and Dorothy should be tenderly guarded from every possible chance of seeing the name that could not fail to recall the unhappy past.