When Helen entered the vestibule to the Grenoble, where she lived, on her return from her visit to Mrs. Everleigh, she found Mrs. Harding, to whom she had sent John the night before, in the vestibule, just about to ring her bell, and knew instantly, from the woman's face, that something had gone wrong.
"What is it?" she inquired, with quickened pulses.
"You sent a man—Mr. Williams—to me last night?"
"Yes." Helen was touched by the fact that John had taken pains to conceal his identity by giving his middle name to the woman.
He had been taken ill in the night, Mrs. Harding told her, and she had found him delirious in the morning. She had sent for a physician—Doctor Wing—who seemed to think the case critical, and wanted him taken to some hospital, where he could have better air, and a constant attendant; but, Mrs. Harding explained, she felt she ought to come and talk with madam before consenting to the move.
"That was right," observed Helen, who had been thinking rapidly while the woman was talking. "I knew Mr.—Williams years ago in San Francisco, and I am sure his friends would not wish him sent to a hospital. He told me he intended to start for California to-day—he had his ticket—so his friends will be looking for him next week."
"Well, marm, it is my opinion that he'll never see San Francisco again," said the woman, with a grave shake of her head.
"Oh!" cried Helen sharply; "is he as ill as that?"
Was John going to die, after all? She was shocked through and through at the thought. No, he must not—he should not! She could never forgive herself for the dreadful things she had thought and said the night before, if he did.
Had her repentance come too late? Was she to have no opportunity to prove the sincerity of her desire to put into practice the higher interpretation of love to which she was beginning to awake?
"He's an awful sick man, marm," her companion replied.
"When will Doctor Wing go to see him again?"
"He said he'd drop in about six o'clock."
"Then I will be there at six, also; I wish to talk with Doctor Wing," Helen observed, and Mrs. Harding, anxious to get back to her charge, but evidently relieved to have her responsibility shared, went her way.
When Helen had leased her apartment at the Grenoble, she had hired another smaller suite of two rooms and bath, adjoining, and running at right angles with it. These she had fitted up attractively as a studio, where she gave her lessons and prepared for her social engagements, thus leaving her apartment free for Dorrie to entertain her friends whenever she wished. At her request, her landlord had cut a door between the suites, and this arrangement had enabled her to go back and forth without being obliged to pass through the public hall.
While talking with Mrs. Harding she had conceived a plan to meet Doctor Wing's desire for better air and good care for his patient. She would put a bed and other comforts in the larger room of the studio. Mrs. Harding was a good, sensible, reliable woman, capable in every way—and she would engage her and a trained nurse, if necessary, to take care of the invalid. John should have every possible chance for his life that she could give him, and perhaps this would blot out that dreadful suspicion he had voiced that she had wished him out of the way.
She unfolded this plan to Doctor Wing when she went to Mrs. Harding's to meet him, at six o'clock, and, the physician cordially approving it, in less than three hours the sick man was transferred to Helen's cheerful, well-ventilated rooms, with good Mrs. Harding as nurse and attendant.
The woman said she would prefer to take care of him alone; she believed she could do it, and it would be much easier for her than to be subjected to the red tape and rigid rules of a trained nurse. Helen seconded this proposition, saying she, too, would do whatever she was able, and would stand ready to provide a trained nurse at any moment, if the plan did not work to Doctor Wing's entire satisfaction.
The physician gave his consent somewhat reluctantly, but said they would try it for a day or two. He was somewhat at a loss to understand Madam Ford's interest in the man, even though she had frankly explained that she had known both him and his family when, years ago, she also had lived in San Francisco.
However, it was no affair of his, only so far as it made better conditions for his patient; the rooms she offered were certainly more desirable than a cot in the public ward of a hospital would be, and madam, if she were doing this simply because of a friendly interest in him and his far-off family, was a rare woman, indeed.
For two weeks it seemed a doubtful battle for the sick man, who was delirious and entirely unconscious of his condition and surroundings; but at the end of that time he began slowly to mend, although he manifested very little interest in the fact, obediently submitting to whatever was done or prescribed for him, but with a feeble air of protest that was discouraging to those interested in him.
"He doesn't want to get well," Mrs. Harding told the physician, when he came one morning and found his patient very weak and unresponsive to his cheerful greeting.
"I know it, poor fellow!" he gravely replied. "But we will do the best we can for him, although it looks as if that 'best' will not keep him here very long."
"Where am I?" John asked his nurse a few days later. "Is this a hospital?"
"No, it is a small suite," she told him. "Some one who was not going to occupy it for a while offered the use of it to Doctor Wing, so he brought you here and engaged me to take care of you."
Helen had insisted that her agency in the matter was not to be known—at least, not at present, and when John came to himself she withdrew from the rooms altogether.
"A man does not like to be under obligations to a woman," she had said, "and doubtless we shall soon hear from his friends, who will then assume the care of him."
But John, as he slowly improved, in spite of his indifference to life, appeared intuitively to realize that he was not wholly indebted to the good doctor for the comforts he was enjoying. The rooms were handsomely furnished; there were dainty and womanly touches all around him that somehow suggested a familiar atmosphere; the bed linen and towels were fine and heavy; a rich, warm-hued dressing robe and nice underwear had been provided for him, and, with the artistic tray on which his food was served, the pretty hand-painted china, and bright flowers in unique vases, besides many luxuries to tempt his appetite, all betrayed a thoughtful interest that strangers, or a strange doctor, would hardly bestow upon one so destitute as himself.
He talked very little with either his physician or Mrs. Harding; asked no questions, yet was always appreciative of any service rendered him. By the end of four weeks he was able to sit up in a great easy-chair by a sunny window, where he would remain as long as was permitted, sometimes sitting with closed eyes, apparently thinking; at others manifesting a trifle more interest than heretofore by studying the surrounding buildings and his rooms.
He was now allowed to have a daily paper to look over, and Doctor Wing tried to draw him out on current events and other subjects, now and then telling a pleasant story or a piquant joke; but while John was always most courteous in his bearing and conversation he could hardly be said to be responsive to these efforts in his behalf.
One day there came a tap on the door leading into Helen's apartment. John caught the sound, although the door of the room he was in was partially closed. Mrs. Harding answered the summons, there followed a few low-spoken words, and presently the woman returned, bearing in her hands a basket of luscious fruit, a few fragrant flowers carelessly scattered over it.
"Where did you get it?" the man inquired, his face lighting with pleasure at the attractive offering. It was the first really spontaneous sign of interest he had manifested.
"A lady who lives in the next suite sent it in to you," Mrs. Harding explained, as she laid a tempting peach, with a bunch of grapes, upon a plate and passed it to him.
John sat suddenly erect, exhibiting an energy which betrayed to Mrs. Harding that he possessed more strength than she had supposed. He flushed a hot crimson, glanced alertly out of the window near him, then at the door leading into the hall, through which the doctor usually entered. He next set his plate upon a small table beside him, arose, and went to another window, where he stood for several minutes, studying the surroundings outside.
Presently he returned to his chair and his fruit, a wan smile curling his lips, for between certain suspicions that had beset him of late and a rather accurate bump of location he had gotten his bearings at last, and thought he knew where he was.
"Mrs. Harding, this house is the Grenoble, is it not?" he quietly inquired, as he began to pare his peach, but with hands that trembled in spite of his efforts to conceal his excitement.
"Um—yes," she replied, with some reluctance.
"And Madam Ford lives in the adjoining suite, does she not? It was she who sent me the fruit?"
"You know, Mrs. Harding, it was Madam Ford who sent me to you the night I was taken ill," John resumed, in a matter-of-fact tone, without appearing to observe her confusion. "I would be glad to see her again; will you ask her if she will spare me a few moments?"
On receiving this message, Helen knew that she could no longer keep out of sight; she had realized from the first that the truth would have to be revealed sooner or later, and she went to him at once, greeting him courteously, as if he had been simply an old acquaintance.
"Helen, you are responsible for my being here. Why did you do this?" he exclaimed huskily, as the nurse left the room, closing the door after her.
"If this is what you wished to see me about I am not going to stay, for you are not to get excited," Helen returned reprovingly; then she added kindly: "There was simply nothing else to do."
"Yes, there was; you could have let them take me to some hospital, where they would have put me to die, like any other beggar. Why didn't you?" he demanded bitterly.
"Because, for one reason, Doctor Wing thought this the better plan for you——"
"But the expense of it!" he interposed, flushing hotly. "To say nothing about the imposition on you."
"Oh, don't let that trouble you," said Helen calmly. "Of course, I wrote to your uncle, telling him of your illness. I thought he would be wondering, after sending you the ticket, why you did not put in an appearance at San Francisco."
"Well, what did he say?"
"He wrote me to see that you were made comfortable, and sent me some money."
"How much?"
"Fifty dollars," Helen confessed, rather reluctantly.
A cynical smile curled John Hungerford's lips.
"Fifty dollars! It has cost you many times that to provide for my needs, and the care I have had, to say nothing about the doctor's bill," he faltered. "Well"—with a reckless air—"I shall soon be where I will trouble no one, and—I am glad of it."
"Why should you be glad of it?" Helen gravely asked.
"Because I do not wish to be a burden to any one. I've been a failure from beginning to end, and I am weary of the race. Even if I were not, I know my fate is settled, and it would be useless to try to change it."
"How do you know your fate is settled, as you express it?"
He held up a trembling, transparent hand.
"I have no blood; I have no strength, no courage, nothing to look forward to," he said, in a hopeless tone.
"Don't you think it would be more brave if, instead of yielding to such gloomy thoughts, you made an effort to get well?" Helen gently suggested.
"What for?Whathave I to live for?" he cried, lifting agonized eyes to her.
"For the sake of trying to live—rightfor a while," she gravely but very kindly replied.
A wave of scarlet shot over his wan face, and his head fell upon his breast.
"By Heaven, I wish I could!" he exclaimed, looking up, after a moment, a ring of sincerity in his voice that Helen had never heard before.
"Then, John, why not make an honest effort for it?" And Helen's tone was full of strength and encouragement.
"It is too late—I am not going to get well. I am sure the doctor thinks I cannot," he wearily returned.
"Simply because you have no wish to, and will not try; your own attitude is what is sending you to your doom. Don't let this inertia conquer you, John; buckle on your courage, take a fresh grip on hope, and rise above this weakness. There is hardly any situation in life so adverse that it cannot be overcome if one will go to work the right way. Then, think of your talent—it was a divine gift. Can you bear the thought of making no return for it—of leaving absolutely nothing behind you to show that John Hungerford, who was born with the soul of a great artist—you know, Monsieur Jacques told you that—ever lived? Oh, rouse yourself; start out anew, and make your mark in the world!"
Helen had spoken very earnestly, and it was evident that her words had made a deep impression upon her listener, for it was with difficulty that he preserved his composure.
"Do you think I can—now, after all the best of my life has been wasted?" he breathed eagerly, but swallowing hard to keep back a sob that almost got the better of him.
"I am sure you can," she cheerily responded. "Make up your mind, first of all, that you are going to get well; that will be half of the battle won; and, with health and strength regained, the rest will be comparatively easy. I wish——"
She paused suddenly, as if in doubt of the wisdom of what she had been about to say.
"What do you wish?" he inquired, as he keenly searched her thoughtful face.
"I wish you would allow me to bring a dear friend to see you—some one whom I feel sure would be a great help to you."
"Who is this friend?" John demanded, almost sharply, and with suddenly averted face.
"A Mrs. Everleigh—the purest, sweetest woman I have ever known."
"Oh!" A great fear seemed to vanish as the man breathed the one word; but Helen, busy with her own thoughts, did not appear to heed him.
"Does she know——" he began again, after a moment, and then faltered, a hot flush mounting to his forehead.
"She knows nothing, except that a Mr. Williams, whom I once knew in California, has been very ill here at the Grenoble, and I, as a neighbor, have been interested in him," Helen assured him.
During the four weeks of John's illness she had seen Mrs. Everleigh three times; once her new friend had come to see her, and twice she had been to her, and a strong affection had sprung up between them. Helen had been so benefited and uplifted by the woman's higher thought and its practical application to daily living, it had occurred to her that if she could bring John under her influence he might be inspired to desire a new lease of life, and to try to redeem his past.
She had told her new friend of John, and of his sickness—had intimated, as she said, that she had known him years ago in her old home, San Francisco. She gave her some idea of his great talent, and how he had wasted it; but she had not mentioned the fact that he had once been her husband, and the author of her own troubles, or that he was under any obligation to her for the care and comforts he had received during his illness.
"Why do you wish me to meet this Mrs. Everleigh?" John inquired, after silently considering the proposition for several moments.
"I want you to know this grand woman. She will do you good; she will inspire you to take a different view—to have a better understanding—of life and its obligations," was Helen's earnest response. "She will not preach to you," she hastened to add, as she saw an uneasy look flit over his face. "She is no officious missionary, going about trying to reform the world at large, and I shall simply introduce her to you as a friend whom I thought it would be pleasant for you to meet after being shut up here for so long, and—— Well, I am sure you will find her irresistible."
A smile, half of amusement, half of skepticism, curled her listener's pale lips.
"You have certainly aroused my curiosity, and you may bring your friend whenever you see fit," he observed, but more to please Helen than because he felt any special desire to meet her paragon of excellence.
"Let me say you have a rare treat in store," she returned, adding, as he manifested signs of weariness: "But you must not talk more now; try to rest and think cheerful thoughts, and you will be stronger to-morrow."
She arose as she concluded, and, with a kindly good-by, quietly left the room.
John was not as well the following day, and the new impulse with which Helen's visit of the previous day had inspired him seemed to have lost its grip upon him, while all his former listlessness and indifference to life returned.
Previous to her call, Helen had interviewed Doctor Wing regarding the condition of his patient, and he had told her that, while the crisis appeared to have been well passed, and there were indications that he might rally for a time, he had grave doubts regarding his ultimate recovery; for, aside from certain threatening conditions, the man was laboring under great mental depression, and appeared to have no desire to live, which, of itself, was by no means an encouraging phase. Consequently she had not been wholly unprepared for John's own admission that he was glad he was not going to get well.
But since her acquaintance with Mrs. Everleigh, Helen's views regarding many things pertaining to life had radically changed. She did not believe that John's case was hopeless, notwithstanding the unfavorable outlook, and she resolved that he should be saved—he should have another chance to prove himself a man, and a great artist, if there was any power that could save him; and she felt assured there was.
She went immediately to her friend, to whom she explained the situation, and Mrs. Everleigh promised to go to see "Mr. Williams" the following day.
She came late in the morning, when, refreshed by a good night's rest, he was feeling much brighter and stronger than on the previous day. And the moment he heard her speak, and looked into her eyes, he knew that all Helen had said of her was true.
She was a brilliant as well as a beautiful woman, for, aside from having been finely educated, she had always enjoyed rare social advantages. There was also a merry vein in her nature, and she had not been many minutes in his presence before John found himself laughing out spontaneously over her vivid description of a ludicrous incident that had occurred on her way to the Grenoble to see him. This set him immediately at his ease with her, and they dropped into a free and interesting discussion of various topics that lasted for nearly an hour.
When Mrs. Everleigh finally arose to go she observed, with charming cordiality:
"I have enjoyed my call so much, Mr. Williams, I am coming again soon, if you will allow me."
"You are very kind, Mrs. Everleigh, and I assure you it will give me great pleasure to have you do so," he replied, with all the old-time courtesy of the once elegant John Hungerford.
"And I will send my car around for you as soon as you feel strong enough for a drive," the lady continued brightly. "You need to get out into this crisp fall air, and before long you will feel like a new man; the world will seem like a different place to you."
John's face fell suddenly. Until this moment he had not once thought of himself since her coming.
"I fear that will never be," he said, in a spiritless tone. "There are strong indications that before very long I may be in a different world from this."
"Who has dared to pass such sentence upon you, Mr. Williams?" gravely questioned his companion. "Put that thought away from you at once; it is your rightful heritage to be a strong, well man, and—you still have work to do here." Then she smiled cheerily into his face as she held out her hand to take leave of him, adding: "But we will talk more of that when I come again." And she went away, leaving John with a sense of something new having been born into his consciousness.
He walked to a window, and stood looking thoughtfully out over the roofs and chimney pots, while a voice within him, that seemed almost audible, repeated over and over: "It is your rightful heritage to be a strong, well man; and you still have work to dohere."
That same evening, the duties of the day being over, Helen went in to see him again, and to inform him that she had received a second letter from his uncle, Mr. Young, who had sent her another check for fifty dollars, which she laid before him as she spoke.
He pushed it almost rudely from him.
"Keep it," he said, flushing sensitively; "I cannot take it."
She appeared to heed neither his act nor his words, but casually inquired, while she observed that he looked better and brighter than when she last saw him:
"Where is your painting outfit, John?"
"Sold at auction, I imagine," he replied; then continued, with painful embarrassment: "I may as well tell you exactly how matters stand with me. Marie left me—that is, we had a final falling out—more than three years ago. She immediately broke camp, sold off everything—even my kit—and cleared out; went West and got her bill from me, and I've drifted about ever since. We didn't have a very happy time together, and I——"
"You need not tell me any more," Helen here abruptly interposed. "Forget it, if you can."
"Oh, Helen," he burst forth, with exceeding bitterness, "I wish Icouldforget it! I wish I could wake up to find these last ten years only a miserable nightmare!"
"I think you are waking up from a very bad dream, John," she returned, in a friendly tone. "You are looking decidedly better, and it rests a good deal with yourself whether you continue to improve."
"Marie is dead—was killed, or, rather, fatally injured, and died in the Mercy Hospital a few months ago," resumed John, not to be diverted from what he had been saying. "I did not learn of it until it was all over, or I would have gone to——"
"Yes, I know; I read of the accident," Helen again broke in upon him, and somewhat startled to learn that he had been in New York at that time.
But she felt that she could not discuss that chapter of his life with him. Her chief desire now was to start him upon the right road to redeem his past, if that were possible; then leave him to work his own way to a more prosperous future.
"Now, let there be no more looking back," she hastened to add; "do not waste time in vain regrets over what is behind you, but keep your face steadfastly toward the light of the new day that is dawning upon you. You are really better—you are going to get well; you will take up your art again, and you will do something worth while."
"Upon my soul, I wish I might!" he said, in a low, eager tone, and secretly encouraged by her positive assertions.
"Then if you really wish it, suppose you begin at once," Helen proposed, with inspiring energy. "Take some of this money your uncle has sent, get what materials you need, and go to work, doing a little—what you are able—every day. Make out a list of what you require, and I will place the order for you; here are pencil and paper. I will come for the memorandum directly after breakfast to-morrow morning, take it to Bronson's, have the things sent up immediately, and you can make a beginning before the day is out."
She pushed some writing materials across the cable to him, and then arose to go.
The man lifted a wondering glance to her.
"Helen, you are a marvel to me! You have put new life into me," he said, with deep emotion. "I am simply overwhelmed by your goodness—I wonder that your heart is not filled with bitter hatred for me."
Helen flushed consciously at his words, and moved away to the mantel, where she stood musing for a few minutes as she gazed down upon the glowing logs in the fireplace below.
How she had struggled with the demon of hate no one save herself would ever know. But she had finally conquered her foe. She knew she had, from the simple fact that she experienced only the feeling of satisfaction in knowing that John would get well—that she wanted him to get well; while she firmly believed that he would be a better man in the future for the helping hand she had given him and the interest she had manifested in him. No, she no longer bore him the slightest ill will; instead of cherishing antagonism and resentment, she had come to regard him as her "neighbor," a brother man, for whom she would do only as she would be done by; and, having once attained this attitude, a great burden of self-condemnation had rolled from her heart and left her at peace with him and the world.
"No, John, I have no hatred for you," she at length gravely observed, but without turning toward him. "Once I—I could not have said this, but I have learned, through bitter experience, that hate harms the hater rather than the object of his hatred; that it corrodes, corrupts, and destroys him mentally, morally, and spiritually; and to-day I can truly say that I only wish you well—wish that you may grow strong, not only physically, but in every other higher and better sense of the word, and make for yourself a name and place in the world, that will compel all men to respect you. I know you can do it, if you will."
As she ceased she turned abruptly, and, with a low-voiced good night, slipped from the room before he could detain her.
The man sat motionless and absorbed in thought for a long time after she had gone. Every word she had spoken had sunk deep into his consciousness, and had shown him, directly and indirectly, not only what she had overcome and suffered in her struggles with adverse circumstances, but how she had won the greatest battle of all—the conquest over self. At last he lifted his bowed head, and revealed a face all aglow with a new and inspiring purpose; at the same time there was a look of keenest pain in his eyes.
"I will do it!" he breathed hoarsely. "But, good God, what a royal heart I have trampled beneath my feet!"
* * * * * * *
Three weeks later John Hungerford left the Grenoble apartments, a comparatively well man.
Meantime, having, through Helen's energetic efforts, obtained the necessary materials, he had labored industriously, and with a constantly growing interest, at his easel, gaining flesh and strength each day, while something seemed to be burning within him that he had never been conscious of before.
What was it? he wondered, with almost a feeling of awe—this ever-increasing energy of purpose, this resistless zeal, that was pushing him forward and lifting him above anything he had ever aspired to in the years long gone by?
Was it the soul of the great artist, in embryo, that at last was really beginning to expand in its effort to burst its long-imprisoning shackles and plume its wings for a lofty flight?
Mrs. Everleigh came to see him every few days, and her talks with him opened up broader vistas of life and its obligations, and imbued him with higher ideals and desires. She insisted upon his going out every day, and frequently sent her car to take him out of the city for an invigorating drive in the country.
All this—the cheerful thought, the better purpose and outlook, together with the kind attentions of those interested in him—could not fail to develop faith and hope, with better physical conditions, also, and his improvement was rapid.
During this time he had completed two very attractive paintings, which, through the influence of his physician, were placed in a leading art store, and sold at a fair valuation—enough to enable him to begin business for himself, in a couple of inexpensive rooms in another part of the city, which, however, he intended only to be a stepping-stone to something better.
On the morning of his departure for his modest studio he did not look like the same man who, bowed and broken, had come to Helen's door a few weeks previous. His form was erect, and had taken on a good coat of flesh; his eyes were clear and bright; his face, tinged with the glow of health, was full of hope, and his bearing characterized by a quiet dignity, and also by an unaccustomed energy that bespoke a definite purpose for the future.
An expressman had already taken away his boxes, and he had just sealed and was addressing a letter, when Doctor Wing dropped in to give him a friendly handshake and wish him all success in his new undertaking.
"May only prosperity attend you, my friend," he said, when, after chatting a few minutes, he arose to leave and begin his daily round of visits; "and, by the way, I have been sorry I didn't take one of those pictures that were sold at Arlington's the other day. Duplicate that autumnal scene for me, will you? Or make me something after the same style."
John's lips quivered slightly as he received this, his first, order, and at the same time recognized the underlying motive that had prompted it.
"With the greatest pleasure," he returned, his voice a trifle husky; "and, doctor, I can only regard this as another kindness added to the many favors I have already received from you and shall always gratefully remember."
Mrs. Everleigh made her appearance just at this moment, and her breezy greetings relieved the physician of the embarrassment he was beginning to experience, in view of John's expressions of gratitude, and he was glad to be saved the necessity of replying.
She had told John the previous day that she claimed the privilege of taking him downtown and installing him in his studio; she would call for him at eleven, and it was to keep this appointment that she now presented herself.
The whole-souled doctor and the lady had become very good friends during John's convalescence, for not infrequently they had met in his rooms, and now and then enjoyed a pleasant tilt at each other's expense regarding certain differences of opinion.
Upon this occasion her coming appeared to arouse afresh his spirit of jocosity, and they exchanged several glittering lances that put them all in a very merry frame of mind, which was a good thing, for John, not having seen Helen that morning, was somewhat depressed at the thought of going away without a few last words with her.
At length Doctor Wing broke off in the midst of a hearty laugh over a bright repartee from Mrs. Everleigh, saying, as he caught up his hat and gloves:
"Well, this will not do for me, much as I dislike to tear myself away from such pleasant company; but I am culpably neglecting my duties. Mrs. Everleigh"—extending a cordial hand to her—"it has been a great pleasure to know you, and I am hoping that our acquaintance will not end here, even though"—the old roguish look again dancing in his eyes—"you certainly stole a very clever march upon me here."
"How so?" she questioned, with an assumed air of innocence, but with an answering gleam of amusement, for she could not fail to understand what he meant.
"Why, as you well know, I lost my patient the day you first appeared in this apartment," he returned, with mock severity. Then he added, more gravely, and much to his listeners' surprise: "And it is not my first or second experience of the kind, either, with you people."
"Do you regret those experiences, Doctor Wing?" the lady gently inquired.
He hesitated an instant; then met her eyes squarely.
"No, I do not," he frankly replied. "Honesty compels me to admit it, to confess that I have been exceedingly grateful for them, especially upon learning that the patient had been very quickly healed after changing practitioners—that a precious life had thus been saved, and I had escaped the most painful duty demanded of a physician. I do not believe," he continued thoughtfully, "that any conscientious physician, who had done his utmost to save life, has ever written the name of the patient he has lost upon a death certificate, and appended his own signature thereto, without experiencing a very depressing sense of the inadequacy of materia medica."
Mrs. Everleigh had regarded the gentleman with mingled admiration and wonder while he was speaking.
"Doctor Wing, you are a brave man!" she heartily exclaimed, as he paused. "And allow me to add that I appreciate the very noble attitude you have revealed more than I can express. I know of one other who, like you, having exhausted his resources in certain complicated cases, has even advised the patient to change the method of treatment, and quick healing has resulted. I presume there are many more physicians just as conscientious and broad-minded, and I say all honor to such men."
"No doubt I would be severely censured by the majority of my profession for giving expression to such convictions," Doctor Wing continued, with a slight shrug of his shoulders; "but I believe human judgment is not the highest tribunal to which man is answerable for either his deeds or opinions, and one must be true to the voice within if he would preserve his integrity and peace of mind, and not become a mere puppet. Please do not misunderstand me," he interpolated, in lighter vein; "I am not attempting to depreciate my own school, and I intend to stick to it until I am convinced that there is a better. At the same time, there are existing conditions against which I, together with some of my colleagues, have the courage of my convictions, and am ready, if occasion requires, to take a radical stand."
"Such as what, please?—if you have the time to spare to tell me," said Mrs. Everleigh, who had listened to him with deep interest.
"Well, in my opinion there should be absolute medical freedom, as well as absolute religious freedom," he replied. "No one school has any moral right to persecute or seek to overthrow any other school, or usurp authority to compel the public to submit to its method of treatment, any more than any special religious denomination has the right to wipe out other denominations, compel mankind to adopt its tenets and submit to its mode of baptism. All men have equal rights—the right to say whether they will or will not have this or that remedy for their diseases; this or that doctrine to save their souls. Any other attitude of class or government savors of bigotry and tyranny; any law to enforce such conditions would be a criminal infringement of man's moral and civil freedom, and a rank violation of the boasted principles of our Constitution. I see by your shining eyes, my dear lady, that you fully agree with me upon these points," he concluded, with a chuckle of satisfaction, as he viewed her beaming face.
"I certainly do, Doctor Wing—you are an advocate for justice after my own heart," Mrs. Everleigh heartily asserted. "And let me echo your words of a few moments ago: 'I hope our acquaintance will not end here.'"
"Thank you, madam; and, since the desire appears to be mutual, we will see to it that it does not," he smilingly replied, as he bowed himself out.
That evening, when Helen came home from a visit to Dorothy, who had recently returned from her trip, and was pleasantly settled in her new home, she found her "neighbor" gone.
Knowing that John was to leave that day, she had purposely planned to be away in order to save them both the embarrassment of a formal leave-taking. She had seen him the previous evening, when they had merely referred to the contemplated change, and had parted with a simple "good night."
But John was not willing to leave her in any such unsatisfactory way, and when she reached home, after her day up the Hudson, she found the following note awaiting her:
HELEN: I could not go without some expression of gratitude for what you have done for me, and which you persistently avoided last night. Through your divine charity, I am going out from this place, not only in perfect health, but a new man, mentally and morally.
When I look back—— But you have told me there must be no looking back, no vain repining; I can see that is wise counsel, for I know that only by blotting out the terrible past can I remain steadfast in the new aspirations and purposes that have taken root in me since I have been a pensioner upon your bounty. Words are inadequate to portray what I feel, in view of what I owe to you, and volumes of promises, unfulfilled, have no weight; but I am going to try to make my future attest the sincerity of my present determination to retrieve the past. The father within me yearns mightily for his child, but I know I am not yet worthy to claim her as such. Some time, perchance, you may be willing to have her know that, after long years of starving among the husks and swine, the prodigal has come to himself, and is striving to redeem himself. JOHN.
Helen's eyes were full of tears as she finished reading this note; but they were tears of thankfulness, in view of the fact that she had not, like the priest and Levite of old, "passed by on the other side," and left the wanderer to his fate. The lost had been found; the man had indeed become mentally and morally renewed, and she felt an absolute assurance that John Hungerford's name would yet rank high among those of other eminent artists of the world.
She had told Dorothy nothing regarding these recent experiences in connection with her father's sudden reappearance. She had given much serious thought to the subject, for she wished to do right, to be just to both Dorothy and to John; but in whatever light she considered it, it did not seem wise that they be reunited at this time. It was true that John seemed to have really "come to himself, like the prodigal of old," as he had said; but she reasoned that it belonged to him to prove it. His regret for the past appeared to be absolutely sincere; he was full of enthusiasm to begin life anew upon a higher basis, and to put into practice the promptings of an awakened conscience, together with the better knowledge he had recently gained regarding man's individual responsibilities. But, as he had written her, "volumes of promises unfulfilled have no weight," and until he could show himself able to stand alone it were better for both, perhaps, that he did not come into Dorothy's life. She believed, too, that she owed it to Mr. Alexander and his family also that nothing relating to their tragic past be revived to cast a shadow upon their present harmonious domestic conditions or their name. Hence she decided that she would let everything rest as it was, trusting that the future, governed by a higher than human wisdom, would unfold that which was best for them all.
She was exceedingly thankful that Dorothy had been away during John's entire illness. She had returned only a few days before he left the Grenoble, and had gone directly to her new home, where Helen and the senior Alexanders received the happy couple, and where they had since been busy getting settled. Helen had also arranged to spend the day that he moved with them, to make sure that Dorrie did not drop in unexpectedly upon her, to make startling discoveries, and also to avoid disturbing leave-takings with John. When the young bride at length came to her, the little studio was dismantled, and it was explained that the rooms had been given up, as her mother's living apartment was now ample for all her work.
* * * * * * *
Five years have passed.
Madam Helen Ford still occupies her handsome suite in the Grenoble apartments, and pursues her chosen profession, still holding a warm place in the hearts of her many friends and patrons, and winning—-literally and figuratively—golden laurels for herself, both as an artiste and a noble woman.
Dorothy is supremely happy in her beautiful home, and in the devotion of her adoring husband. She is more lovely than ever, for she has developed something of her mother's sweet, womanly dignity; and, with her amiable disposition, her charm of manner, and reserve force of character, is becoming a recognized power in the circle where she moves.
Mr. Alexander has ever been a very attentive and considerate son-in-law. He had always admired Helen exceedingly, from the evening of their introduction, but after learning the history of her earlier years—her sorrows, struggles, and conquests—he had regarded her as a wonder. Her unfailing courage, the depth, strength, and beauty of her character; her wisdom as a mother, and her steadfast devotion to her profession, all impressed him beyond measure, and he began to idealize her. That a woman whose life had been so blighted, who had been deserted and left penniless, with a child to rear and educate, could have risen to meet and conquer every adverse circumstance, assuming the burdens and duties of both father and mother, yet preserving through all the charm and sweetness of true womanliness, making the most of her talents, and winning for herself and her daughter both affluence and an enviable social position, seemed a marvel that caused him to bow in homage before her shrine. And Helen fully appreciated Dorothy's manly husband, and grew to love him as well as if he had been an own son.
He had repeatedly pleaded with Helen to come and make her home with her "children," but she had invariably replied: "My 'children' do not need me, and I cannot become an idler yet." And, indeed, her many patrons would have regarded their loss as almost irreparable, had she ceased to grace their functions; for her voice had lost none of its brilliancy or sweetness, nor was her personality one whit less charming than of yore.
She had, however, of late consented to give up some of her younger pupils, and this had given her more freedom—more time to spend and go about with her dear ones, for she was still young at heart, and loved to mingle with young people in their social pleasures.
During these years she had never seen John. He had rigidly kept his word, thus far, that he would "never trouble her again." Through Mrs. Everleigh she had learned, shortly after he had opened his studio downtown, that he was doing well, having plenty of work, and getting fair prices; and this success, she was inclined to think, was, in a measure, at least, owing to the influence of that good lady herself. A few months after he left the Grenoble she had received a letter from him, but he wrote very briefly, to explain that the check he inclosed was intended to cover the expense of his illness while at the Grenoble, including a generous thank-offering to Mrs. Harding for her devotion to him at that time.
Doctor Wing had later been remunerated for his services, and had felt himself more than repaid upon receiving a beautiful autumnal scene, done in oils, for which the artist refused to accept anything but the physician's receipted bill, he claiming that even then he was the debtor.
Mrs. Everleigh also was the recipient of what she termed a "little gem," and Helen, while studying it during one of her visits to her friend, felt that it far exceeded anything she had ever yet seen from his brush. Then he suddenly disappeared from New York without telling any one of his intention or future plans.
Long afterward, Helen read some complimentary notices, copied from both London and Paris papers, referring to the work of a rapidly rising American artist by the name of Hungerford; and this gave her great encouragement for the time, but for the last two years she had seen nothing relating either to his work or his whereabouts; and now and then the fear that perhaps he had again lapsed into old habits that had resulted in total failure would haunt and oppress her.
One afternoon in December, having an engagement to dine out, Helen made an elaborate toilet, and had just put the finishing touches to it, when her bell rang, and a registered package was delivered at her door. Upon opening it, greatly to her astonishment, a bank book and a check book fell into her lap, together with a letter, the superscription of which she instantly saw was in John's handwriting. With trembling hands and quickened pulses, she unfolded the missive, and read:
HELEN: The inclosed books will, to some extent, explain themselves, but I will add that I have deposited in the National Bank of Commerce of New York, subject to your order, the sum of twelve thousand dollars. If five thousand dollars were allowed to remain at interest for fifteen years at five per cent, the result would be somewhere in the neighborhood of the amount named above. I am not going to rehearse the past; I simply wish to say that I have put this money aside for Dorothy, if you think it best to give it to her and explain how it has come to her. If, on the other hand, you feel it will disturb the harmony of her life to recall a great wrong of the past, let it remain to your own account, and use it as your heart dictates—it was really your money, you know, although set apart for Dorothy. I offer it in all humility, as a tardy act of reparation, which conscience demands of me. I have prospered beyond my expectations. For a year after leaving New York I studied and worked under my old master, Monsieur Jacques, who has been more than kind to me. Since then I have had more orders than I could fill, and nay name and work have been winning honorable mention in various art centers. I am now in New York, on an important commission, but expect to return to Paris within a few weeks. May I come to see you, Helen, and ascertain if Dorothy, for whom my starved heart is yearning beyond expression, will accept my offering, and grant me an interview? Address me at the Hotel Astor. JOHN.
Helen was deeply agitated while reading this letter. She fully appreciated the writer's position in wishing to make amends for the wrong he had done so long ago, and she wanted to deal justly by him in all things. But she did not quite know what to do about telling Dorothy, for the passing over of this little fortune, that had so unexpectedly fallen to her, would involve the rehearsal of many painful details, that might, perhaps, mar her present happiness.
Dorothy had never known of her father's return, five years ago; for, having been away on her wedding trip during most of his stay at the Grenoble, Helen had no difficulty in concealing the fact of his presence in the house from her.
Mr. Alexander was in prosperous circumstances; some time he would fall heir to great wealth, and Dorothy would never need this legacy. Still, it was a peace offering—an effort to atone, which she felt, in justice to John, should not be ignored or rejected.
Had she any right to deprive Dorothy of the privilege of accepting or rejecting it, as she might see fit, or longer keep from her the fact of her father's reappearance, his reformation, and the renown he had recently achieved for himself? Did she, herself, wish to see him again? Would it be just or kind to deny him audience, withhold congratulations upon his success, and a Godspeed upon his future career?
These were difficult questions, and for the time plunged her in deepest perplexity.
But she tried to reverse the situation, to put herself in his position and to judge dispassionately what was the right thing to do.
John had evidently made good his avowed determination to retrieve his past; the tone of his letter was both dignified and sincere; the spirit of humility and fervent desire to make restitution, pervading the letter throughout, deeply impressed her, and caused her to feel that he was at last worthy to claim his daughter, provided Dorothy wished to be reunited to her father.
"Dorothy is a practical, sensible little woman," she sighed at last. "She is capable of deciding this matter, and certainly has the right to speak for herself. Yes, I must tell her."
She glanced at the clock. It was after four, and Dorothy would be there presently. She was coming to spend an hour or two with her, then Mr. Alexander was to take them to the Waldorf to dinner, and afterward to hear Melba in "Il Trovatore." She resolved to improve the present opportunity, discuss the matter fully with her, and so free herself from further responsibility, as far as her child was concerned.
She had barely arrived at this conclusion, when her bell rang again.
"That must be Mrs. Alexander, Nora; I am expecting her," she observed to the maid who appeared to answer the summons.
So Nora, as had been her custom with Dorothy, touched the button controlling the lower door, and, leaving the upper one ajar, went back to her work.
Meanwhile Helen had stepped to the mirror over the mantel to refasten a brooch on her corsage, which had become unclasped; then, at the sound of approaching steps, she turned, with outstretched hands, to greet her dear one, a fond smile on her lips, a glad welcome in her eyes, only to find herself looking into the white, eager face of—John Hungerford!
All the light went suddenly out of her own face; her arms fell limply to her sides; the smile froze upon her lips, and she caught her breath sharply, shocked beyond measure by his sudden appearance.
"John!" she gasped, with white lips, a look almost of terror in her eyes.
"Yes; forgive me, but I simply could not wait to hear from you, Helen—I had to come; I could not endure the suspense, so followed close upon my letter, which," glancing at the package on the table—"I see you have received. Besides—I—had something else to say to you," he added, drawing nearer to her.
"Something—else," she breathed, as he paused, yet scarcely knowing what she said.
"Yes; I have dared to hope—dared to come and plead that you will forgive me the awful past and allow me to take care of you in the future," he resumed, in tremulous tones. "Wait—oh, wait!" he begged, as she put out a hand to check him, "let me speak—let me empty myself. I cannot conceive how I ever could have been so heartless, so selfish, so—brutal toward the most faithful and self-sacrificing wife in the world! Let me atone—let me try to blot it out during the coming years. You shall never know a care nor sorrow from which I can shield you. My financial future is assured, I know I am a better man, and I want to prove it to you. This newborn love for work, for right living, and noble achieving has made me yearn to mount even higher upon the ladder of success, and you would be a continual inspiration in my career; while, having been lifted out of the depths myself, I long to save others as you saved me, and we could work together in this way, for our faith and aims are now the same. Helen—oh, Helen! will you come back to me? Can you—can you?"
He was as white as marble as he held out appealing, shaking hands to her, his burning eyes fastened in agonized yearning upon her lovely though colorless face.
But in spite of her exceeding pallor, Helen had never appeared more beautiful in her life. She was the picture of health. Her splendidly developed form was clad in a rich evening gown of silver-gray chiffon velvet, elaborately decorated with duchess lace and touches of rose pink here and there to give it life. A costly comb of gold gleamed among the massive coils of her bright hair, which scarcely showed a thread of silver even yet; a curiously wrought chain, to which a diamond cross was attached, was clasped around her white throat, and handsome diamond-studded bands of gold—a recent gift from her devoted son-in-law—encircled her shapely arms. With her beautiful, high-bred face, and these becoming and elegant accessories of costume, she was a most attractive woman.
While John was speaking, she had stood motionless regarding him with mingled astonishment and dismay.
He had never seemed so manly to her before. He had become more erect; his form had expanded, and he bore himself with a masterful dignity and self-possession that bespoke a wonderful growth in character. His face was earnest and purposeful; his clothing was fine and rich in texture and fitted him perfectly; his linen was immaculate. What a contrast to the broken-down, shabby suppliant who had come to her door five years previous!
He now looked the cultured, distinguished gentleman, and she knew he was a "better man"—clean within as well as without.
Why, then, did not her heart respond, her pulses quicken, to his impassioned appeal?
She could not tell; she was simply appalled, breathless, almost paralyzed by his words.
"Oh," she faltered, when he ceased speaking, "why did you come?"
A groan of agony escaped him at this involuntary betrayal of her attitude toward him. His hands clenched convulsively, then dropped heavily to his sides; the veins swelled out full and hard upon his forehead.
"Because I could not keep away. Because, ever since that day when you bade me try to live, start out anew and make my mark in the world, I have had but one aim—one overmastering desire in life—to make myself worthy of your esteem; to win an irreproachable name and position in the world to offer you, and atone, if ever so little, for what I made you suffer during those dreadful years of our early life. It was you who aroused the dormant spark of manhood within me; now let me share with you the fruits of that awakening. Oh, Helen! I honor, reverence—I love you as never before; let me prove it."
The man's voice, which had grown hoarse and painfully intense during this appeal, suddenly broke and became almost inaudible as he ended his appeal.
Helen was also deeply moved. A great trembling seized her; the room began to grow dark; she swayed dizzily where she stood, and then sank weakly upon a near-by chair, but involuntarily throwing out a repelling hand, as John sprang forward to her assistance.
He paused abruptly, at her gesture, as if he had received a mortal blow. Was his presence so repulsive to her that she could not endure to have him come near her?
For the moment he was crushed, humiliated beyond the power of speech; then he slowly drew himself erect, his chest heaving with a long, shuddering breath as he strove to recover something of self-possession.
"Helen!" the name burst sharply from his hueless lips; "that means that I have asked too much—that you cannot——"
"No, John, I cannot," she gently interposed.
The kindness in her tone half reassured him. He leaned eagerly forward to search her face, but knew instantly from the look in her sorrowful though unresponsive gray eyes that his hopes were vain.
"Oh, I might have known you never could forgive——" he began, when she interrupted him again.
"I have forgiven." Her voice was tremulous but very sweet. "I hold no bitterness against you in my heart—the last vestige was blotted out five years ago, as I then assured you, and to-day I realize that you are as worthy of my esteem as any other man who has resolutely overcome the errors of his past and is steadfastly adhering to high ideals and noble purposes. I can and do rejoice most heartily in the conquest you have won," she went on, speaking with more calmness—"in the fame and prosperity you have achieved, and which I am sure you will continue to win. But—John, the ties which once united us were too hopelessly severed to make it possible for us ever to piece them together again. When I pledged myself to you thirty years ago it was a lifelong vow I took. When the law annulled that union and—you formed other relations, it was the same to me as if death had claimed you—I gave you up, as absolutely and hopelessly as if you had literally been buried from my sight; it was an unconditional surrender—the bond that had united us was rent asunder, leaving a great gulf between us, and I knew that the void thus made could never be filled again. Then I took up my life to live it alone, and—thus I shall live until the end."
The man had stood before her while she spoke, with averted face and bowed head, which sank lower and lower as she proceeded, until it rested upon his breast, while his attitude was like one bereft of hope.
"I cannot bear it, Helen—even though I know the sentence is just," he faltered, at length breaking the silence. "It was through your heavenly compassion five years ago I gained a new lease of life, and that life I solemnly vowed should be spent in the effort to master the weaknesses that had been my ruin, and bereft me of all that a true man holds most sacred—family, home, and reputation. Clinging steadfastly to this resolve and your dauntless motto—'that there is hardly any situation in life so adverse that it cannot be overcome if one only goes to work in the right way'—I have conquered self in many ways. I have won a competence and some measure of renown as an artist; and my one inspiration throughout has been the hope of a blessed reunion with my dear ones. Failing in this, the future holds nothing but emptiness for me," he concluded dejectedly.
"The future holds all good for you, John," Helen returned, and, as once before during his illness, her voice was full of strength and encouragement. "You have, as you say, learned how to overcome—how to govern your life by principle instead of by impulse, and so have found your true manhood. And you will keep on in the same way, for, as we know, there is but one goal for us all—one ultimate attainment really worth living for—the full stature of the perfect man."
"But I wanted to atone to you—to take care of you—to bear burdens for you, as you once bore them for me; I want to make you happy, Helen——"
"You have already done that," she said, smiling up at him through eyes that were full of tears. "To know what you have been doing—what you have been achieving during the last five years—to see you as you are to-night—redeemed—gives me greater joy than you can realize."
He turned and walked away from her. He was crushed—almost on the point of breaking down utterly before her, notwithstanding his manhood, in view of this bitter disappointment. Yet he began to understand that the old ties, which he himself had so ruthlessly severed, could indeed never be pieced together again. There was between them a great gulf, in whose fathomless depths there lay a royal heart rent in twain, and a priceless love slain by his own reckless folly. How could he bear to live out his life bereft of all his fond hopes?
Presently, having in a measure regained his composure, he returned to her.
"At least you will allow me to make some substantial provision for your future," he observed, with a pathetic air of humility. "That surely is my right after my culpable improvidence of those early years. My income is ample, and constantly increasing. I will settle an annuity upon you for——"
"But I do not need it, John, although I thank you for the kind thought," Helen gently interposed, her heart aching for him, and feeling that she herself could not much longer endure the strain of the interview. "My own income is more than sufficient for my support, especially now that Dorothy is settled in life; and, besides, I could not be happy to give up my work. Ah!" breaking off suddenly, as her bell rang once more—"that must be Dorothy; I am expecting her."
"Dorothy! And I am here!" the man exclaimed, in dismay. Then, a sharp ring of pain in his tones: "Helen, am I never to see Dorothy?"
She hesitated an instant, thinking rapidly.
"Yes, I think you should see her," she then said. "At least, I will tell her that you have returned, show her your letter, and she shall decide for herself. But, wait! you cannot get out now without meeting her, and the shock would be too much for her to run upon you without any preparation; step into the library behind you for a few minutes."
She waved him toward the room, and he slipped into it, partly closing the door, just as Dorothy blithely swept through the reception hall and clasped her mother in her arms.
"Mamma, dear, how lovely you are!" Dorothy exclaimed, in a sprightly tone, as she fondly kissed her. "Your gown is vastly becoming; but aren't you a trifle pale to-night? or is it that tone of gray? Sit down, do, and when I get my things off I have something very important to tell you."
She threw off her elegant evening cloak and stepped forth, radiant in a beautiful costume of pale-pink silk, chiffon, and lace, while the nodding plumes of the same color on her dainty hat lent a piquant charm to the happy, sparkling face beneath.
"Now, I have great news for you," she resumed, sinking upon a low chair beside her mother, and beginning to pull off her long white gloves. "Whom do you think Clifford met to-day at the Gotham Club? Oh, I am sure you could never guess, and I—I don't quite know how to tell you without giving you a tremendous shock; but the—the stranger was—oh, mamma!"—with a little nervous catch in her breath—"my father!"
"Dorothy!"
It seemed to Helen the most marvelous coincidence in the world that Dorothy should have thus been already prepared, in a measure, for what she was about to reveal to her!
"Wait, dearie—just try to be calm until I tell you all about it," Dorothy continued tenderly, as she slipped a supporting arm around Helen's waist. "It was Mr. Carruthers who was entertaining, and it goes without saying that he never dreamed he was introducing the father-in-law to his son-in-law. Clifford, evidently, was the only one of the company who comprehended the situation, for, of course, he recognized the name, and then I had shown him that photo, which I have always kept. It seems that he—my father—has been abroad again for several years, devoting himself to his art, and has won great honors; has had pictures hung in Paris and London exhibitions that have been raved over, and it is said he has made a great deal of money. Mr. Carruthers met him first in Paris, and says he stands high there with the best artists, and is a conscientious as well as a tireless worker——"
"Dorrie—I——"
Helen was on the point of checking her, for Dorothy's voice was so earnest, so full of animation, she thought John could not fail to hear every word. But Dorothy would not be checked.
"Wait, mamma," she interposed; "I know just how you feel, for all the strength went out of me, and I almost broke down when Clifford told me about it, and what a prepossessing gentleman he is to-day; he says that whatever he may have been in the past, he is sure he is fine now, through and through. Dear," she went on tremulously, "it nearly takes my breath away to know that he has come back—is actually here in New York; and if he has changed—has become all that they say he has, it shows that there was good in him—I wonder what kind angel found him and rekindled the vital spark. It makes me sorry, too, that I was quite so bitter against him, and said such cruel things to him that last day—I could almost wish to see him again if—if it were not for—that woman——"
"She is dead, Dorothy."
"Mamma! how do you know?"
"I have known it for more than five years, dear," Helen gravely returned; and, thinking she might as well tell her story now, for she saw that Dorothy was inclined to be lenient toward her father, and there was no reason why they should not meet at once. "While you were away on your wedding trip," she resumed, "he—your father—came here——"
"Here!"
"Yes; I have never mentioned it, for you have been so happy I could not bear to tell you anything unpleasant. He saw me one evening on the boat, as I was coming home after putting your house in order, and followed me here. He looked poorly—was really ill, and I sent him to Mrs. Harding for the night. He was taken alarmingly worse before morning, when I had him brought here, and Mrs. Harding took care of him, in the studio, for several weeks——"
"In the studio!" repeated Dorothy, breathless from astonishment. "Did she know who he was?"
"No, dear; he gave his name to her as Williams, and she has always believed he was some one whom I had once known in California, and wished to befriend in his trouble—at least, until his relatives could be notified."
"Then he was here after I returned?"
"Yes, for a few days only; but, before that, as soon as he began to gain strength, he seemed to want to take up his work again. He painted two lovely pictures here, then hired a couple of rooms downtown, where he worked until he made enough money to take him abroad again."
"Mamma! thenyouwere the good angel who rekindled the vital spark!" cried Dorothy, who was now almost sobbing.
"It has comforted me, dear, to think that I may have helped to inspire him to take up his art again," Helen returned, adding: "But it was Mrs. Everleigh who was really his 'good angel.'"
"Mrs. Everleigh!"
"Yes, I brought her here to see your father, and you know what she is able to do for people who will listen to her; but I will tell you more about that later."
"Did she knowwhohe was?" Dorothy inquired.
"No, dear; no one has ever known anything except as I told you—that he was an old acquaintance whom I would not allow to be taken to a hospital."
"Have you never heard from him since he went away?"
"Yes; several months after he opened his studio—I think it must have been just before he went abroad again—he wrote me a brief letter, and inclosed a liberal check to cover the expenses of his illness, he said," Helen explained. "Now and then," she continued, "I have seen a newspaper notice commenting favorably upon certain pictures he had painted, and I have rejoiced in his success. This afternoon I received a package from him——"
"Oh!"
"Here it is, with the letter accompanying it. Read it, dear, and then it will rest with you to say what shall be done regarding the matter of business to which he refers."
Helen laid the missive on Dorothy's lap as she concluded.
"How wonderful!" breathed the young wife, as she seized and unfolded it with eager hands.
Tears rained over her cheeks, as she read; but she dashed them impatiently away and devoured the pages to the end.
"Oh, what a transformation! And isn't it beautiful to read between the lines and realize all that it means?" she cried, a note of exultation in her tremulous tones. "He loves me still! he wants to see me! And—we should accept this money," she went on thoughtfully; "don't you think so? It would be unfair, unkind, to refuse it, when conscience has prompted him to make this restitution; unless, mamma, dear, you shrink from receiving it and from meeting——"
"Dorothy," Helen hurriedly interrupted, "it shall be as you say; if your heart yearns for your father——"
"It does—it really does; I feel that he is good and true and worthy."
"I am sure he is, dear," said Helen heartily; "and if you can give him the welcome he craves, and so help to make his life brighter in the future, it will give me joy to have you reunited."
"That is simply angelic of you, mamma," Dorothy eagerly exclaimed. Then, leaning nearer, she looked deep into her mother's eyes. "And you, dearest?" she questioned.
But her mother's lips were mute.
They held each other's gaze in silence for a minute; then Helen bent forward and softly kissed her daughter on the lips. It was as if she had said: "That book is sealed forever."
Dorothy's beautiful face clouded with a look of keen pain.
"Yes, I can understand," she murmured, scarcely above her breath, and with a regretful sigh. "But you will let him come, as he begs in his letter—you will see him just once, to—to congratulate and wish him well; will you not?"
"Dearest, I have already seen him."
"Mamma! when?" cried Dorothy, startled beyond measure.
"Just before you came in—immediately after receiving the package. He could not wait for a reply to his letter—I had barely finished reading it when he came. He is here now—in the library—waiting to see you."
Dorothy sprang to her feet as if electrified, as indeed she was.
"Here!" she exclaimed, her voice resonant with joy. "My father here!"