What of the man sitting alone there in Helen's library during the interview between Dorothy and her mother as just related?
Obeying Helen's behest, he had slipped into the room just as Dorothy entered the reception hall, where he had dropped into a chair, and sat, with his elbows on his knees, his face buried in his hands, like one bereft of hope—dazed, almost benumbed by his crushing disappointment in view of Helen's obvious attitude toward him.
For five long years he had lived and labored for this hour; with one high aim and end—one coveted goal set before him.
His aim was to redeem his wasted life. To do this meant, first of all, to make of himself a man worthy of the name—a man, the pattern of which he had caught an inspiring glimpse during Mrs. Everleigh's never-to-be-forgotten visits to him at the Grenoble five years ago. And second, to achieve fame and fortune by means of the great gift with which he had been endowed, but which he until now had never fully appreciated, or possessed the energy and stability to develop and perfect. And the end, the goal upon which his heart had been fixed, was to win back the beautiful and wonderful woman who had once been his wife, and with her his lovely daughter.
Only he himself knew what battles he had been forced to wage, while trampling under his feet the John Hungerford of former years; with his indolence, ease-loving habits, with his aversion to everything like real work and the propensity to shirk every possible responsibility; or how, during his first year or two in Paris, he had struggled with poverty, living in one poor, ill-furnished room, denying himself the luxuries, sometimes almost the necessities, of life, in order that he might avail himself of the coveted instruction of his old teacher.
Upon his arrival in Paris he had at once sought Monsieur Jacques—who, however, received him somewhat coldly at first—frankly stated his position to him and begged that he would accept him as a student again—at least until he could get a start for himself.
When the kind-hearted Frenchman was convinced of his sincerity—when he saw how eager he was for real work, he was overjoyed, and all his former interest in, and enthusiasm for, his old favorite, who he felt assured possessed the soul of the great artist, was aroused, and from that hour he spared no pains to encourage and inspire him to the highest achievements.
John himself was indefatigable. He gave the closest and most conscientious attention to his work; no criticism or suggestion from Monsieur Jacques was unheeded; the smallest details were most carefully observed, and his progress was almost phenomenal. The soul of the great artist was at last thoroughly awakened and began to live and breathe and glow in every stroke of his brush.
At times his teacher was almost afraid that his zeal would exhaust itself, or his strength fail; and occasionally he would compel him to leave his easel and go with him to his country home for a day of rest and recreation.
John's evenings were mostly spent in reading and study—in strange contrast to the opera-loving, theater-going habitué of former years.
Many things that Helen had dropped, much that Mrs. Everleigh had said, during those weeks of his illness at the Grenoble had shown him that they were living in a higher and purer mental atmosphere than he had ever known, and he craved to learn more of the faith or motive power that made possible the invariable peace and serenity that illumined their faces and exhaled from their presence. He knew that if he were ever to win Helen again he must first rise himself, mentally and morally, to her stature.
At the same time he was daily becoming aware that, even though this great boon were to be denied him—even though the broken threads of his life could never be pieced together again, he was yearning, and would ever continue to yearn, for this inspiring faith for its own sake. He had never forgotten the sense of something new having been born into his consciousness with Mrs. Everleigh's first visit to him—something that had been steadily expanding and unfolding within him until he had come to recognize it as the insatiable desire for conquest and dominion; conquest over self—dominion over all things unworthy in his life.
When the merit of his work began to be recognized, when his pictures began to be sold as soon as they were hung, no one was more jubilant than Monsieur Jacques himself; indeed, he seemed proud as a father over a gifted son.
"Ah, Monsieur Hungerford will be great—his work will live!" he was wont to say when asked for an opinion by would-be purchasers; and such praise could not fail to add value to the artist's productions and bring him plenty of orders. A strong and lasting affection grew up between the two men; they often visited each other's studio—for by the beginning of his third year John had been in a position to establish himself in a handsome suite of apartments, with the simple legend "Hungerford" hung in the great front window—where they spent many an hour in social converse, or in discussing the merits and possibilities of various schools of art. When, during the last year before his return to America, the great teacher passed from his sight, it seemed to John that he had lost a dear father as well as a wise counselor.
Now, with name and fame established, with an enviable social position attained, together with an assured competence, he had come back to his own country, his heart beating high with the hope of a blessed reunion with his dear ones—a hope that had been suddenly dashed to earth during his recent interview with Helen; and despair filled his soul as he sat there alone in her library and awaited the next move on the checker board of his life.
Dorothy's clear, sweet voice, as it floated to him from the next room, thrilled him through and through; and, as he could not fail to overhear much, if not all, that was said, he gradually became more calm, and began to take himself to task for his own shortsightedness.
He reasoned that he had been very unwise in coming upon Helen so abruptly—walking in upon her without even announcing himself, like some unbidden and unwelcome specter of the past.
He had been greatly surprised at having been admitted so unceremoniously; no one had inquired at the tube who was seeking entrance, and no one had answered when he asked if Mrs. Ford were in. Instead, the lower door had been immediately unlatched for him, and he had found the upper one open when he reached the suite. Even then he felt he should have rung her private bell and waited until some one came; but, in his excitement, he had mechanically pushed the door wider, when, seeing Helen standing at the mirror, looking more lovely than he had ever seen her, he forgot all else save that he was once more in her presence.
He began to realize how he had startled—shocked her beyond measure by this impatient, unwarrantable intrusion upon her. He should have been more considerate—should have waited a day or two, until she had had an opportunity to thoroughly master the contents of his letter and become accustomed to the thought of his return; when she could calmly decide and write him whether she wished to see him or not. Yes, he had made what seemed to him an irreparable blunder, and he was proportionately miserable.
Then, as he caught something of what Dorothy was saying, as he detected the ring of eagerness and even joy in her tones while she told of her husband's meeting him at Mr. Carruthers' lunch; when she had said that her heart really yearned to be reunited to him, for she now believed him to be good and true and worthy, and—bless her dear conscientious soul!—that she had been sorry, and condemned herself for the bitter things she had said to him, the last time he had seen her, when he deserved them all, and much more—he began to take courage again; and it seemed as if he could control himself no longer—as if he must go to her, take her in his arms, claim her as his own, and bless her for her heavenly charity. But he must not blunder again; he must not ruin his only chance by again being too precipitate. Perhaps, after all, Dorrie might be his salvation—the one link that would eventually unite him with the woman he adored.
He almost wept when Helen had said if Dorothy could receive him and help to make his life brighter in the future, it would give her joy to have them reunited; then held his breath to catch her answer to Dorrie's question: "And you, dearest?"
When there came no reply, his heart sank again; especially when the young wife had said she could understand, but begged her mother to meet him just once to congratulate him on his success and wish him well.
But the minute following, when he caught those eager, joy-ringing words: "Here! my father, here!" he was thrilled to the depths of his soul—he could restrain himself no longer.
The next moment he was in her presence!
Dorothy stood breathless, motionless, for a brief interval, searching his face with earnest, yearning eyes; then involuntarily she drifted toward him with outstretched hands.
With a great sob of joy welling up from his heart, John Hungerford gathered them in his, and, drawing her close to him, laid them upon his breast, holding them there while he feasted his hungry gaze upon her loveliness.
"Dorothy, my darling! You do not repudiate me!" he faltered.
"No, indeed, papa! I am glad—glad that you have come," she responded, with an emphasis that left no doubt of her sincerity.
How his heart leaped with joy as the old childish form of address fell upon his ear! And there had been nothing forced about it, either; it had slipped out as spontaneously as in their happiest days long ago.
As a child, Dorothy had been very fond of her father and he of her; but as she grew old enough to perceive his moral weakness, her respect for him had begun to wane. Then, later, his indifference to duty, his neglect of, and last his unfaithfulness to, his wife had hurt her cruelly, had mortified her girlish pride, and aroused hot resentment of her mother's wrongs. Yet there had been times when she had longed with all her heart for his cheery presence and genial companionship, and when she had grieved sorely over those last bitter, disrespectful words she had flung so passionately at him.
"You—are—glad!" he repeated, with deep emotion.
"Yes, to see you—to hear you speak; to know that you have found your true self and your own place in the world, and I am very proud, too, of that!" She was beginning to recover her composure, although there were tears in her voice as well as in her eyes. "You do not look so very different," she continued, smiling up at him through them, and drawing a little away from him for a better view, "and yet you do; you are stouter, you have grown a little gray—a little older, but your eyes are the same, yet they are clearer, more tranquil; your face is graver, but more peaceful, and you are more——"
"I hope I am more of aman, dear," he broke in upon her passionately, then suddenly checked himself. "But I am not going to recall the past to mar this blessed reunion, and the future will prove whether I really am or not. I am filled with joy to find you willing to recognize the tie of kinship between us; it tells me that you have forgiven me; it augurs some measure of happiness for me in the coming years. You already know something of what I have been doing of late years," he continued, after a slight pause; "your mother has told you—I could not help overhearing some of the conversation between you—but you shall learn more in detail later. How strange that I should have met your husband to-day! Of course, I did not once suspect his relationship; he had the advantage of me there, and no doubt was sifting me with those clear, searching eyes of his. Your husband! To think of you being married, Dorothy! I cannot realize it! I am sure Alexander is a fine fellow, though."
"Indeed he is!" asserted the fair wife, flushing with pleasure at this tribute to her dear one. "I am more proud of him than I can tell you, and very, very happy. Listen! I think he has just come in."
Her quick ears had caught the sound of a latchkey being inserted in the outer door. The next moment she turned to see her husband standing upon the threshold, viewing, with evident astonishment, the interesting tableau before him.
"Oh, Clifford, dear!" said Dorothy, throwing out a pretty, jeweled hand to him, "come and greet my father, although I know that you have already met him. Isn't it wonderful that I should have found him so soon after what you told me this afternoon?"
Mr. Alexander came forward and smilingly possessed himself of his wife's hand, while at the same time he cordially greeted his new acquaintance.
He had been strongly attracted to the man during their previous meeting earlier in the day, and truly John Hungerford had lost nothing of the personal charm of his earlier years. Indeed, he had gained much in a new and gentle dignity, and a certain purposeful poise that had come to him with his awakening to the higher demands of life, and the stern realities and experiences of the last five years.
Mr. Alexander had been somewhat fearful that his wife's peace might be disturbed by her father's unexpected return, and now, even though he sympathized with her in her evident happiness, he secretly wondered how this reunion could be perfected without arousing unpleasant comment and curiosity regarding the past history of the family.
He had searched Helen's face as he saluted her, but was unable to read her thoughts, although he observed that she was exceedingly pale.
Dorothy graciously invited the gentlemen to be seated, and for fifteen or twenty minutes they chatted pleasantly of the events of the day; John keeping Dorothy close beside him and clinging to her hands as if he felt her to be his only anchor of hope in this critical hour.
Now and then he ventured a look at Helen, who was sitting a little apart, apparently listening; but her face told him nothing. Her exceeding loveliness, however, impressed him as never before, and not a detail of her exquisite costume escaped his critical, artistic eye.
At length, after glancing at his watch, he arose, observing that he had an appointment with a party who was about to place an important order with him, and he must not linger longer, even though he was sorely tempted to do so.
Mr. Alexander had been considering the propriety of inviting him to join his party at dinner and later for the opera. While he thought Dorothy might be glad to have her father with them, he was not so sure about Helen—he knew that this meeting must have been a great strain upon her, and it was now quite a relief to him to have the matter settled by Mr. Hungerford's reference to his important appointment.
"I have some pictures with me which I think will please you," John continued, including them all in his glance as he spoke. "I would be glad to have you come to my hotel to view them privately, at your leisure; and as soon as it will be convenient for you, for next week they are to be hung for the exhibition of the Excelsior Art Club."
"We shall be delighted, and I can hardly wait to see them," said Dorothy eagerly. "May we come to-morrow?"
"Do, by all means; come and lunch with me. Mr. Alexander, can you spare the time to join us?" John inquired, turning to the gentleman.
"Certainly; and it will give me great pleasure to do so," he cordially responded.
"Then shall we say one o'clock for the lunch?—if that will be convenient for the ladies," and John Hungerford bent an anxious look upon Helen as he concluded.
Helen had remained quietly in the background during the foregoing interview, having merely nodded a smiling welcome to Mr. Alexander as he entered. She had been glad of the little respite to recover from the excitement occasioned by John's unlooked-for coming, and also by his impassioned appeal to her just preceding Dorothy's entrance.
Her father's invitation to lunch with him brought Dorothy to herself with a sudden inward shock.
"Mamma, have you any engagement for to-morrow?" she inquired, turning with an appealing look to her.
"Yes, dear; I go to Yonkers for Mrs. Forsyth's reception."
"Then let it be Wednesday, if that will suit you better," John quickly interposed.
"Wednesday I am booked for a concert, and Thursday for a house party at Tuxedo. But pray do not let my plans interfere with yours; and, John, I will see the pictures later," Helen concluded, in a friendly tone, as she arose, came forward, and joined the group. But intuitively the man knew, with a sinking heart, that he would not see her again, except, perhaps, as they might meet casually at the art club or some social function.
There was a suggestion of finality in her calm, self-possessed bearing, and even in her friendly tone, as she pleaded her engagements and promised to view his pictures later, which told him that his most cherished mission in returning to America had failed.
An icy chill struck at his heart, blighting all his fond hopes, and marble could not be whiter than was his face as he mechanically made his adieus and passed from the room.
At the door he turned and stood a moment, looking back at her, an expression of mingled reverence and despair in his eyes. Then, with a slight renunciatory wave of his shapely hand, he was gone.
The following day Dorothy and her husband lunched with Mr. Hungerford, as had been arranged, and afterward viewed with delighted appreciation the paintings that were soon to be exhibited at the Excelsior Art Club. There were twelve in all, and they displayed remarkable artistic ability, both in coloring and workmanship, together with certain realistic suggestions that appealed at once to the admiration and sympathies of the beholder.
As one studied them carefully one could not fail to be impressed with the depths of thought and a certain something forcibly suggestive of high ideals portrayed in them; or to recognize both the dignity and purity of sentiment that had inspired the hand that had so skillfully wielded the brush. It was as if the artist's chief aim had been to give all that was best in himself to kindle the noblest qualities of heart in those who might look upon his pictures as long as they should endure.
They were, in truth, beautiful poems in color, to feast the eye, elevate and refine the thought—"songs without words," to make glad and uplift all who were able to appreciate in any degree the divinity of art.
Dorothy realized much of this as she went, day after day, to study these treasures which her father had brought from his atelier in Paris, and her heart glowed with ever-increasing pride in these unquestionable evidences of his genius. It also overflowed with devout gratitude as she read, beneath the surface, the story of a wonderful consecration; of the courage, fortitude, and perseverance which the man, in his lonely exile, must have exercised in order to have been able to rise out of the depths to which he had fallen to achieve such grand and noble results.
One day she went alone for a last look at these beautiful pictures before they were hung for the public to view. Upon this occasion the father and daughter had a long heart-to-heart talk with each other, during which John confessed to Dorothy that he had allowed himself to cherish strong hopes of a reunion with her mother, if he could prove that he had become worthy of her. He realized now, however, he said, that under no circumstances could he be worthy, for he had cut himself off from her, absolutely and finally, by that irreparable mistake of long ago, and he ought to have known that such hopes could never be realized. Hence, as matters now stood, he thought it would be best that the world should never be enlightened regarding their relationship to each other as father and daughter.
"It could not be done, dear," he said, with lips that trembled painfully, "without involving explanations and a rehearsal of past history which would make your mother unpleasantly conspicuous in the circle where she has maintained an honored position for so many years; and I could not bear to have a breath of gossip touch her, to mar her peace in any way."
"That is very considerate of you, papa," replied Dorothy, who had been greatly exercised in view of the matter herself, after becoming convinced that the breach of fifteen years ago could never be bridged.
She had already talked it over with her husband, and they had both agreed that, for her mother's sake, it would be better that the relationship between herself and the talented artist remain a secret among themselves. Still, it was not an easy task for her, as she sat beside him, looking into his yearning eyes and listening to his faltering tones, to assent to his self-sacrificing proposition to relinquish his claim upon her, also.
John's heart sank at her words. He had not quite given up all hope until that moment; but Dorothy's noncommittal reply had seemed to confirm his worst fears, that there was absolutely no hope of a reunion with Helen.
"Then, for her sake, we will agree to——" he began, in a hopeless voice.
"For your own sake, papa, as well as for hers," interposed Dorothy, laying a gentle hand upon his arm, and almost weeping as she read the misery in his face. "We must not ignore the fact that it would not leave you unscathed in the midst of your honors; and, I imagine, there might arise other complications for us all."
He captured her hand and stroked it tenderly with both of his own.
"The problem might so easily have been solved if—if I could have won her anew; then we could all have come together again naturally, and no one would have been any the wiser regarding the past," he said. "Oh, Dorrie! do you think I could, even now?Isthere no hope?"
His voice was hoarse from an agony of yearning as he concluded.
She could not answer him for a moment. At length she lifted her tear-laden eyes to him.
"Papa," she breathed, almost inaudibly, "I—know there is—a grave in mamma's heart."
"The grave of a royal love brutally slain! The grave of a love for which there can be no resurrection!" he groaned. "I know it, too—God help me! Well," he went on, after a struggle to recover himself, "she has given you back to me as a pledge of her divine forgiveness, and for this I am unutterably grateful. So, dear, we will keep our secret from the world, and make the most of our love for each other. I shall go back to Paris within a couple of weeks, take up my work again, and keep on striving to accomplish something that will make the name of John Hungerford worth remembering. I shall, probably, never return to this country, Dorrie; but you will occasionally come to me, will you not? Say that you will grant me these oases in the desert of my future."
He looked so crushed, yet seemed so patient under his bitter disappointment that Dorothy, with difficulty, refrained from sobbing outright; but, forcing herself to speak cheerfully, she replied:
"I certainly shall. Paris is only a week away, and Clifford and I will enjoy slipping over now and then to spend a little time with you; besides, he always goes to London on business twice a year and takes me with him, so we shall see each other oftener than 'occasionally,' and I will write you every week."
Thus it was arranged; and John tried to make the most of his reunion with Dorothy—tried to be grateful that there would be some blossoms of comfort to cull along the way, during what must otherwise be a very desolate future. Nevertheless, the crushing blow his hopes had received, the bitter cup of renunciation he was forced to drink, seemed, for the time, almost more than he could bear, and left their crucial impress upon him.
He was a frequent visitor in Dorothy's lovely home on the Hudson during the remainder of his stay in New York, and both she and her husband exerted themselves to make his sojourn as delightful as possible, and so give him something pleasant to remember when he should leave them to resume his work and his lonely life abroad.
All Dorothy's old affection for him was revived during this visit, while both her admiration and wonder increased more and more with every interview, in view of his mental and moral attainments, to say nothing of the rapid advancement he had made in his profession, and which seemed likely to place him, at no distant period, in the foremost rank of artists. He certainly was a distinguished-looking man, and one could not converse with him half an hour without becoming aware that beneath the attractive exterior there were depth and strength of character that would lead him still higher as years passed over him.
His work won honors at the exhibition of the Excelsior Art Club. His two finest pictures were marked sold on the opening day, and were sent to grace Dorothy's home at its close. The others were all disposed of, and when the artist finally left for Paris he not only bore with him a rich harvest from his brush, but several orders for paintings to be executed at his convenience.
He had made his presence in the city known to Mrs. Everleigh as soon as he could conveniently arrange to do so; and upon meeting him she had also appeared deeply impressed by the great change in him. It hardly seemed possible to her that he could be the same man who, five years previous, had expressed little hope of his life, and manifested no energy or wish to prolong it.
At her request John had called upon her at her home. When he sent up his card bearing his own name instead of that of Williams, under which she had previously known him, she came to him wearing a look of perplexity; but she instantly recognized and greeted him cordially, although she studied his face earnestly as she shook hands with him.
"My friend, there has certainly been a remarkable change in you," she said. "I am more than glad to see you, however, after all these years, and"—smiling into his eyes—"I am sure you have been forging straight ahead."
"You once told me, Mrs. Everleigh, that 'there was still work for me to do here,' and I have beentryingto do it," John returned, with an answering smile.
"I feel confident you have; but"—referring to the card in her hand—"how is it that you have sent me this—that you now call yourself John Hungerford?"
John explained that at the time he first met her, when he was so low down in the world, he had dropped his last name, using his middle one instead, to avoid recognition.
"You do not mean to tell me that you are John Hungerford, the artist, who has been exhibiting at the Excelsior Art Club?" the lady inquired, with sudden alertness.
"Yes—the same," he quietly replied.
"Well, I congratulate you!" she earnestly returned. "I have seen your pictures, but, of course, did not dream that I knew the artist. You certainly have been working to some purpose. But how was it that you ran away from us so unceremoniously five years ago?"
"That must have seemed rather ungrateful of me, I am compelled to admit," said the gentleman, with a deprecatory smile. "But I had already been the recipient of too many favors; I felt I must begin to stand alone—I had toprove myself—so I suddenly cut my cables, and launched out into the deep."
"We all have to stand alone in the sifting process," returned his companion. "We all have to prove ourselves, and I believed that you would make good; but I would have been glad of some tidings from you now and then."
"Thank you; and it is very gratifying to know that you had that confidence in me," said John, with evident emotion. "I feel, however, that I owe much to you for the measure of success I have attained, for you taught me something of what life and its individual responsibilities mean. But for your and H—Mrs. Ford's unparalleled kindness to me in my darkest hour, I shrink from the thought of what might have been the alternative."
Mrs. Everleigh shot a quick glance at him as he made the slip on Helen's name; then she gently observed, with her old winning smile:
"We must not forget the Power behind, my friend."
"No, dear lady, we must not; neither must we be unappreciative of His faithful messengers," John gravely returned.
Then he proceeded to briefly outline something of his life and work abroad, speaking in high praise of his teacher, Monsieur Jacques, and his kindly interest in him; and referred modestly to his own success, both in Paris and also during his present visit to America.
They spent a delightful hour together, and when he finally arose to go Mrs. Everleigh named an early date for him to come and dineen famille, "for," she told him, "I have not heard half enough even yet. I must see more of you while you are here."
When he was gone she sat a long time in deep thought, evidently reviewing the very interesting story John had related to her. At last she looked up with a slight start, a peculiar look sweeping over her face.
"Hunger—ford!" she said aloud, dwelling with emphasis on the last syllable of the name. "I wonder——"
What she wondered can only be surmised, but, knowing what she did of Helen's life—even though she had never been told the story in detail—it is safe to say that a suspicion of the relationship between John, Helen, and Dorothy had been aroused in her mind.
John did not see Helen again during the remainder of his stay in New York. Helen felt that it would be better for them both to avoid another interview, and she persistently kept herself in the background. But she went to see his pictures, as she had promised, after they were hung at the art club, choosing her opportunity one day when Dorothy and her father were out of town, and thus securing for herself plenty of time in which to examine his work without fear of a personal encounter, which would have been both awkward and painful for her.
She afterward wrote him a frank, friendly letter, in which she expressed highest commendation of his beautiful pictures, and her assurance that the future would bring him even higher honors.
She closed by asking him to paint her a portrait of Dorothy the first time she went to Paris to visit him, which, she knew, would be in about three months.
This request was like balm and oil to the man's wounded spirit, for it assured him that she never would have made it if there had been aught but good will in her heart for him, and immediately upon his arrival in his adopted city—adopted, for he knew that it would henceforth be his permanent home—he at once proceeded to fulfill her wishes, doing what he could from memory and the aid of photographs, that he might not have so much to do when Dorothy should arrive to give him sittings for the finishing touches.
Six months from the time she had made her request, Helen received a beautiful, richly framed, three-quarter size portrait of her dear one, that was to make her heart glad during all her future years—glad not only because of the faithful likeness, graceful pose, and artistic costume, but because of the masterly work that proclaimed it a production of high art, and which, to her, seemed like a priceless seal set upon the complete redemption of the man who had once been her husband.
Three years later, at the earnest solicitation of Dorothy and her husband, Helen temporarily gave up her work to make an extensive tour abroad with them.
It proved to be, on the whole, a most happy and restful experience; and yet there were times when a tear would start, or a regretful sigh escape her lips as they went over ground and visited many places which she had traversed with John during their ideal honeymoon, so many years ago, and which could not fail to revive old associations.
But her two devoted children were delightful traveling companions, well posted, observant, and thoroughly appreciative in their sight-seeing; always careful for her comfort, and allowing her to rest whenever she did not feel quite equal to their more vigorous desire to "miss nothing that was worth while."
During these years previous to their trip, Dorothy had visited her father, in Paris, several times, and when at home had corresponded regularly with him; thus Helen had been in the way of knowing something of the details of his life and work.
She had also read of various notable things he had done, from foreign papers and art journals. But he had never directly communicated with her, nor she with him, except to thank him most gratefully for, and express her delighted appreciation of, Dorothy's portrait when it came to her carefully packed and ready to hang upon her wall.
She had realized that when they reached Paris, where they planned to remain longer than in most of the places they visited, she would be liable to see more or less of him, and she had taken this carefully into consideration before giving her consent to the trip. She felt that if she went she must cast no shadow upon the pleasure of the others. Dorothy had again become very fond and exceedingly proud of her father; Mr. Alexander also held him in highest esteem; hence, in justice to all, her own attitude must, in some measure, at least, conform to theirs. She believed, too, that John understood her, and would not allow himself to do or say aught that would disturb her harmony, while she would be able to avoid awkward situations by always having one or both of the young people with her.
John received them, upon their arrival, with delightful hospitality, and they found that every possible arrangement had been made for their comfort in one of the best pensions of the city, as they preferred to be located thus, rather than in a less homelike hotel.
He had also a most attractive program planned for nearly every day of their stay, subject, of course, to their preferences. But Helen found herself more weary than she had anticipated on reaching Paris, and decided it would be best for her to keep quiet for a few days before attempting to do very much sight-seeing.
As usual, she was allowed to follow the dictates of her own judgment, while the others fell in with John's plans, and went about with their accustomed vigor.
The third day after their arrival, one of Helen's former patrons, who was residing just out of the city, and had known of her coming, came to call upon her, and, seeing that she was not quite herself, begged the Alexanders to give her up into her hands for a week or two, promising to give her every care, and take her about to whatever points of interest she desired or felt able to visit.
Dorothy was wise enough to see that it was not altogether weariness, but something of a mental strain, under which her mother was laboring, and she unhesitatingly, even eagerly, consented to the arrangement. So Helen was whisked away to Mrs. Hollis Hamilton's delightful villa, where, with an unacknowledged burden lifted from her heart, she began immediately to rally, and was quite herself again in a few days.
She saw John only twice after that, until the day before they were to leave Paris. They had planned several times to visit his studio, but something unforeseen had interfered each day. Now they could put it off no longer, and that afternoon found them all gathered in his rooms to view his treasures and have a little last visit together before their departure on the evening express for Italy.
It was the studio of an artist who had won both wealth and renown; richly furnished, artistically decorated, and hung with rare gems from his own brush, as well as from that of others; besides being graced with various costly curios, with some fine pieces of sculpture, upon which one could feast the eye for hours at a time, and never become weary of the privilege.
John had a few minutes' chat alone with Helen after they had made a leisurely circuit of the rooms together, and during which he explained, among other things—what interested her most—the underlying thought that had inspired the subject and been wrought into many of his pictures.
It was the last time he ever saw her, and the memory of her face as she listened to and talked with him never left him. As long as he lived, it shed its luster on his pathway. It was like a radiant star, newly risen, which would henceforth illumine the gloom of his darkened firmament and cheer his lonely hours.
She had been charming, had seemed to forget everything but her interest in what he had been doing since his visit to America. She showed herself well versed in art, also—that she had kept up with the times, and was even well posted upon some of his own more important works that had received honorable mention in some of the art journals. She was eloquent, winsome, and witty by turns. Her manner was frank and gracious, without a vestige of self-consciousness to suggest that she even remembered the tragedy of their earlier years; something as her attitude might have been toward a brother or a friend in whom she was deeply interested. And when at length they paused in a great bow window that overlooked a beautiful view beyond the sunlit Seine, she observed, with glowing eyes:
"What a glorious thing it is to be a 'great artist!' Yes," she added, as he made a gesture of dissent, "Monsieur Jacques' prophecy is proving true; I can see it unfolding more and more. It is a rare and noble gift to conceive exquisite mental pictures like these, and then be able to portray them for others to enjoy. Who can estimate their refining influence upon the world, especially when one canfeelthe uplifting thought and inspiring lessons underlying their surface beauty? If you are putting as faithful work into your life problem, John, as you are expending upon your art, you surely are making rapid strides toward that 'goal' of which we talked three years ago."
"I believe I am honestly trying to do so, Helen," was his quietly earnest reply; "but"—his lips whitening suddenly—"the way, at times, has seemed toilsome and—lonely."
His voice almost broke on the last word.
Helen's clear eyes drooped; her face clouded for an instant, and, with an inward shock of misery, John knew that his words had recalled the lonely way she had once trodden, bearing both her own burdens and his. He could have scourged himself for his thoughtlessness. He had charged himself that morning not to recall by look or word one sorrowful thought to mar her visit to him. But the next moment she looked up, serene and smiling.
"That is an experience we all have at times, I fancy," she said. "It is a suggestion of that little demon—self-pity—that is liable to make a great deal of mischief for us if we do not speedily conquer him."
"I have found that out for myself," he observed, with an answering smile; "he is at hand to trip at every step, if one is not alert."
"And we know, John, there can be no company warfare, the battle is individual, one must toil and fight alone for self-conquest. It does seem wearisome at times, but it is grand, too, for every individual victory won is just so much more achieved toward the redemption of all, because it lessens the evil in the world in exact proportion to our achievements, and also becomes an incentive to others to buckle on their armor and do likewise."
"That is a beautiful, helpful thought. I shall not forget it," he gravely returned.
"And I shall not forget my visit here," Helen went on brightly, "nor this lovely view out over the Seine; these beautiful rooms, so artistically arranged—they make an ideal studio—and particularly your work. It has made me very glad to know what you are doing and how you are doing it."
"Thank you for telling me that," was all that John could trust himself to say.
"By the way," she continued, after a moment, during which her eyes had roved over the place with a lingering look, as if to impress it indelibly upon her mind, "what have you behind those draperies? I thought it a window as I passed them; now I see it is not."
John glanced in the direction she indicated, then back at her, hesitated, and for a moment seemed at a loss to know how to answer her. At length he said:
"That is a picture upon which I have been working, at intervals, for seven or eight years. Many times I have thought it finished, but I am not yet through touching it up—not quite satisfied with it."
"It must be something intensely absorbing," said Helen. "What is the subject, if you will not deem it an impertinent question?"
"I have called it 'My Inspiration,' because it and what it portrays have long been that to me."
"How interesting! You make me very curious. May I see it, John?"
Again he hesitated, flushing slightly, and Helen, thinking perhaps she had been presuming, was on the point of begging his pardon for her thoughtlessness, when he smiled faintly, and replied:
"Yes; while I am showing Dorothy and Alexander a little gem in marble in the other room, go and look at it—no one as yet, save myself, has ever seen it."
He turned to the younger couple, who were approaching, and, saying he had something to show them, led them into the adjoining room; while Helen, experiencing something very like a sense of guilt for having begged such a favor—a favor that as yet had never been granted another, not even Dorothy, it appeared—stole to the curtained alcove, loosened the knotted cords, parted the heavy draperies, and looked up. A low exclamation of astonishment escaped her.
The picture was a full-length portrait of herself, wearing an evening dress of silver-gray velvet, garnished with costly lace and touches of rose pink, and standing just as she had stood that night, three years ago, when John took leave of her in her apartment at the Grenoble. The figure and costume were perfect in every detail. John had a remarkable memory, and he had caught not only the unconscious grace of her pose, but also the sheen of the velvet, and almost the exact pattern of the lace she had worn. And the face! It almost made her weep as she studied it, for she could not fail to read the tender, worshipful stroke of his brush in its every line and feature.
She could not bear it; the story it told was too pathetic. She let the draperies fall gently back into place, reknotted the cords as she had found them, and stole softly from the room into the reception hall, where she waited, trying to recover her color and self-control, until the others rejoined her.
Evidently they had been having a playful tilt over something, for Dorothy was bubbling over with merriment, and both gentlemen were smiling in sympathy with her mood. Thus Helen escaped any sense of awkwardness in meeting John again, or in the leave-takings that followed; no reference was made to the picture; he did not even seem to be curious as to how it had affected her, and she parted from him with what appeared to be but a cordial handshake and a simple good-by.
But when they were gone, the man stood, white and motionless, for several moments where they left him, struggling mightily within himself. The supreme test had come—the test of absolute and final renunciation. At last, with a quick indrawn breath that was very like a sob, he went to the alcove where Helen had stood but a few minutes before, loosened and drew back the draperies, and studied his picture long and critically.
Then he brought his pallet and brushes, and worked with great care upon it for nearly an hour.
At last he stood back and searched the face again. He had changed the eyes in some way that made it seem almost as if a living soul were looking through them, and the lips wore a softer, tenderer expression that was like a gentle benediction.
The new light in the eyes, and the sweeter lines about the mouth were the result of what he had caught from Helen herself an hour ago while they stood talking together in the great window overlooking the Seine.
"It is finished; and it is my masterpiece!" he breathed, as he reverently drew the curtains over the picture again, and then went thoughtfully back to his workroom.
* * * * * * *
During many years that followed, the work of John Hungerford continued to win fame and fortune for the faithful artist. A "Hungerford painting" was regarded as a prize by its possessor, and its price as of secondary importance; while, as a man, his name became the recognized synonym of all that was benevolent, good, and philanthropic.
Struggling artists of merit were generously and tactfully helped over hard places, and sent on their way rejoicing; the idler was kindly reproved and inspired to more persistent effort; the prodigal and profligate were sought after, and, with convincing argument and wise counsel, won from their degrading and enervating pleasures to higher appreciation of the talent with which they had been endowed; the faint-hearted were encouraged, the sick befriended, the homeless sheltered. In fine, the distinguished artist was not only recognized as an authority and a connoisseur in his profession, but also as a great-heartedMan, whose beautiful and hospitable home, as well as his studio, became a delightful and instructive resort for lovers of art, or a refuge in time of need, as the case might be, and open to all who, with worthy intent and honest endeavor, chose to avail themselves of his generosity and kindness.
Thus John Hungerford not only labored assiduously to charm the eye, elevate and refine the taste, and mold the character through the medium of his art, but he also—having himself been disciplined and purified by suffering, and redeemed by faithfully working out his own salvation; having learned also the higher meaning of Life, and its sacred individual responsibilities—became the beloved benefactor of many who, in later years, followed in his footsteps, to enrich, in turn, the lives of others.
Thus he abundantly fulfilled Helen's inspiring prophecy: "The future holds all good for you, John," and so found peace, if not absolute happiness, at eventide.
THE END.