CHAPTER XX.

FIVE YEARS LATER.

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.