CHAPTER XXII.

A HAPPY REUNION.

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 a _man_, 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.