CHAPTER XXIII.

A FINAL RENUNCIATION.

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? _Is_ there 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 been _trying_ to 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 to _prove 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 dine _en 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.