CHAPTER XXIV.

A MASTERPIECE.

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 can _feel_ the 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-hearted _Man_, 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.