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.