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.