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.