He reasoned that he had been very unwise in coming upon Helen so abruptly—walking in upon her without even announcing himself, like some unbidden and unwelcome specter of the past.
He had been greatly surprised at having been admitted so unceremoniously; no one had inquired at the tube who was seeking entrance, and no one had answered when he asked if Mrs. Ford were in. Instead, the lower door had been immediately unlatched for him, and he had found the upper one open when he reached the suite. Even then he felt he should have rung her private bell and waited until some one came; but, in his excitement, he had mechanically pushed the door wider, when, seeing Helen standing at the mirror, looking more lovely than he had ever seen her, he forgot all else save that he was once more in her presence.
He began to realize how he had startled—shocked her beyond measure by this impatient, unwarrantable intrusion upon her. He should have been more considerate—should have waited a day or two, until she had had an opportunity to thoroughly master the contents of his letter and become accustomed to the thought of his return; when she could calmly decide and write him whether she wished to see him or not. Yes, he had made what seemed to him an irreparable blunder, and he was proportionately miserable.
Then, as he caught something of what Dorothy was saying, as he detected the ring of eagerness and even joy in her tones while she told of her husband's meeting him at Mr. Carruthers' lunch; when she had said that her heart really yearned to be reunited to him, for she now believed him to be good and true and worthy, and—bless her dear conscientious soul!—that she had been sorry, and condemned herself for the bitter things she had said to him, the last time he had seen her, when he deserved them all, and much more—he began to take courage again; and it seemed as if he could control himself no longer—as if he must go to her, take her in his arms, claim her as his own, and bless her for her heavenly charity. But he must not blunder again; he must not ruin his only chance by again being too precipitate. Perhaps, after all, Dorrie might be his salvation—the one link that would eventually unite him with the woman he adored.
He almost wept when Helen had said if Dorothy could receive him and help to make his life brighter in the future, it would give her joy to have them reunited; then held his breath to catch her answer to Dorrie's question: "And you, dearest?"
When there came no reply, his heart sank again; especially when the young wife had said she could understand, but begged her mother to meet him just once to congratulate him on his success and wish him well.
But the minute following, when he caught those eager, joy-ringing words: "Here! my father, here!" he was thrilled to the depths of his soul—he could restrain himself no longer.
The next moment he was in her presence!
Dorothy stood breathless, motionless, for a brief interval, searching his face with earnest, yearning eyes; then involuntarily she drifted toward him with outstretched hands.
With a great sob of joy welling up from his heart, John Hungerford gathered them in his, and, drawing her close to him, laid them upon his breast, holding them there while he feasted his hungry gaze upon her loveliness.