An icy chill struck at his heart, blighting all his fond hopes, and marble could not be whiter than was his face as he mechanically made his adieus and passed from the room.
At the door he turned and stood a moment, looking back at her, an expression of mingled reverence and despair in his eyes. Then, with a slight renunciatory wave of his shapely hand, he was gone.
CHAPTER XXIII.
A FINAL RENUNCIATION.
The following day Dorothy and her husband lunched with Mr. Hungerford, as had been arranged, and afterward viewed with delighted appreciation the paintings that were soon to be exhibited at the Excelsior Art Club. There were twelve in all, and they displayed remarkable artistic ability, both in coloring and workmanship, together with certain realistic suggestions that appealed at once to the admiration and sympathies of the beholder.
As one studied them carefully one could not fail to be impressed with the depths of thought and a certain something forcibly suggestive of high ideals portrayed in them; or to recognize both the dignity and purity of sentiment that had inspired the hand that had so skillfully wielded the brush. It was as if the artist's chief aim had been to give all that was best in himself to kindle the noblest qualities of heart in those who might look upon his pictures as long as they should endure.
They were, in truth, beautiful poems in color, to feast the eye, elevate and refine the thought—"songs without words," to make glad and uplift all who were able to appreciate in any degree the divinity of art.
Dorothy realized much of this as she went, day after day, to study these treasures which her father had brought from his atelier in Paris, and her heart glowed with ever-increasing pride in these unquestionable evidences of his genius. It also overflowed with devout gratitude as she read, beneath the surface, the story of a wonderful consecration; of the courage, fortitude, and perseverance which the man, in his lonely exile, must have exercised in order to have been able to rise out of the depths to which he had fallen to achieve such grand and noble results.
One day she went alone for a last look at these beautiful pictures before they were hung for the public to view. Upon this occasion the father and daughter had a long heart-to-heart talk with each other, during which John confessed to Dorothy that he had allowed himself to cherish strong hopes of a reunion with her mother, if he could prove that he had become worthy of her. He realized now, however, he said, that under no circumstances could he be worthy, for he had cut himself off from her, absolutely and finally, by that irreparable mistake of long ago, and he ought to have known that such hopes could never be realized. Hence, as matters now stood, he thought it would be best that the world should never be enlightened regarding their relationship to each other as father and daughter.
"It could not be done, dear," he said, with lips that trembled painfully, "without involving explanations and a rehearsal of past history which would make your mother unpleasantly conspicuous in the circle where she has maintained an honored position for so many years; and I could not bear to have a breath of gossip touch her, to mar her peace in any way."