"The grave of a royal love brutally slain! The grave of a love for which there can be no resurrection!" he groaned. "I know it, too—God help me! Well," he went on, after a struggle to recover himself, "she has given you back to me as a pledge of her divine forgiveness, and for this I am unutterably grateful. So, dear, we will keep our secret from the world, and make the most of our love for each other. I shall go back to Paris within a couple of weeks, take up my work again, and keep on striving to accomplish something that will make the name of John Hungerford worth remembering. I shall, probably, never return to this country, Dorrie; but you will occasionally come to me, will you not? Say that you will grant me these oases in the desert of my future."
He looked so crushed, yet seemed so patient under his bitter disappointment that Dorothy, with difficulty, refrained from sobbing outright; but, forcing herself to speak cheerfully, she replied:
"I certainly shall. Paris is only a week away, and Clifford and I will enjoy slipping over now and then to spend a little time with you; besides, he always goes to London on business twice a year and takes me with him, so we shall see each other oftener than 'occasionally,' and I will write you every week."
Thus it was arranged; and John tried to make the most of his reunion with Dorothy—tried to be grateful that there would be some blossoms of comfort to cull along the way, during what must otherwise be a very desolate future. Nevertheless, the crushing blow his hopes had received, the bitter cup of renunciation he was forced to drink, seemed, for the time, almost more than he could bear, and left their crucial impress upon him.
He was a frequent visitor in Dorothy's lovely home on the Hudson during the remainder of his stay in New York, and both she and her husband exerted themselves to make his sojourn as delightful as possible, and so give him something pleasant to remember when he should leave them to resume his work and his lonely life abroad.
All Dorothy's old affection for him was revived during this visit, while both her admiration and wonder increased more and more with every interview, in view of his mental and moral attainments, to say nothing of the rapid advancement he had made in his profession, and which seemed likely to place him, at no distant period, in the foremost rank of artists. He certainly was a distinguished-looking man, and one could not converse with him half an hour without becoming aware that beneath the attractive exterior there were depth and strength of character that would lead him still higher as years passed over him.
His work won honors at the exhibition of the Excelsior Art Club. His two finest pictures were marked sold on the opening day, and were sent to grace Dorothy's home at its close. The others were all disposed of, and when the artist finally left for Paris he not only bore with him a rich harvest from his brush, but several orders for paintings to be executed at his convenience.
He had made his presence in the city known to Mrs. Everleigh as soon as he could conveniently arrange to do so; and upon meeting him she had also appeared deeply impressed by the great change in him. It hardly seemed possible to her that he could be the same man who, five years previous, had expressed little hope of his life, and manifested no energy or wish to prolong it.
At her request John had called upon her at her home. When he sent up his card bearing his own name instead of that of Williams, under which she had previously known him, she came to him wearing a look of perplexity; but she instantly recognized and greeted him cordially, although she studied his face earnestly as she shook hands with him.
"My friend, there has certainly been a remarkable change in you," she said. "I am more than glad to see you, however, after all these years, and"—smiling into his eyes—"I am sure you have been forging straight ahead."