 | CHAPTER XIII.
DEACON GUDGEON'S SON. Barriers burned away |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
DEACON GUDGEON'S SON.
When his daughter was a young miss of fourteen, a
trouble occurred that might have sadly marred Mr. Ludolph's
finely spun web by which he sought to catch the
golden prizes of the future.
Christine, for that was her name, was then a merry
school girl, attending one of the best and most fashionable
institutes for young ladies in the city. On her way to and
fro she had been strongly attracted by a ruddy-faced youth
who seemed equally smitten by her charms.
She was then in the transition period, when neither
child nor woman: she had the wayward fancies of the
earlier state, without the self-control and knowledge of the
latter. At the same time the womanly nature awakening
within her like the first dawning of early Spring, made her
heart susceptible to the awkward attentions of her unknown
admirer, who as yet was shrouded in mystery, and
therefore delightful romance. One day when returning
home, he following as usual her distant and respectful
shadow, some rude little boys threw snowballs at her.
The unknown turned upon them like a lion, and as they
were all much smaller than himself, soon put them to
ignominious flight. He then hastened to her side and
asked if she were hurt. From that hour he became a hero,
a Bayard in her eyes, and her little feminine soul, that
must exalt and deify the creature of clay before it can
to woman had been displayed—courage toward
the world, gallantry and tenderness toward herself. He
could be a protector. What more could her heart ask or
seek? She doted on the unknown. She would paint his
handsome face in such glowing colors as would make both
immortal; and in fact a round-faced youth with bloody
face and staring eyes in all stages of artistic mutilation
began to fill the hidden nooks of her portfolio. At times
the object of her constant thought would beam upon her
with one eye, she having been interrupted before she could
put in the other. In the same way other features would
be painfully lacking, but her loving fancy would fill them
out, and she would gaze devotedly on what others, not
possessed by her strong illusion, would regard as a fit subject
for a coroner's inquest.
But though he remained in romantic mystery and maintained
his incognito, she was not unknown to him. This
Chicago youth had forgotten his boyish innocence years
ago. He was shrewd, and had come of a shrewd tribe.
He was in fact the eldest son of Deacon Gudgeon, a well-to-do
fish-monger and green-grocer. But his father, ambitious
in his way as Mr. Ludolph in his, had meant him
for great things, and had kept him out of the stall, so that
Christine, who had often stopped with her father at the
Deacon's stand to order fish and oysters, had never seen
him there nor suspected the relation. The only daughter
of rich Mr. Ludolph was a grand “catch,” and father and
son rejoiced in secret, though with fear and trembling over
the state of affairs. It was of course deemed best that he
should remain unknown till Christine had committed herself
so far, or had become so attached to him, that she
could or would not draw back. If a secret, private marriage
could be brought about, they would avail themselves
of that, for however it might result, much could be wrung
effected. While this mine was being dug under
his feet, Mr. Ludolph thought of his daughter as a little
school-girl, who had learned to conjugate “love,” as any
other verb, only from her grammar.
But the fever of her first passion went on with little interruption
till it reached the crisis of “sweet idolatry.”
For a few weeks after her rescue from the snow-battlers,
she could hardly have refused him anything. But the
wary youth over-reached himself in his own shrewdness.
His father's caution also held him back. They must not
frighten this rare bird by too precipitate action till fairly
within the toils.
Meantime Christine having loved blindly all her girlish
nature could, began to grow a little critical. Gradually it
dawned upon her that the hero ever present to her fancy
was somewhat different from the flesh and blood youth of
the street.
Certain coarse ways and ungrammatical expressions
jarred upon her refined and sensitive nature. His mystery
began to grow suspicious instead of romantic. In bitterness
of heart she reproached herself for thus seeing spots
on the sun of her existence, but so it was, and these feelings
soon tinged her manners with a slight coldness at their
stolen interviews to and from school. This alarmed the
conspirators, and they felt that the time had come for decisive
action.
The next afternoon she saw her unknown admirer walking
up the street to meet her. Unconsciously she compared
his swagger with the courtly bearing of her father,
and wondered at the difference. He was pomaded, perfumed,
and dressed to a greater degree than usual, and this
annoyed her. Moreover his face wore a most sentimental,
lugubrious aspect, and she with strange perversity felt like
laughing. But she tried to meet him with a smile, as usual.
In a voice that he meant to be deeply affecting he said
—“Christine, I'm agoin' away—a far away from these
scenes of joy and love.”
To her horror, no regret but rather a sense of relief
filled her heart in view of his absence—her faithful heart
that she so often had promised would ever be true.
He went on to state that though he had fine prospects
—great prospects, still the world would ever be “a sandy
sarah, a howlen wilderness, an unimproved prairie, without
her. Would she not marry him?—they would enter Paradise
together?”
All this might have sounded very heavenly and inviting
three weeks ago, but she was fast becoming disenchanted
now. Her superior knowledge of geography
made “Sandy Sarah” too much for her, and when he
looked around to see the effect of his set speech, he found
her shaking with laughter. Then he reproached her, and
she laughed half hysterically all the more, for she was excited,
worried, and hardly knew what she did. Then he
threatened her—spoke vaguely of her having committed
herself—promised—and told her she had gone too far to
draw back, that she was in his power, etc. At this she
began to cry. Then he told her if she would only marry
him, it would be all right. But she cried all the more, and
felt she would rather die than marry him. Her excitement
and emotion attracted the attention of passers-by.
At last a gentleman stopped and asked what was the
matter.
“I want to go home,” said she.
“Where is your home?”
“No. — Wabash avenue.”
“Why, my child, you're going right away from home.”
At this she looked in quick alarm at her companion. The
unknown, perplexed, and anxious, felt that he must do
something or the game was lost, so he said stoutly—
“She's my sister, I will see her home safe.”
The spell was now broken utterly. She had caught
him in a downright lie, and all confidence was at once
gone.
“He is not my brother,” she cried. “He is a bad boy,
and I won't do what he wants me to.”
The gentleman, who was a father and worthy citizen,
at once comprehended the case.
“Come with me, my child,” he said; “of course he is
not your brother—one could see that half a block off. As
for you, young man, leave, or I'll put you in charge of a
policeman.”
The unknown needed no second warning, but slunk
quickly around the corner.
Christine saw in great alarm that she was in a part of
the city utterly unknown to her, but the gentleman took her
hand, and kindly reassuring her, soon brought her to familiar
ground, but did not leave her till she ran up the
steps of her father's house. He then gave a low whistle
of surprise, and said to himself,
“If Ludolph does not look after his daughter as well
as his business, he will rue it. Though our acquaintance
is slight, I think I ought to tell him,” and a few days after
he did, but the facts came to his knowledge sooner.
The next day Christine was too sick and worried to go
out. She was also afraid to go, for the vague threats she
had heard were all the more dreadful because vague and
mysterious.
Her father asked anxiously what was the matter, and
she said “a headache,”—she might justly have added a
heartache; for the change from her ideal world of love and
happiness was great and cruel, and one that as yet she
could not understand. She despised herself, feared her
father, and dreaded her former lover more than all. Every
thing seemed chaotic and full of danger. A guilty
her, and what astonished and perplexed her most, was
that her former love had changed to utter loathing.
| CHAPTER XIII.
DEACON GUDGEON'S SON. Barriers burned away | |