University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.
THE RESULT OF FIRST LOVE.

The day following, in order to escape suspicion, Christine
went to school. She saw the unknown hovering about
in the distance, but dropping her veil she took a street-car
and escaped him. In the afternoon she joined herself to
a party of girls, instead of coming home alone, as had
been her custom. Again she saw him, but gave no sign
of recognition. Two days having passed safely, she began
to breathe more freely.

That evening, as she and her father sat in their luxurious
sitting-room, she was startled by a sharp ring at the
door. The father noticed her alarm and wondered at it
for a moment. But when the girl announced “Deacon
Gudgeon and son on business,” all anxiety passed from
her face. What had she to do with Deacon Gudgeon and
son?

“I suppose he wants his money,” said Mr. Ludolph;
“ask him if he has brought his bill.”

The girl soon returned with a long bill, (for Mr. Ludolph
was a good liver), but every article was charged at
only half price.

“What does this mean?” exclaimed Mr. Ludolph.
“Old Gudgeon is not the man to take off fifty per cent.
from a bill for nothing,” and he went down to solve the
mystery.

There was a cool, wary glitter in the Deacon's eye, but

outwardly he was all smiles and graciousness, and wanted
to shake hands, but Mr. Ludolph conveniently did not see
this. Everybody in the market called him “Deacon,” but
Mr. Ludolph, in his punctilious pride, would not allow
himself even this slight familiarity toward one of the fishmonger's
class, and he called him simply Mr. Gudgeon,
and his manner to such was ever as cool and yet as smiling
and bright as the glitter of an icicle.

“Mr. Gudgeon,” he said, in an easy yet distant courtesy,
“there seems some mistake about this bill. I am
charged but half the usual price for the provisions I have
had.”

Mr. Gudgeon grinned, shuffled, and intimated in an
obscure, bungling way, that, under the present “circumstances,”
he would not expect to charge Mr. Ludolph as
other customers.

“Indeed, sir, said Mr. Ludolph coldly, regarding his
strangely acting guest as if he had lost his wits, “I know
of no circumstances that should prevent me from paying
you a fair price for what I buy. I am abundantly able.”

“No doubt, no doubt, abundantly able,” said the Deacon
with emphasis, as if relishing the fact. “Well, well,
sir, pay me what you like. It's all in the family—he! he!
(with a constrained laugh)—as people say, you know.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Mr. Ludolph sternly.

“P'raps she hasn't told you.”

“Has your father lost his reason lately?” asked Mr.
Ludolph in a perplexed tone of the son, who was shuffling
about looking very uneasy and abashed, now that he was
in the rich man's house he had so longed to enter.

Deacon Gudgeon saw that he could play the game of
hide-and-seek no longer—that he must come out boldly.
But now, that he was in the presence of the proud man, and
finished gentleman, standing strong and secure in the
sanctity of his own home—the home that he was seeking

to invade by the vilest trickery, and unblushing effrontery,
even his brazen face showed some confusion, but he made
a bold plunge into the midst of things, resolving to reach
the crisis at once.

“I'v not lost my reason, Mr. Ludolph,” he said. “Indeed,
I come here to talk reason, to have a just understandin'.
You see before you a man and a father. I have
a deep and nataral interest in my offspring (with a wave
of his hand toward the shuffling youth who stood a little
in the back-ground, with his hands in his pockets, making
most uneasy efforts to appear at ease. The “offspring”
was undoubtedly a “chip of the old block.”) It is quite
nataral that young folks, when they git growed up, should
leave father and mother and hum, and cleave to another.
It's also quite nataral that parents would like to know who
that other is. The s'lection of a partner for life is a solemn
thing, and parents can't always approve of the s'lection
their offspring makes. My son” (with another stately
wave toward the offspring) “has made his s'lection, and
his love is recippercated. I can't say that I have any objection
to his choice—in fact I quite admire his taste.
Permit me to inform you that your daughter has promised
to marry my son.”

During the oration from the Deacon, Mr. Ludolph had
turned all sorts of colors; but he soon jumped to the
conclusion that it was a barefaced effort at black-mailing.
He remembered that when the door-bell rang Christine
had shown confusion, but when the Deacon and his son
were announced, only indifference; so he said—

“You accursed fool, my daughter never saw your son.”

“Call her,” said the Deacon, coolly.

With a heart full of anger and disgust, Mr. Ludolph
called up the stairs in a loud, harsh voice—

“Christine, come here a moment.”

Trembling, and full of misgivings, Christine obeyed.

But the moment she saw the unknown she had so idolized,
she covered her face with her hands and tried to escape.
But her father seized her sternly and almost roughly
by the arm, and asked in a tone he had never used to her
before—

“Christine, what does all this mean?”

“You see, you see,” squeaked the Deacon exultingly.

“Silence!” said Mr. Ludolph in a voice of thunder.
“Let the girl speak,”—and thoughts of her mother sickened
his heart. “Is she to be the same?” he queried,
“and has she commenced so early?”

“Christine, do you know this boy?” emphasizing the
word.

“Yes,” put in the Deacon, “don't yer know this young
man?” emphasizing his term.

“Yes,” said Christine faintly.

“Did you ever promise to marry this boy?” said her
father.

“No; he wanted me to marry him day before yesterday,
and I wouldn't.”

Her father groaned, and she saw that his face was
ashen pale.

“Where did you meet him?” he asked hoarsely.

“On my way home from school.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“It is about three months since I first saw him, but I
never knew who he was till to-night.”

Her father again groaned. “Deceit! deceit?”

This stung Christine to the quick, and she cried passionately—

“I never told a lie, but he did,” pointing to her quondam
lover, who stood with trembling knees, and a face that
he tried vainly to keep bold. “I know I have acted like
a fool,” she continued, “and I have suffered enough in
consequence. But I was young and inexperienced, and

did not know what I was doing. It all seems like a silly,
horrid dream, but now that it is done I won't lie about it.”
And she told the whole story without any concealment.
Her father watched her with a scrutiny that pierced her
very soul. He then cross-questioned her more searchingly
than the keenest lawyer, for more than life—his ambition
and honor were at stake. With his thorough knowledge
of character and the world, he saw that he had obtained
from her the whole truth, and at the same time he clearly
detected the scheme of the Gudgeons. As he turned to
them, the Deacon was fairly startled, so terrible was his
expression. They saw that in Mr. Ludolph they had
caught a tartar.

“There is the door,” he said in the deep suppressed
voice of passion.

The young man with a frightened look, started, but
the Deacon stood his ground.

“Look ahere, Mr. Ludolph, not so fast. My son's
blighted 'fections require rapparition. You can't expect
this matter to blow over,” he added more plainly, “without
some good reason.”

“How much do you mean by a good reason?” said
Mr. Ludolph warily.

“You're a rich man; you couldn't afford a scandal like
this to come out; I mean a good round sum.”

“I perceive you mean business, Mr. Gudgeon,” said
Mr. Ludolph; “let us proceed in a business-like way,”
and he stepped to the door and called two of his servants,
an intelligent German man and an English woman.

When they appeared Mr. Ludolph continued in an affable
matter-of-fact tone. “Now, Mr. Gudgeon, let us settle
this little affair between us, as I have other things on hand
this evening that require my attention. Just name the
sum before these witnesses that will satisfy your claim, and
we can soon end this transaction.”

“The Deacon's eyes glittered avariciously, and he believed
he was having everything his own way. But he
hesitated, not daring to name the sum he longed to.

“Come,” said Mr. Ludolph impatiently, “do not be
afraid to speak out.”

“Well,” said the Deacon, brassily, “I'll settle with yer
for ten thousand dollars.” At the same time he was evidently
frightened at the sum he had named.

“All right,” said Mr. Ludolph coolly, and he stepped
to a small secretary and wrote the following: “On the payment
of ten thousand dollars from Mr. Ludolph I will give
him a receipt in full for my claim against him. Is that
satisfactory?” asked he.

“O cartainly, cartainly,” said the exultant Deacon;
“but you'd hardly expect a man and father to do it for
less, in view of such carcumstances as—”

“No words,” said Mr. Ludolph firmly.

“O, I see, I understand; we'll settle quietly,” said the
Deacon with a significant wink.

“That is the better way,” said Mr. Ludolph coolly.
“Just please sign that paper, so that I can be sure that
there will be no further trouble.”

The Deacon at once scrawled his name. Mr. Ludolph
had his servants witness the signature, then dismissed the
woman.

He then sat down at his secretary again, wrote a few
lines, and said to his man,—

“Here, Brandt, take this note to police station No. —,
and give it to officer Brown.”

“What do you mean?” asked the Deacon in sudden
alarm.

“I mean to lodge you and your son in jail,” said Mr.
Ludolph coolly. “You have both taken part in a conspiracy
to blackmail. You have given me written and legal
proof.”

The Deacon turned pale, and his son began to whine
and snuffle. Christine had tried to escape from a scene
that was painful aad sickening beyond words, but her
father sternly commanded her to remain. He meant that
she should receive an impression that would last.

“You cannot afford to have this come out,” snarled
the Deacon; “it will make your daughter the town talk.”

“I can stand it if you can,” said Mr. Ludolph quietly.

“O father,” pleaded Christine, “give him anything
rather than subject me to this mortification.”

“You have subjected yourself to it,” said her father.
“Romantic, gushing girls that bestow their affections in
the streets on fishmonger's sons, must expect the natural
consequences.

His tone was so cold and remorseless that all saw that
it was useless to oppose his iron will. The Deacon, who
was a large, powerful man, felt a strong impulse in his
desperation, to try force in order to recover from Mr. Ludolph
the proof of his guilt, but his wary adversary coolly
drew a revolver and said.

“That will not answer, Mr. Gudgeon.”

Christine was almost ready to faint, and the teeth of
her former hero were fairly chattering with fright. But the
Deacon now came out in his worst light. He belonged
to the reptile class of humanity that can crawl anywhere
to do anything that selfishness prompts. He had sneaked
into a Christian church, and pulled over his black life the
sacred garb of religion. By arts and wire-pulling he came
to be elected an officer, and then he made his deaconship
as prominent in the market as his sign over the fish-stall.
But he appreciated Christian faith, and was as true to it
as Judas Iscariot. But now fearing the loss of his ecclesiastical
honors, and also hoping to move Mr. Ludolph,
he whined,

“As a man and a father devoted to his offspring, I

may have gone too far in this matter. But when you come
to know that I am a member of the church, in fact one of
the pillars, I know that you wont bring a cause of reproach
and stumbling.”

“Mark that, Christine,” said Mr. Ludolph; “your
would-be father-in-law is a pillar in the church. It must
be a queer institution that requires such pillars to uphold
it,” he added with a sneering laugh.

“O please let us off this time, and we wont trouble you
no more,” pleaded father and son in doleful chorus.

Mr. Ludolph thought a moment. If he prosecuted the
Deacon and his son, they having suffered all they could,
would become bitter enemies, bent on revenge. If he let
them go, but held the paper in terrorem over them, they
would have the strongest motive possible to keep still and
let him alone. He therefore said,

“Not because you are a `pillar,' nor because you do
not richly deserve punishment, do I let you off, but because
I have no time to willingly waste on men of your stripe.
Sportsmen do not shoot vermin unless the must to get rid
of them. But I warn you plainly that if either you or your
son trouble me or my daughter again, I will have you
arrested, and punished to the extent of the law, if it take
all and more than the preposterous sum you named. Now
begone.”

The Deacon and his son slunk off like whipped curs.

Mr. Ludolph then turned to his daughter, and said
icily.

“This time I have saved you from disgrace and shame.
The next time you are guilty of such a folly, you shall
abide the consequences. Go to your room, think over
this scene, and look down into this pit of all uncleanness
into which you so nearly fell.”

With every fibre in her body tingling with shame and
self-disgust, Christine crept away to the welcome solitude

of her own room. She put out the light so that she might
not even see her own face in the mirror.

Mr. Ludolph told the detective when he came that on
farther investigation he had concluded not to ask the
arrest of a certain party, and gave the man ten dollars for
his trouble, and so the matter ended. From that time
forth the Gudgeons sailed as wide of Mr. Ludolph as
timorous mariners of the maëlstrom.

But Christine had received a lesson she could never
forget. Every feature in the humbling scene seemed
burned into her very soul as with caustic.

For some weeks after the events above described Mr.
Ludolph treated his daughter with cold distrust. Christine
saw that his confidence in her was gone. She was
very unhappy. She fairly turned sick when she thought
of the past. The words love and romance, were nauseating.
She had lived in the world of romance and mystery;
she had loved all that her girlish nature could, and how
had it ended? However wrongly and unjustly, she
had, by the inevitable laws of association, connected
these words with the fishmonger and son; and within a
week after her miserable experience she became as utter an
unbeliever in human love and happiness flowing from it,
as her father had taught her to be in God and the joy of
believing. Though seemingly a fair young girl, her father
had made her worse than a pagan. She believed in nothing
save art and her father's wisdom. He seemed to embody
the culture and worldly philosophy that now became,
in her judgment, the only things worth living for. To
gain his confidence became her great desire. But this
had received a severe shock. Mr. Ludolph lost about all
faith in everything save money and his own will. Religion
was to him a gross superstition, with which he associated
Pat Murphy's priest and Deacon Gudgeon—woman's
virtue and truth, poetic fictions.

He watched Christine narrowly, and said just enough
to draw out the workings of her mind. He then decided
to tell his plan for life, and give her strong additional
motives for doing his will. The picture he portrayed of
the future, dazzled her proud, ambitious spirit, and opened
to her fancy what then seemed the only path of happiness.
She entered into his projects with honest enthusiasm, and
bound herself by the most solemn promises to aid in
carrying them out. But in bitterness he remembered one
who had promised with seeming enthusiasm before, and
distrusted and watched his daughter with lynx-eyed vigilance.

But gradually he began to believe in her somewhat, as
he saw her looking foward with increasing eagerness to
the heaven of German fashionable life, wherein she, rich,
admired, allied by marriage to some powerful noble family,
should shine a queen in the world of art.

“I have joined her selfishness to mine,” he said, rubbing
his hands in self-gratulation. “I have blended our ambitions
and sources of hope and enjoyment, and that is
better than all her promises.”

At the time that Dennis saw first the face that was so
beautiful and yet so married by pride and selfishness, Christine
was about eighteen, and yet as mature in some respects
as a woman of thirty. She had the perfect self-possession
that familiarity with the best society gives. Mr. Ludolph
was too shrewd to seek safety in seclusion. He went with
his daughter into the highest circles of the city, and Christine
had crowds of admirers and many offers. All this she
enjoyed, but took coolly as her right, as a Greek goddess
might the incense that rose in her temple. She was too
proud and refined to flirt in the ordinary sense of the
word, and no one could complain that she gave much encouragment.
But this was all the more stimulating to the
Chicago youth, and each one believed with confidence in

his peculiar attractions, that he might succeed where all
others had failed. They were unaware that they had a
rival in some as yet unknown German nobleman. At last
it passed into a proverb that the beautiful and brilliant
girl who was so free and courtly in society, was as cold
and unsusceptible as one of her father's statues.

Thus it would seem that when circumstances brought
the threads of these two lives near each other, that of
Dennis and Christine, the most impassable barriers rose
between them, and that the threads could never be woven
together, nor the lives blended.

She was the daughter of the wealthy, aristocratic Mr.
Ludolph. He was her father's porter. Next to the love
of art, pride and worldly ambition were her strongest
characteristics. She was an unbeliever in God and religion,
not from conviction, but from training. She knew
very little about either, and what light she had came to
her through false mediums, murky and discolored.

She did not even believe in that which in many young
hearts is religion's shadow, love and romance. Her father
did not take a more worldly and practical view of life,
than she.

In marked contrast we have seen the character of
Dennis Fleet, drawing its inspiration from such different
sources.

Could two human beings be more widely separated—
separated in that which divides more surely than continents
and seas?

There was but one point of contact—their mutual love
of art.

But if Dennis could have seen her warped, deformed
moral nature, as clearly as her beautiful face and form, he
would have shrunk from her almost in loathing. But while
recognizing defects, he shared the common delusion, that
the lovely outward form and face must enshrine much that

was noble and ready to blossom into good, if the right motives
could be presented.

As for Christine, she had one chance for life, one
chance for heaven. She was young. Her nature had not
so hardened and crystallized in evil as to be beyond new
and happier influences.