 | CHAPTER XXIII.
CHRISTINE'S IDEA OF CHRISTIANS. Barriers burned away |  |
23. CHAPTER XXIII.
CHRISTINE'S IDEA OF CHRISTIANS.
The large apartment where the amateur performers
expected to win their laurels was now filled with all the
paraphernalia needed to produce musical, artistic, and
stage effects. Much had been gathered before Dennis's
arrival, and his cart-load added all that was necessary.
Everything seemed in inextricable confusion.
“The idea of having anything here to-night,” exclaimed
Miss Winthrop. “It will take us a week to get things arranged.”
“The thing is hopeless,” said the blank young ladies.
Even Christine looked somewhat dismayed, but she
said, “Remember we have till half past eight.”
“I will call two or three of the servants,” said Miss
Brown.
“I beg of you do not, at least not yet,” exclaimed
Christine. “What will their clumsy hands do in work
like this, but mar everything? I have great faith in Mr.
Fleet's abilities,” she continued, turning toward Dennis
with an enchanting smile, and resuming the tactics of the
morning. Though the smile went to Dennis's heart like
a fiery arrow, his pride, thoroughly aroused, made him cold
and self-possessed. He naturally assumed the manner
though wronged, chooses not to show his feelings save by
a grave, quiet dignity. In view of their action and manner,
he consciously felt himself their superior, and this
impression like an atmosphere was felt by them also; and
as they looked upon his tall, erect form, manly bearing,
his large dark eyes, in which still lurked the fire of an honest
indignation, they felt the impossibility of ordering him
about as they might Mapes the carman. They regarded
him for a moment in awkward silence, not knowing what
to do or say. Even haughty Christine was embarrassed,
for the stronger spirit was present and thoroughly aroused,
and it overpowered the weaker natures. Christine had
never seen Dennis look like that, and did not know that
he could. He was so different from the eager, humble
servitor that heretofore had interpreted her very wishes,
even before spoken. Moreover, the success of their entertainment
now depended upon him, and she felt that he
was in a mood that required delicate treatment, and that
she could not order him around in Pat Murphy's role, to
which she had practically assigned him. And yet if she
had known him, she might, for he had made up his mind
to go through even the most menial service with proud humility,
and then be careful not to be so caught again; and
when Dennis had resolved upon a thing, that settled the
question so far as he was concerned. Seeing Christine's
hesitation and embarrassment, he stepped forward and
said—
“Miss Ludolph, if you will indicate your wishes I will
carry them out as rapidly as possible. I can soon bring
order out of this confusion; and you must have some plan
of arrangement.”
She gave him a quick, grateful glance, that thawed
more of his ice than he cared to have melt so quickly.
“Of course we have,” said she. “This is but the nervous
been planned on paper. Here is our programme.”
“All battles do not go forward in the field as planned
on paper, if my feeble memory serves me,” said Miss Winthrop
maliciously.
“I grant you that,” said Christine quietly, “and you
need not tax your memory so greatly to prove it.”
She was now very kind and gracious to Dennis, believing
that to be the best policy. It usually is, but she received
no special proof of it from him; he listened alike
to request, suggestion, and compliment. There was nothing
sullen or morose in his appearance, nothing resentful
or rude. He heard all she said with the utmost respect,
and carried out her wishes with that dexterous, graceful
promptness for which he had few equals. At the same
time his manner was that of one who thoroughly respected
himself—that of a refined and cultured person, who, having
become committed to a disagreeable part, performed
it only with the protest of dignified silence.
As his first step, he cleared a space for action, and arranged
every thing to be in view when needed. The rapidity
with which order emerged from confusion, was
marvellous to the young ladies.
Then he took their programme, studied it a few moments,
and compared it with the pictures and photographs
of the scenes they wished to imitate. He then arranged
for these one after another, placing every thing needed
within reach, and where it could readily be seen,
making the combinations beforehand as far as possible.
As he worked so intelligently and skilfully, requiring so
few explanations, the young ladies exchanged significant
glances, and strolled into the front parlor They must
express an opinion.
“I declare, Christine,” said Miss Winthrop, “it is a
shame that you did not introduce him, for he is a gentleman.
He works like a captive prince.”
“How romantic!” gushed the colorless young ladies.
“Nonsense!” said Miss Brown, “I hate to see any one
in his position so stuck up.”
As soon as she had seen Dennis fairly at work just like
her mother's servants, or her father's men, she felt that he
ought to be treated as such—riches and not usefulness
being Miss Brown's patents of nobility; and she resolved
if possible to lower his ridiculous pride, as she regarded
it. Miss Brown, though a very handsome, stylish girl of
a certain type, was yet a better judge of her father's beer
than of many other things, and no more understood Dennis's
feelings than she did Sanscrit.
Christine said nothing, but admitted to herself with a
secret wonder, that Dennis inspired her with a respect, a
sort of fear, that no other man had, save her father.
There was something in his manner that afternoon, though
altogether respectful, that made her feel that he was not
to be trifled with. This impression was decidedly heightened
when, a few moments later, Miss Brown, pursuant
of her resolution to lower Dennis's pride, ordered him in
an offensive manner to do something for her that had no
connection with the entertainment. At first he acted as
if he had not heard her, but his rising color showed that
he had. In spite of warning glances from Christine and
Miss Winthrop, she repeated her request in a loud, imperious
tone.
Dennis drew himself up to his full height, and turning
his dark flashing eyes full upon her, said firmly and quietly—
“I am ever ready to offer any service that a gentleman
can to a lady, but surely I am not your footman.”
“Your pride is ridiculous, sir. You are to help, and
will be paid for it. This is my house, and I expect
persons of your position, while in it, to do as they are
bidden.”
“Since such are the rules and principles of your house,
permit me at once to leave you in full possession,” and he
was about to retire with manner as cold as Mr. Ludolph
himself could have assumed, and as haughty, when a light
hand fell upon his arm. Looking down he met the deep
blue eyes of Christine Ludolph lifted pleadingly to his.
“Mr. Fleet, you need not do what is asked. It is not
right to require it. In fact we all owe you an apology.”
Then, in a low, quick tone, she added, “Will you not stay
as a favor to me?”
She felt his arm tremble under her hand, there was a
moment's hesitation, then he replied in the same manner.
“Miss Ludolph, you can command me on this occasion”
(there was no promise for the future), and then he
turned to his work as if resolved to see and know nothing
but it, till the ordeal ended. In spite of herself Christine
blushed, but taking Miss Brown by the arm she led her
aside and gave her a vigorous lecture.
“Are you mad, Miss Brown,” she said. “Do you not
remember that nearly a thousand dollars' worth of tickets
are sold, and that the people will be here by half past
eight, and at nine we must appear. Even after what he
has done, if you should drive him away, the thing would
be a failure, and we would be the ridiculous town-talk for
a year.”
“But I hate—”
“No matter what you hate,—treat him as you please
to-morrow. We need him now.” And so the petted, wilful
girl, spoiled by money and flattery, was kept under restraint.
A great deal of preparation was required for the last
two pieces on the programme, and the young ladies grouped
themselves gracefully not far off while Dennis worked.
Christine explained from time to time as the natural
leader of the party. Still an awkward silence followed
I suppose, that nature abhors a vacuum, this silence
could not long endure, and one of the colorless young ladies
asked a question that led to more than she intended,
and, indeed, more than she understood.
“Christine, what do you do with yourself Sundays?
Your pew is not occupied once in an age.”
“I usually paint most of the day, and ride out with
papa in the afternoon when it is pleasant.”
“Why you are a perfect little heathen,” they all exclaimed
in chorus.
“Yes, I suppose I am worse than a Pagan,” she said,
“for I not only do not believe in your superstitions, but
have none of my own.”
“What do you believe in then?” asked Miss Winthrop.
“Art, music, fame, power.”
She announced her creed so coolly and decidedly that
Dennis lifted a startled face to hers. She saw his grieved,
astonished expression, and it amused her very much.
Henceforth she spoke as much for his benefit as theirs.
“If you would be equally honest,” she continued, “you
would find that your creeds also are very different from the
one in the prayer-book.”
“And what would mine be, pray?” asked one of the
colorless young ladies.
“I will sum it up in one sentence. Miss Jones, keep
in the fashion.”
“I think that you are very unjust. I'm sure I go to
church regularly, and attend a great many services in Lent
and on Saints' days. I've been confirmed, and all that.”
“Yes, it is the thing to do in your set. Now, here is
Miss Winthrop, a Presbyterian, who manifests quite another
religious phase.”
“Pray what is mine?” asked that lady, laughing.
“O you want hair-splitting in regard to the high doctrines—clear,
steel into the beliefs of other denominations. Then,
after your ism has been glorified for an hour, on Sunday
morning, and all other isms pierced and lashed, you descend
from your intellectual heights, eat a good dinner,
take a nap, and live like the rest of us till the next Sabbath,
when (if it is a fine day) you climb some other theological
peak, far beyond the limits of perpetual snow,
and there take another bird's-eye view of something that
might be found very different if you were nearer to it.”
“And what is my phase?” asked Miss Brown.
“O you are an out-and-out sinner, and do just what
you please, in spite of priest or prayer-book,” said Christine
with a laugh in which all the ladies joined.
“Well,” said Miss Brown, “I do not think that I am
worse than the rest of you.”
“Not in the least,” replied Christine. “We all have
some form of religion, or none at all, as it accords with
our peculiar tastes.”
“And you mean to say that having a religion or not,
is a mere matter of taste, asked Miss Winthrop.
“Yes, I should say it was, and practically that it is.
You ladies, and about all that I have met, seem to choose
a style of religion suited to your tastes; and the tastes of
many incline them to have no religion at all.”
“Why, Miss Ludolph,” exclaimed Miss Winthrop, her
cheeks glowing with honest dissent and zeal for the truth.
“Our religion is taken from the Bible. Do you not believe
in the Bible?”
“No! not in the sense that you ask the question; nor
you either, my charming Miss Winthrop.”
“Indeed I do, every word of it,” said the orthodox
young lady, hotly.
“Let me test you. Miss Brown, have you such a book
in the house? O yes, here is an elegantly-bound copy
this city is full of all sorts of horrid people, living
in alleys, and tenement houses several layers deep; they
are poor, half naked, hungry, and sometimes starving:
many are in prison, and more ought to be; many are
strangers, more utterly alone and lonely in our crowded
streets than on a desert island: they are suffering from
varieties of disgusting disease, and having a hard time
generally. How many hungry people have you fed? How
many strangers (I do not mean distinguished ones from
abroad), have you taken in and comforted? How many
of the naked have you clothed? And how long is your
list of the sick and imprisoned that you have visited, my
luxurious little lady?”
A real pallor overspread Miss Winthrop's sunny face,
for she saw what was coming, but she answered honestly—
“I have done practically nothing of all this;” then
she added, “papa and mamma are not willing that I
should visit such places and people. I have asked that I
might, but they always discourage me, and tell of the
awful experiences of those who do.”
“Then they don't believe the Bible, either,” said Christine.
“For if they did they would insist on your doing it;
and if you believed you would do all this in spite of them,
for see what is written here. The very Being that you
worship and dedicate your churches to, will say, because
not doing this, `Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting
fire, prepared for the devil and his angels.' And
this is but one of many similar passages. Now all this is
a monstrous fable to me. The idea of any such experience
awaiting my light-hearted little Sybarite here!”
Miss Winthrop had buried her face in her hands, and
was trembling from head to foot. The words of God
never seemed so real and true before, as now while uttered
by an unbeliever.
“I don't believe there is any such place or things,”
said Miss Brown bluntly.
“There spake my mature and thoughtless friend who
is not to be imposed upon,” said Christine with a touch of
irony in her tone.
Dennis had listened in sad wonder. Such words of
cynical unbelief were in dark, terrible contrast with the
fair young face. He saw the mind and training of her
father in all she said, but he bitterly condemned the
worldly, inconsistent life of multitudes in the church who
do more to confirm unbelievers than all their sophistries.
But as she went on seemingly having the argument all
her own way, his whole soul burned to meet and refute
her fatal views. For her own sake and the others, as well
as for the dishonored name of his Lord, he must in some
way turn the tide. Though regarded as a humble servitor,
having no right to take part in the conversation, he determined
that his hands must lift up the standard of truth
if no others would or could. To his joy he found that
the programme would soon give him the coveted opportunity.
Christine went on with a voice as smooth and musical
as the flow of a stream over a glacier.
“I have read the Bible several times, and that is more
than all of you can say, I think. It is a wonderful book,
and has been the inspiration of some of our best art.
There are parts that I enjoy reading very much for their
sublimity and peculiarity. But who pretends to live as
this old and partially obsolete book teaches? Take my
father for instance. All the gentlemen in the church that
I know of, can do, and are accustomed to do, just what
he does, and some I think do much worse; and yet he is
an infidel as you would term him. And as to the ladies,
not the Bible, but fashion rules them with a rod of iron.
I have cut free from it all, and art shall be my religion and
the inspiration of my life.”
As Christine talked on, the twilight deepened, and
Dennis worked with increasing eagerness.
“After all,” she continued, “it is only history repeating
itself. The educated mind to-day stands in the same
relation to Christianity that the cultured mind of Greece
and Rome stood to the older mythology in the second
century. The form of religion was kept up, but its belief
and power were fast dying out. The cities abounded in
gorgeous temples, and were thronged with worshippers,
but they sacrificed at the dictates of fashion, custom, and
law, not of faith. So our cities are adorned with splendid
churches, and fashion and the tastes of the congregation
decide as to the form of service. They differ
widely from each other, and all differ from the Bible.
The ancients gave no more respect to what was regarded
the will of their imaginary deities than do modern Christians
to the precepts of the Bible. People went to the
ceremonies, got through with them, and then did what
they pleased; and so they do now.
“Take for instance one of your commonest doctrines,
that of prayer: the majority have no practical belief in
it. My father has taken me, and out of curiosity I have
attended several prayer meetings. The merest fraction
of the congregation are present at the best of times, and if
the night is stormy, the number out is painfully small. Yet
all profess to believe that the Lord of heaven and earth
will be present, and that it is His will that they should be.
Your Bible teaches that the Being who controls completely
the destiny of every person, will be in the midst of those
gathered in His name, to hear and answer the petitions.
If this is true, then no earthly ruler was ever so
neglected and insulted, so generally ignored as this very
Deity to whom you ascribe unlimited power, and from
whom you say you receive life and everything. An eastern
despot would take off the heads of those who treated
scoff at the idea of giving office to such lukewarm followers.
Why here in Christian Chicago the will of God is no
more heeded by the majority than that of the Emperor
of China, and the Bible might as well be the Koran.
Looking at these facts from my impartial standpoint, I am
driven to one of two alternatives: either you regard your
God as so kind and good, so merciful, that you can trespass
on His forbearance to any extent, and treat Him
with a neglect and indifference that none would manifest
toward the pettiest earthly potentate, and still all be well;
or else you have no real practical belief in your religion.
Though not very charitably inclined, I cannot think quite
so meanly of human nature as to take the former view, so
I am driven to the latter. For surely no man who wished
to live and prosper, no woman who loved her husband
and children, could so coolly and continually disregard
the Deity in whom they profess to believe with the old
Greek Poet, they “live, move, and have their being.”
The twilight deepened, and Christine continued, her
words portraying the decline of faith according, ominously
with the increasing gloom.
“Why, in order to see the truth of what I am saying,
look at the emblem of your faith—the Cross. All its historical
associations are those of self-denial, and suffering
for others. The Founder of your faith endured death
upon it. He was a great good man like Socrates, though
no doubt a mistaken enthusiast. But what He meant, He
said plainly and clearly, as for instance, `Whosoever doth
not bear his cross and come after Me, cannot be My disciple.'
I admit that in the past He had a wonderful following.
In the ages of martyrdom multitudes left all and
endured all that He did for His sake. But so there have
been other great leaders with equally devoted followers.
But in this practical age religious enthusiasm has but little
of the Holy Virgin take up? and what are borne by your
great rich Church, Miss Winthrop? The shrewd people
of this day manage better, and put their crosses on top of
the church. I suppose they reason that the stone tower
can carry it for the whole congregation on the principle
of a labor-saving machine. But honestly your modern
disciples are no more like their Master than one of the
pale, slim, white-kidded gentlemen who will be here to-night,
is like Richard Cœur de Leon as he led a charge
against the Moslems. Your cross is dwindling to a mere
pretty ornament—an emblem of a past that is fast fading
from men's memories. It will never have the power to
inspire the heart again, as when the Crusaders—”
At that moment their eyes were blinded by a sudden,
dazzling light. There was a general and startled exclamation,
and then, awe-struck and silent, they gazed as if
spell-bound upon a luminous cross blazing before them.
| CHAPTER XXIII.
CHRISTINE'S IDEA OF CHRISTIANS. Barriers burned away | |