University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVII.
DARKNESS.

The next morning Christine did not appear at the late
breakfast, where her father with contracted brow and
capricious appetite, sat alone. Among the other unexpected
results of the preceding day she had taken a very
severe cold, and this, with the reaction from fatigue and
excitement, caused her to feel so seriously ill that she
found it impossible to rise. Her father looked at her, and
was alarmed, for her cheeks were flushed with fever, her
head was aching sadly, and she appeared as if threatened
with one of those dangerous diseases whose earlier symptoms
are so obscure, and yet so much alike. She tried to
smile, but her lip quivered, and she turned her face to
the wall.

The philosophy of Mr. Ludolph and his daughter was
evidently adapted to fair weather and smooth sailing.
Sickness, disease, and the possible results, were things
that both dreaded more than they ever confessed to each
other. It was most natural that they should, for only in
health or life could they enjoy or hope for anything. By
their own belief their horizon was narrowed down to time
and earth, and they could look for nothing beyond. In
Mr. Ludolph's imperious, resolute nature, sickness always
awakened anger as well as anxiety. It seemed like an
enemy threatening his dearest hopes and most cherished
ambition, therefore the heavy frown upon his brow as he
pushed away the scarcely tasted breakfast.

To Christine the thought of death was simply horrible,
and with the whole strength of her will she ever sought to
banish it. To her it meant corruption, dust, nothingness.
With a few drawbacks she had enjoyed life abundantly,
and clung to it with the tenacity of one who believed it
was all. With the exception of some slight passing indisposition,
both she and her father were seldom sick; and
for a number of years now had voyaged on over smooth,
sunny seas of prosperity.

Christine's sudden prostration on the morning following
the company, was a painful surprise to both.

“I will have Dr. Arten call at once,” he said, at parting,
“and will come up from the store early in the day to
see you.”

And Christine was left alone with her French maid.

Her mind was too clouded and disturbed by fever to
think coherently, and yet a vague sense of danger—
trouble—oppressed her, and while lying in a half-unconscious
state between sleeping and waking, a thousand
fantastic visions presented themselves. But in them all
the fiery Cross and Dennis Fleet took some part. At
times the Cross seemed to blaze and threaten to burn her
to a cinder, while he stood by with stern accusing face.
The light from the Cross made him luminous also, and the
glare was so terrible that she would start up with a cry of
fear. Again, they would both recede till in the far distance
they shone like a faint star, and then the black darkness
that gathered round her was more dreadful than the
light, and with her eyes closed she would reach out her
hot hands for the light to return. Once or twice it shone
upon her with soft mellow light, and Dennis stood pointing
to it, pleading so earnestly and tenderly that tears
gathered in her eyes. Then all was blurred and distorted
again.

Within an hour after her father left, she found Dr.

Arten feeling her pulse and examining her symptoms.
With a great effort she roused herself, and looking at the
Doctor with an eager inquiring face said:

“Doctor, tell me the truth. What is the matter?”

He tried to smile and evade her question, but she
would not let him.

“Well, really, Miss Ludolph,” he said, “we can hardly
tell yet what is the matter. You have evidently caught a
very severe cold, and I hope that is all. When I come
this evening I may be able to speak more definitely. In
the mean time I will give you something to soothe and reduce
your fever.”

The French maid followed the Doctor out, leaving the
door ajar in her haste, and in an audible whisper said:

“I say, Docteur, is it not de small-pox? Dare is so
much around. Tell me true, for I must leave dis very
minute.”

“Hush, you fool,” said the Doctor, and they passed
out of hearing.

A sickening dread made Christine's heart almost stand
still. When the woman returned she watched her most
narrowly as she asked:

“What did the Doctor say to you?”

The maid replied in French that he said she must be
still and not talk.

“But you asked him if I had the small-pox. What did
he say?”

“Ah Mademoiselle, you make one grand meestake. I
ask for a small box to keep your medicine in dat it make
no smell.”

From the woman's lie in evading her question, and
from the fact that she was redolent with camphor used as
a preventive, and kept as far away as she could, near the
windows, Christine gathered a most painful confirmation
of her fears. For a time she lay almost paralyzed by
dread.

Then as the medicine relieved her of fever and unclouded
her mind, thought and conscience awoke with
terrible and resistless power. As never before she realized
what cold dark depths were just beneath her gay
pleasure-loving life—and how suddenly skies bright and
radiant with the richer promise of the future, could become
black and threatening. Never had earthly life
seemed so attractive, never had her own prospects seemed
so brilliant, and her hopes of fame, wealth, and happiness
in her future German villa more dazzling than now when
they stood out against the dark back-ground of her fears.

“If instead of going forward to all this delight, I become
an object of terror and loathing even before I die, and
something that must be hidden out of sight as soon as
possible after, what conceivable fate could be worse?
That such a thing is possible, proves this to be a dreadful
and defective world, with all its sources of pleasure. Surely
if there were a God he would banish such horrible evils.”

“There is no God—there can't be any, at least none
such as the Bible reveals. How often I have said this to
myself. How often my father has said it to me; and yet
the thought of Him torments me often even when well.”

“Why does this thought come so persistently now? I
settled it long ago, under father's proof, that I did not believe
in Him or the superstitions connected with His name.
Why don't the question stay settled? Other superstitions
do not trouble me. Why should that Cross continually
haunt me? Why should the man who died thereon have
the power to be continually speaking to me through His
Words that I have read. I believe in Socrates as much as
I do in Him, and yet I recall the Greek sage's words with
an effort, and cannot escape from the Nazarene's. All is
mystery and chaos and danger. We human creatures are
like frothy bubbles that glisten and dance for a moment
on a swift black tide that seems flowing forever, and yet
nowhere.”

Then her thoughts recurred to Dennis.

“That young Fleet seemed to believe implicitly in what
he said yesterday, and he lives up to what he believes. I
would give the world for his delusion, were it only for its
comforting and sustaining power for this life. If he were
very sick, he would be imagining himself on the threshold
of some sort of heaven or paradise, and would be calm
and perhaps even happy, where I am so supremely wretched.
I find that I have nothing—absolutely nothing to sustain
me—not even the memory of good deeds. I have
not even lived the unselfish life that Socrates recommends,
much less the holy life of the Bible.”

“I have pleased myself. Well, believing as I have been
taught, that seemed the most sensible course. Why
doesn't it seem so now?”

Thus tossed on a sea of uncertainty and fear, Christine,
in darkness and weakness, grappled with those mighty
questions which only He can put to rest Who said—

“Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God;
believe also in Me.”

Dennis walked resolutely home. He felt himself adamant
in his stern resolution. He at least had the death-like
peace that follows decision; the agony of conflict was
over for a time; and, as he thought, forever.

From mere exhaustion he slept heavily, and on the following
day with white face and compressed lips entered
on his work. And work it truly now became; for the old
glamour was all gone, and life looked as practical and
hard as the stones of the street. Even the pictures on the
walls seemed to him but things for sale, representing
money values, and money appeared the beginning, middle,
and ending of the world's creed. Like the unsubstantial
mirage had vanished the beautiful, happy life of the past

few weeks. Around him were the rocks and sands of the
desert, through which he must toil with weary bleeding
feet till he reached the land watered by the river of life.
Reason and duty, as he believed, forbade the existence of
this foolish passion, and he must, and would destroy it,
but in his anguish he felt as if he had resolved to torture
himself to death.

“And she will never know what I suffer—never know
the wealth of heart I have lavished upon her. I am glad
she will not, for the knowledge of my love would make no
more impression on her cold, proud nature than a drop of
warm Summer rain falling on the brow of yonder marble
statue of Diana. She would only be amazed at my presumption.
She feels that she shines down on me like the
sun, and that I am a poor little satellite that she could
blot out altogether by causing her father to turn me out
into the street again, which undoubtedly would be done
should I reveal my feelings.”

And he was about right.

“Come!” said he to himself, breaking from his painful
revery, “no weakness! You have your way to make
in the world, and your work to do; God will help you, and
no creature shall hinder you,” and he plunged resolutely
into his duties.

Mr. Ludolph was late in reaching the store that morning,
and Dennis found himself secretly hoping, in spite of
himself, that Christine would accompany him. His will
and heart were now in distinct opposition, and the latter
would not obey orders.

When Mr. Ludolph appeared, it was with a frowning,
clouded brow. Without a word he passed into his private
office, but seemed so restless and troubled in his manner
that Dennis felt something was wrong. Why should he
take such an interest in this man? Why should he care?
The other clerks did not—not one save himself had noticed

anything different. Poor Dennis was to learn that he had
a disease of many and varied symptoms.

After something over an hour had passed, Mr. Ludolph
started from his desk, took his hat and cane as with the
purpose of going out—a very unusual thing at that time.
But as he was passing down the store, he met Dr. Arten
opposite Dennis's counter.

“Well,” said Mr. Ludolph impatiently.

“I will call again this evening,” said the Doctor, prudently
non-committal. “Your daughter has caught a very
severe cold. I hope it is nothing more than a cold, but
so many troublesome diseases commence with these obscure
symptoms, that we have to wait till further developments
reveal the true nature of the case.”

“You doctors make no headway in banishing disease
from the world,” snarled Mr. Ludolph. “There is small-pox
around, is there not?”

“Yes, I am sorry to say there is a great deal of it, but
if you remember the history of that one disease, I think
you will admit your remark to be unfair.”

“I beg your pardon, Doctor, but I am anxious, and all
out of sorts, as I ever am in sickness” (when affecting
himself,—he might justly have added). “It seems such
a senseless, useless evil in the world. The idea of you
Christians believing a benevolent Being rules the world,
and that he permits small-pox. Can it be possible that
my daughter has contracted this loathsome horror?”

“Well, it is possible, but I hope not at all probable.
We doctors are compelled to look at the practical rather
than the theological side of the question. It is possible
for any one to have this disease. Has your daughter been
vaccinated?”

“No!” growled Mr. Ludolph. “I don't believe in vaccination.
It is as apt to vitiate the system as protect it.”

“I am sorry for that,” said the Doctor looking grave.

Keen Mr. Ludolph saw and read his physician's expression
accurately. Seizing his hand he said eagerly—

“Pardon me, Doctor, you can understand a father's
feelings. Watch this case night and day. Spare no pains,
and be assured I will regret no expense,” and he hastened
away to his daughter's bedside.

No prisoner at the bar ever listened with more interest
than Dennis. If it had been his own case they were discussing
it would not have touched half so nearly.

But a moment before, Christine in her pride, wealth
and beauty, seemed destined to go through life as in a triumphant
march. Now he saw her to be a weak human
creature, threatened as sorely as the poorest and humblest.
Her glorious beauty, even her life, might pass away in Le
Grand Hotel as surely as in a tenement house. The very
thought thrilled him with fear. Then a great pity rushed
into his soul like a tide, sweeping everything before it.
His stern resolution to stifle and trample upon his love,
melted like a snow wreath, and every interest of life centred
in the darkened room where Christine tossed and
moaned in the deeper darkness of uncertainty and doubt.
The longing to go to her to comfort and help, was so intense
that it required the utmost effort of reason and will
to prevent such rash action. He trembled at himself—at
the strength of his feelings, and saw that though he might
control outward action, his heart had gone from him beyond
remedy, and that his love, so long unrecognized, was
now like the principal source of the Jordan, that springs
from the earth a full grown river, and that he could not
help it.

Mr. Ludolph found little comfort at his daughter's bedside.
Sending her maid away, who was glad to go, Christine
told what she had overheard. Small-pox seemed in
the mind of every one, but this was not strange since it
was so prevalent in the city.

“O father, what shall I do—what shall I do, if this
should be the case? Janette will leave me, and there will
be no one to take care of me. I know I will die, and I
might as well, as to be made hideous by this horrible disease.
No, I would rather live, on any terms, for to die is
to be nothing. O father, are you sure the Bible is all
false? There is so much in it to comfort the sick. If I
could only believe in such a life hereafter as Susie Winthrop
does, I would as soon die as not.”

“No,” said Mr. Ludolph firmly, “your only chance is
to get well. There is no use of deceiving ourselves. I
have secured the services of the most skilful of physicians,
and will see that you have every attention. So try to be
as calm as possible, and coöperate with every effort to
baffle and banish disease. After all it may be nothing
more than a severe cold.”

So then in very truth this world was all. In bitterness
and dread she realized how slight was her hold upon it.
To her healthful body pain was a rare experience, but now
her head and every bone ached, and the slightest movement
caused increased suffering. But her mental trouble
was by far the greatest. Often she murmured to herself—
“O that I had been trained to the grossest superstitions,
so that I might not look down into this black bottomless
gulf that unbelief opens at my feet,” and she tossed
and moaned most piteously.

Mr. Ludolph returned to the store in an exceedingly
worried and anxious state. As he entered he caught Dennis's
eager questioning gaze, and a thought struck him:

“Perhaps this young fellow, through his mission school,
may know of some good trustworthy woman who would act
as nurse,” and coming to Dennis he explained what is
already known, and then asked if he knew of any one, or
could find a suitable person.

Dennis listened eagerly, thought a moment, and then
said with a flushed face and in a low tone:

“I think my mother would be willing to come. She
has had the small-pox and would not be afraid.”

“But would she be willing?”

“I think I could persuade her,” said Dennis.

Mr. Ludolph though a moment, then said:

“I think she would be the one of all others, for she
must be very much of a lady, and I would not like to put
my daughter in charge of a common coarse woman. You
may rest assured that I would reward her liberally.”

“She would not come for money, sir.”

“What then?”

Dennis flushed now more deeply than before. He
had been speaking for his mother from his own stand-point,
and now he hardly knew what to say, for he was not
good at evasion. But he told the truth, if not all the
truth. “We feel very grateful to you for the means of
support, and a chance in life when the world was very
dark. You have since promoted me—”

“Nonsense!” said Ludolph, somewhat touched though,
you have earned every dollar you have received, and
your coming has been of advantage to me also. But if
your mother will meet this need, should it occur, neither
of you will have cause to regret it,” and he passed on to
his office, but soon after left again and did not return that
day.

To Dennis the hours dragged on like years, full of
suspense and mental tumult. At times he would bow his
head behind his counter, and pray in tearful fervor for the
object of his constant thought. The day was rainy and the
store empty of customers, for which he was most thankful,
as he would have made the poorest of salesmen. At
last the hour for closing arrived, and he was left to himself.
In the solitude of his own room he once more
looked the situation fairly in the face. With his head
bowed in his hands he thought, “Last night I thought to

tear this love from my heart, but to-night I find that this
would be to tear out my heart itself. I cannot do it. It
is my strongest conviction that I can no more stop loving
her than I can stop living. Unconsciously this love has
grown until now it is my master, and it is folly to make
any more resolves only to be as weak as water when I
least expect it. What shall I do?”

Motionless, unconscious of the lapse of time, he remained
hour after hour absorbed in painful thought. Circumstances,
reason, the Bible, all seemed to frown upon his
love, but though it seemed hopeless, his whole nature revolted
against the idea of its being wrong.

“It cannot be wrong to love, purely and unselfishly,”
he muttered; “such love as mine seems to carry its own
conviction of right with it—an inner consciousness that
seems so strong and certain, as to be beyond argument,
beyond everything; and yet if God's Word is against it, I
must be wrong, and my heart is misleading me.”

Again in unbroken silence an hour passed away.
Then the thought struck him—

“It is not contrary to God's action! He so loved the
world—unbelievers and all—as to give His best and dearest!
Can it be wrong to be God-like?”

“It is not wise, it is not safe,” prudence whispered,
“to give a worldly, unbelieving spirit the power to influence
you that she will have who is first in your heart.
What true congeniality can there be? What fellowship
hath righteousness with unrighteousness, or what part hath
he that believeth with an infidel? As the most intimate
friend and companion in life, you should seek one who
truly can be one with you in all things, and most assuredly
so in this vital respect.”

“Ah,” thought Dennis, “that would have been very
good advice to give awhile ago. If from the first I could
have understood my feelings and danger, I might have

steeled my heart against and avoided the influences that
have brought me to this. But now the mischief is done.
The words that now, in spite of myself, continually run in
my mind, are “What God hath joined together let not man
put asunder.” It seems as if some resistless power had
joined my soul to hers, and I find no strength within myself
to break the bond. I am not usually irresolute. I
think I have principle, and yet I feel I would not
dare make the most solemn vow against this love. I
should be all the more weak because conscience does not
condemn me. It seems to have a light that reason and
knowledge know not of. And yet I wish I could be more
sure. I wish I could say to myself, I may be loving hopelessly,
but not sinfully. I would take the risk. Indeed I
cannot help taking it. O that I could find light, clear and
unmistakable.”

He rose, turned up his lamp, and turned to the Pauline
precepts. These words struck his eye—

“Art thou bound unto a wife? Seek not to be loosed.”
Then above, the words “How knowest thou, O man,
whether thou shalt save thy wife, even though she be an
unbeliever?”

“Am I not bound—bound, by that which is God's link
in the chain? It does not seem as if the legal contract
could change or strengthen my feelings materially, and
while honoring the inviolable rite of marriage, which is
God's law and society's safety, I know that nothing can
more surely bind me to her, so that the spirit, the vital
part of the passage, applies to me. Then if through this
love I could save her; if by prayer and effort I could bring
her feet into the paths of life, I should feel repaid for all
that I could possibly suffer. She may slight my human
love with its human consummation, but God will not let a
life of prayer and true love be wasted, and she may learn
here, or know hereafter, that though the world laid many
rich gifts at her feet, I brought the best of all.”

He looked out, and saw that the early Spring dawn
was tinging the horizon.

“A good omen,” he said aloud. “Perhaps the night
of this trouble is past, and the dawn is coming. I am
convinced that it is not wrong; and I am resolved to
make the almost desperate attempt. A mysterious hope,
coming from I know not where or what, seems to beckon
and encourage me forward.”

Dennis was young.