University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.
THE TWO HEIGHTS.

Dennis went home in a strange tumult of hopes and
fears, but hope predominated, for evidently she cared little
for Mr. Mellen. “The ice is broken at last,” he said. It
was, but he was like to fall through into a very cold bath,
though he knew it not.

He was far too excited to sleep, and sat by his open
window till the warm June night grew pale with the light
of coming day.

Suddenly a bright thought struck him, a moment more

it became an earnest purpose. “I think I can paint something,
that may express to her what I dare not put in
words.”

He immediately went up into the loft and prepared a
large frame, so proportioned that two pictures could be
painted side by side, one explanatory and an advance
upon the other. Over this he stretched his canvas, and
sketched and outlined rapidly under the inspiration of his
happy thought.

Christine came with her father to the store, as had been
her former custom, and her face had its old expression.
The listless, disappointed look was gone. She passed on,
not appearing to see him while with her father, and Dennis'
heart sank again. “She surely knew where to look for
me if she cared to look,” he said to himself. Soon after
he went to the upper show-room to see to the hanging of
a new picture.

“I am so glad your taste, instead of old Schwartz'
mathematics, has charge of this department now,” said
a honeyed voice at his side. He was startled greatly.

“What is the matter? Are you nervous, Mr. Fleet?
I had no idea that a lady could so frighten you.”

He was blushing like a girl, but said: “I have read
that something within, rather than anything without, makes
us cowards.”

“Ah, then you confess to a guilty conscience?” she replied,
with a twinkle in her eye.

“I do not think I shall confess at all till I have a
merciful confessor,” said Dennis, conscious of a deeper
meaning than his light words might convey.

“`Mercy is a quality not strained,' therefore unfit for
my use. I'll none of it, but for each offence impose unlimited
penance.”

“But suppose one must sin?”

“They must take the consequences then. Even your
humane religion teaches that,” and with this parting arrow
she vanished, leaving him too excited to hang his picture
straight.

It all seemed a bewildering dream. Being so thoroughly
taken by surprise and off his guard, he had said far
more than he meant. But had she understood him?
Yes, better than he had himself, and laughed at his
answers with their covert meanings.

She spent the next two days in sketching and outlining
his various expressions as far as possible from memory.
She would learn to catch those evanescent lines, that
something which makes the human face eloquent, though
the lips are silent.

Dennis was in a maze, but he repeated to himself
jubilantly again, “The ice is broken.” That evening at
Mr. Bruder's he asked for studies in ice.

“Vy dat is out of season,” said Mr. Bruder with a
laugh.

“No, now is just the time. It is a nice cool subject
for these hot nights. Please oblige me: for certain reasons
I wish to be able to paint ice perfectly.”

Arctic scenery was Mr. Bruder's forte, on which he
specially prided himself. He was too much of a gentleman
to ask questions, and was delighted to find the old
zest returning in his pupil. They were soon constructing
bergs, caves, and grottos of cold blue ice. Night after
night they worked at this study. Dennis' whole soul
seemed bent on the formation of ice. After a month of
labor Mr. Bruder said:

“I hope you vill get over dis by fall, or ve all freeze
to death.”

“One of these days I shall explain,” said Dennis,
smiling.

The evening of the second day after the little rencounter
in the show-room, Mr. Ludolph sat enjoying his
cigar, and Christine was at the piano playing a difficult
piece of music.

“Come, father,” she said, “here is a fine thing just
from Germany. There is a splendid tenor solo in it, and
I want you to sing it for me.”

“Pshaw!” said her father, “why did I not think of it
before?” and he rang the bell. “Here, Brandt, go down
to the store, and if Mr. Fleet is there, ask him if he will
come up to my rooms for a little while.”

Brandt met Dennis on the store steps starting for his
painting lesson, but led him a willing captive to unconsciously
give Christine instruction.

She, whose strategy brought it all about, smiled at her
success. It was not her father's tenor she wanted, but
Dennis' face; and her father should unknowingly work
her will. The girl had learned so much from the wily
man of the world that she was becoming his master.

Dennis came and entered with a thrill of delight what
was to him enchanted ground. Mr. Ludolph was affable,
Christine kind, but looked more than she said.

Dennis sang the solo, after one or two efforts, correctly.
Then Mr. Ludolph brought out a piece of music that he
wished to try; Christine found others, and before they
knew it the evening had passed. Quite a knot of delighted
listeners gathered in the street opposite. This Christine
pointed out to her father with evident annoyance.

“Well, my dear,” he said, “hotel life in a crowded city
renders escape from such things impossible.”

But a purpose was growing in her mind of which she
spoke soon after. Throughout the evening she had studied
Dennis' face all she could without attracting notice, and
the thought grew upon her that at last she had found a
path to the success she so craved.

“You seem to have gone to work with all your old zest,”
said her father, as he came out of his room the next morning
and found Christine at her easel.

“I shall try it again,” she said briefly.

“That is right,” said he. “The idea of being daunted
by one partial failure! I predict for you such success as
will satisfy even your fastidious taste.”

“We will see,” she said. “I hope too.” But she would
not have her father know on what grounds. He might
regard the experiment as a dangerous one for herself as
well as Dennis, and she decided to keep her plan entirely
secret.

She now came to the store daily, and rarely went away
without giving Dennis a smile or word of recognition.
But he noticed that she ever did this in a casual manner,
and in a way that would not attract attention. He also
took the hint, and never was obtrusive or demonstrative,
but it was harder work for his frank open nature. When
unobserved, his glances grew more ardent day by day.
So far from checking these, she encouraged them, but,
when in any way he sought to put his feelings in words,
she changed the subject instantly and decidedly. This
puzzled him, for he could not understand that looks could
be painted, but not words. The latter were of no use to
her. But she led him on skilfully, and, from the unbounded
power his love gave her, played upon his feelings as adroitly
as she touched her grand piano.

Soon after the company at Miss Winthrop's, she said
to him:

“You received several invitations the other evening,
did you not?”

“Yes.”

“Accept them. Go into society; it will do you good.”

Thus he soon found himself involved in a round of sociables,

musicales, and now and then a large party. Christine
was usually present, radiant, brilliant, the cynosure
of all eyes, but ever coolly self-possessed. At first she
would greet him with distant politeness, or pretend not to
see him at all, but before the evening was over would
manage to give him a half hour in which she would be
kind and even gentle at times, but very observant. Then
for the rest of the evening he would find no chance to approach.
It appeared that she was deeply interested in
him, enjoyed his society, and was even becoming attached,
but for some reason she determined that no one should
notice this, and that matters should only go so far. Poor
Dennis could not know that he was only her unconscious
instructor in painting, paid solely in the coin of false smiles
and delusive hopes. At times, though, she would torture
him dreadfully. Selecting one of her many admirers, she
would seem to smile upon his suit, and poor Dennis would
writhe in all the agonies of jealousy, for he was very
human, and had all the normal feeling of a strong man.
She would then watch his face grow pale and his manner
restless, as quietly and critically as an entomologist the
struggles of an insect beneath his microscope. Again, she
would come to him all grace and sweetness, and his fine
face would light up with hope and pleasure. She would
say sweet honeyed nothings, but study him just as coolly
in another aspect.

Thus she kept him hot and cold by turns, now lifting
him to the pinnacle of hope, again casting him down into the
valley of fear and doubt. What she wanted of him was
just what she had not—feeling, intense varied, feeling, so
that, while she remained ice, she could paint as if she felt,
and with a gifted woman's tact, and with the power of one
loved almost to idolatry, she caused every chord of his
soul, now in happy harmony, now in painful discord, to

vibrate under her skilful touch. But such a life was
very wearing, and he was failing under it. Moreover he
was robbing himself of sleep night and morning that he
might work on his picture in the loft of the store, for
which he asked of poor Mr. Bruder nothing but ice.

Mrs. Bruder worried over him continually.

“You vork too hart. Vat shall ve do for you? Oh,
my fren, if you love us do not vork so hart,” she would
often say. But Dennis would only smile and turn to her
husband in his insatiable demand for painted ice. At
last Mr. Bruder said: “Mr. Fleet, you can paint ice, as far
as I see, as vell as myself.”

Then Dennis turned short around and said: “Now I
want warm, rosy light and foliage; give me studies in
these.”

“By de hammer of Thor, but you go to extremes.”

“You shall know all some day,” said Dennis, entering
on his new tasks with increasing eagerness.

But day by day he grew thinner and paler. Even
Christine's heart sometimes relented, for, absorbed as she
was in her own work and interests, she could not help
noticing how sadly he differed from the vigorous youth
who lifted the heavy pictures for her but a few short weeks
ago. But she quieted herself by the thought that he was
a better artistic subject, and that he would mend again
when the cool weather came.

“Where shall we go for the two hot months?” asked
her father the morning after the Fourth.

“I have a plan to propose,” replied Christine. “Suppose
we go to housekeeping.”

“What!” said her father, dropping his knife and fork,
and looking at her in astonishment. “Go to all the expense
of furnishing a house, when we do not expect to
stay here scarcely more than a year? We should hardly
be settled before we left it.”

“Listen to me patiently till I am through, and then I
will abide by your decision. But I think you will give me
credit for having a slight turn for business as well as art.
You remember Mr. Jones' beautiful house on the north
side, do you not? It stands on — St., well back, surrounded
by a lawn and flowers. There is only one other
house on the block. Well, Mr. Jones is embarrassed,
and his house is for sale. From inquiry I am satisfied that
a cash offer would obtain the property cheaply. The furniture
is good, and much of it elegant. What we do not
want—what will not accord with a tasteful refurnishing,
can be sent to an auction-room. At comparatively slight
expense, if you can spare Mr. Fleet to help me during the
time when business is dull, I can make the house such a
gem of artistic elegance that it will be noted throughout
the city, and next Fall some rich snob, seeking to vault
suddenly into social position, will give just what you are
pleased to ask. In the meantime we have a retired and
delightful home.

“Moreover, father,” she continued, touching him on
his weak side, “it will be a good preparation for the more
difficult and important work of the same kind awaiting me
in my own land.”

“Humph!” said Mr. Ludolph meditatively, “there
is more method in your madness than I imagined. I
will think of it, for it is too important a step to be taken
hastily.”

Mr. Ludolph did think of it, and, after attending to
pressing matters in the store, went over to see the property.
A few days afterward he came up to dinner and threw the
deed for it into his daughter's lap. She glanced it over,
and her eyes grew luminous with delight and triumph.

“See how comfortable and happy I will make you in
return for this kindness,” she said.

“Oh, come,” replied her father, laughing, “that is not
the point. This is a speculation, and your business reputation
is at stake.”

“I will abide the test,” she answered, with a significant
nod.

Christine wished the change for several reasons.
There was a room in the house that would just suit her
as a studio. She detested the publicity of a hotel. The
furnishing of an elegant house was a form of activity most
pleasing to her energetic nature, and she felt a very strong
wish to try her skill in varied effect before her grand effort
in the Ludolph Hall of the future.

But in addition to these motives was another, of which
she did speak to her father. In the privacy of her own
home she could pursue that peculiar phase of art study in
which she was absorbed. Her life had now become a
most exciting one. She ever seemed on the point of obtaining
the power of portraying the eloquence of passion,
feeling, but there was a subtle something that still eluded her.
She saw it daily, and yet could not reproduce it. She
seemed to get the features right, and yet they were dead, or
else the emotion was so exaggerated as to suggest weak
sentimentality, and this of all things disgusted her. Every
day that she studied the expressive face of Dennis Fleet,
the mysterious power seemed nearer her grasp. Her
effort was now gaining all the excitement of a chase. She
saw before her just what she wanted, and it seemed that
she had only to grasp her pencil or brush, and place the
fleeting expressions where they might always appeal to
the sympathy of the beholder. Nearly all her studies now
were the human face and form, mainly those of ladies, to
disarm suspicion. Of course she took no distinct likeness
of Dennis. She sought only to paint what his face expressed.
At times she seemed about to succeed, and excitement

brought color to her cheek and fire to her eye that
made her dazzlingly beautiful to poor Dennis. Then she
would smile upon him in such a bewitching, encouraging
way, that it was little wonder his face lighted up with all
the glory of hope.

If once more she could have him about her as when re-arranging
the store, and, without the restraint of curious
eyes, could play upon his heart, then pass at once to her
easel with the vivid impression of what she saw, she might
catch the coveted power, and become able to portray, as if
she felt, that which is the inspiration of all the highest forms
of art—feeling.

That evening, Dennis, at Mr. Ludolph's request, came
to the hotel to try some new music. During the evening
Mr. Ludolph was called out for a little time. Availing
himself of the opportunity, Dennis said:

“You seem to be working with all your old zest and
hope.”

“Yes,” said she, “with greater hope than ever before.”

“Won't you show me something that you are doing?”

“No, not yet. I am determined that when you see
work of mine again, the fatal defect which you pointed
out shall be absent.”

His eyes and face became eloquent with the hope
she inspired. Was her heart, awakening from its long
winter of doubt and indifference, teaching her to paint?
Had she recognized the truth of his assurance that she
must feel, and then she could portray feeling; and had she
read in his face and manner that which had created a kindred
impulse in her heart? He was about to speak, the
ice of his reserve and prudence fast melting under what
seemed good evidence that her smiles and kindness might
be interpreted in accordance with his longings. She saw
and anticipated.

“With all your cleverness, Mr. Fleet, I may prove you
at fault, and become able to portray what I do not feel
or believe.”

“You mean to say that you work from your old stand-point
merely?” asked Dennis, feeling as if a sunny sky had
suddenly darkened.

“I do not say that at all, but that I do not work from
yours.”

“And yet you hope to succeed?”

“I think I am succeeding.”

Perplexity and disappointment were plainly written
on his face. She, with a merry and half-malicious laugh,
turned to the piano, and sang:

Dennis looked at her earnestly, and after a moment
said: “Will you please play that accompaniment again?”

She complied, and he sang:

She turned a startled and almost wistful face to him,
for he had given a very unexpected answer to her cold,
selfish philosophy, which was so apt and sudden as to
seem almost inspired.

“Do you refer to Christ's weeping over Jerusalem?”
she asked.

“Yes.”

She sat for a little time silent and thoughtful, and
Dennis watched her keenly. Suddenly her brow darkened,
and she said bitterly:

“Delusion! If he had been a God he would not have
idly wept over sorrow. He would have banished it.”

Dennis was about to reply eagerly, when Mr. Ludolph
entered, and music was resumed. But it was evident that
Dennis' lines had disturbed the fair skeptic's equanimity.