University of Virginia Library

33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
BEGUILED.

Dennis returned to his room greatly perplexed. There
was something in Christine's actions which he could not
understand. From the time of their first conversation
at Miss Winthrop's, she had evidently felt and acted differently.
If her heart remained cold and untouched, if as
yet neither faith nor love had any existence, what was
the inspiring motive? Why should deep discouragement
change suddenly to assured hope?

Then again her manner was equally inexplicable.
From that same evening she gave him more encouragement
than he had even hoped to receive for months, but yet he
made no progress. She seemed to enjoy meeting him, and
constantly found opportunity to do so. Her eyes were
continually seeking his face, but there was something in
her manner in this respect that puzzled him more than anything
else. She often seemed looking at his face, rather
than at him. At first Christine had been furtive and
careful in her observations, but as the habit grew upon
her, and her interest increased, she would sometimes gaze
so steadily that poor Dennis was deeply embarrassed.
Becoming conscious of this, she would herself color
slightly, and be more careful for a time.

In her eagerness for success, Christine did not realize
how dangerous an experiment she was trying. She could
not look upon such a face as Dennis Fleet's, eloquent
with that which should never fail to touch a woman's
heart with sympathy, and then forget it when she chose.
Moreover, though she knew it not, in addition to her interest
in him as an art study, his strong positive nature
affected her cool negative one most pleasantly. His earnest
manifested feeling fell like sunlight on a heart benumbed
with cold.

Thus, under the stimulus of his presence, she found
that she could paint a sketch to much better purpose than
when alone. This knowledge made her rejoice in secret
over the opportunity she could now have, as Dennis again
assisted her in hanging pictures, and affixing to the walls
ornaments of various kinds.

Coming to him one morning in the store, she said

“I am going to ask a favor of you again.”

Dennis looked as if she were conferring the greatest of
favors. His face always lighted up when she spoke to him.

“It is very kind of you to ask so pleasantly for what
you can command,” he said.

“To something of the same effect you answered
before, and the result was the rather disagreeable experience,
I fear, at Miss Brown's.”

Dennis' brow contracted a little, but he said heroically,
“I will—yes I will go to Miss Brown's again if you
wish it.”

“How self-sacrificing you are,” she replied with a half-mischievous
smile.

“Not as much so as you imagine,” he answered, flushing
slightly.

“Well, set your mind at rest on that score. Though
not very merciful, as you know, I would put no poor soul

through that ordeal again. In this case you will only
have to encounter one of the tormentors you met on that
occasion, and I will try to vouch for her better behavior.
Then she added seriously, “I hope you will not think
the task beneath you. You do not seem to have much
of the foolish pride that stands in the way of so many
Americans, and then”—looking at him with a pleading
face—“I have so set my heart upon it, and it would be
such a disappointment if you were unwilling.”

Dennis felt ready to stoop down and black her boots
in the street had she asked him, and said:

“You need waste no more ammunition on one ready to
surrender at discretion.”

“Very well; then I shall treat you with all the rigors
of a prisoner of war. I shall carry you away captive to my
new castle on the north side, and put you at your old menial
tasks of hanging pictures and decoration in general.
As Eastern sovereigns built their palaces and adorned
their cities by the labors of those whom the fortunes of war
threw into their hands, so your skill and taste shall be useful
to me, and I, your head task-mistress,” she added with
her insinuating smile, “will be ever present to see that there
is no idling, nothing but monotonous toil. Had you not
better have stood longer on the defensive?”

Dennis held out his hands in mock humility and said:
“I am ready for my chains. You shall see with what fortitude
I endure my captivity.”

“It is well that you should show it somewhere, for you
have not in your resistance. But I parole you on your
honor to report at such times as I shall indicate and papa
can spare you.”

And with a smile and a lingering look that seemed, as
before, directed to his face rather than himself, she passed
out.

That peculiar look often puzzled him, and at times
he would go to a glass and see if there was anything wrong
or unusual in his appearance. But now his hopes rose
higher than ever. She had been very gracious, certainly,
and invited intimate companionship. Dennis felt that she
must have read his feelings in his face and manner, and, to
his ingenuous nature, any encouragement seemed to promise
all he hoped.

For a week after this he scarcely saw her, for she was
very busy making preliminary arrangements for the occupation
of her new home. But one afternoon she suddenly
appeared, and said with affected severity:

“Report to-morrow at nine A. M.”

Dennis bowed humbly. She gave him a pleasant smile
over her shoulder, and passed away as quickly as she
came. It seemed like a vision to him, and only a trace of
her favorite perfume (which indeed ever seemed more an
atmosphere than a perfume) remained as evidence that
she had been there.

At five minutes before the time on the following day
he appeared at the new Ludolph mansion. From an open
window Christine backoned him to enter, and welcomed
him with characteristic words:

“In view of your foolish surrender to my power, remember
that you have no rights that I am bound to respect.”

“I throw myself on your mercy.”

“I have already told you that I do not possess that
trait; so prepare for the worst.”

She was dressed in some light summer fabric, and her
rounded arms and neck were partially bare. She looked
so white and cool, so self-possessed, and, with all her smiles,
so devoid of warm human feeling, that Dennis felt a sudden
chill at heart. The ancient fable of the sirens occurred
to him. Might she not be luring him on to his own destruction?

At times he almost hoped that she loved him;
again, something in her manner caused him to doubt everything.
But, unlike Ulysses and his crew, there were no
friendly hands to bind and restrain, or put wax in his ears,
and soon the music of her voice, the strong enchantment
of the love she had inspired, banished all thought of prudence.
His passion was now becoming a species of intoxication,
a continued and feverish excitement, and its influence
was unhappy on mind and body. There was no rest,
peace or assurance in it, and the uncertainty, the tantalizing
inability to obtain a definite satisfying word, and yet the
apparent nearness of the prize, wore upon him. Sometimes,
when late at night he sat brooding over his last interview,
weighing with the nice scales of a lover's anxiety
her every look and even accent, his own haggard face
would startle him.

Then again her influence morally was not good, and
his interest declined in everything save what was connected
with her.

Conscience at times told him that he was more bent
on gaining her love for himself, than in winning it for God.
He satisfied himself by trying to reason that when he had
won her affection his power for good would be greater, and
thus, while he ever sought to look and suggest his own love
in nameless little ways, he made less and less effort to remind
her of a better love than even his. Moreover she never
encouraged anything approaching religious conversation,
sometimes even repelling it decidedly, and so, though he
would scarcely acknowledge it, the traitorous fear sprang
up, that in speaking of God's love he might mar his
chances of speaking of his own.

In the retirement of his own room, his reveries grew
longer and his prayers shorter and less inspired by faith
and earnestness. At the mission-school, Susie Winthrop

noticed with regret that the lesson was often given in a
listless, preoccupied manner; and even the little boys themselves
missed something in the teacher once so interesting
and animated. From witnessing his manner when with
Christine, Miss Winthrop had more than suspected his
secret for some time, and she felt at first a genuine sympathy
for him, believing his love to be hopeless. From
the first she had found Dennis very fascinating, but when
she read his secret in his ardent glances toward Christine,
she became conscious that her interest was rather greater
than passing acquaintance warranted, and like the good
sensible girl that she was, fought to the death the incipient
fancy. At first she felt that he ought to know that
Christine was pledged to a future that would render his
love vain. But her own feelings made her so exceedingly
sensitive, that it was impossible to attempt so difficult and
delicate a task. Then as Christine seemed to smile upon
him, she said to herself—“After all, what is their plan, but
a plan, and to me a very chimerical one. Perhaps Mr.
Fleet can give Christine a far better chance of happiness
than her father's ambition. And after all, these are matters
in which no third party can interfere.” So while remaining
as cordial as ever, she prudently managed to see
very little of Dennis.

As we have seen, under Christine's merry and half-bantering
words (a style of conversation often assumed
with him), even the thought of caution vanished. She led
him over the moderately large and partially-furnished
house. There were women cleaning, and mechanics at
work on some of the rooms. As they passed along she
explained the nature of the decorations she wished. They
consisted largely in rich carvings in wood, and unique
frames.

“I wish you to help me design these, and see that they

are properly put up, and to superinted the fresco-painters,
and mechanics in general. Indeed, I think you are
more truly my prime-minister than captive.”

“Not less your captive,” said Dennis with a flush.

She gave him a bewildering smile and then studied its
effect upon him. He was in Elysium, and his eyes glowed
with delight at her presence and the prospect before him.
At last she led him into two large apartments on the second
floor that opened into each other, and said:

“These are my rooms; that yonder is my studio,” as
was evident from the large easel with canvas prepared
upon it.

They at once had to Dennis all the sacredness of a
shrine.

“I intend to make these rooms like two beautiful
pictures,” said Christine, “and here shall be the chief
display of your taste.”

Dennis could scarcely believe his ears, or realize that
the cold, beautiful girl who a few short months ago did not
notice him now voluntarily gave him such opportunities
to urge his suit. The success that a man most covets
seemed assured, and his soul was intoxicated with delight.
He said:

“You intimated that my tasks might be menial, but I
feel as I imagine a Greek artist must, when asked to
decorate the temple of a gooddess.”

“I think I told you once before that your imagination
overshadowed your other faculties.”

Her words recalled the painted girl whom she by
a strange coincidence so strongly resembled. To his
astonishment he saw the same striking likeness again.
Christine was looking at him with the laughing, scornful
expression that the German lady bent upon the awkward
lover who knelt at her feet. His face darkened in an
instant.

“Have I offended you?” she asked gently; “I remember
now you did not admire that picture.”

“I liked everything about it save the expression of
the girl's face. I think you will also remember that I
said that such a face should be put to nobler uses.”

Christine flushed slightly, and for a moment was positively
afraid of him. She saw that she must be more
careful, for she was dealing with one of quick eye and
mind. At the same time her conscience reproached her
again. The more she saw of him the more she realized
how sincere and earnest he was; how different from ordinary
society-men, to whom an unsuccessful suit to a fair
lady is a mere annoyance. But she was not one to give up
a purpose readily for the sake of conscience or anything
else, and certainly not now, when seemingly on the point
of success. So she said with a slight laugh:

“Do not compare me to any of those old heathen
again,” and having thus given a slight reason, or excuse,
for her unfortunate expression, she proceeded to beguile
him more thoroughly than ever, by the subtle witchery of
smiles, glances and words, that might mean everything or
nothing.

“You seem to have a study on your easel there,”
said Dennis, as they stood together in the studio. “May
I see it?”

“No,” said she, “you are to see nothing till you see a
triumph in the portrayal of feeling and life-like earnestness
that even your critical eye cannot condemn.”

She justly feared that, should he see her work, he
might discover her plan, for however she might disguise it,
something suggesting himself entered into all her studies.

“I hope you will succeed, but doubt it.”

“Why?” she asked quickly.

“Because we cannot portray what we cannot feel. The

stream cannot rise higher than its fountain.” Then he
added with heightened color, and some hesitation, “I fear
—your heart is still sleeping,” and he watched with deep
anxiety how she would take the questioning remark.

At first she flushed almost angrily, but recovering
self-possession in a moment, she threw upon him an arch
smile, suggesting all that a lover could wish, and said:

“Be careful, Mr. Fleet; you are seeking to penetrate
mysteries that we most jealously guard. You know that
in the ancient temple there was an inner sanctuary
which none might enter.”

“Yes, one might,” said Dennis significantly.

With her long lashes she veiled the dark blue eyes that
expressed anything but tender feeling, and yet, so shaded,
they appeared as a lover would wish, and in a low tone
she answered:

“Well, he could not enter when he would, only when
permitted.”

And she raised her eyes quickly to see the effect. And
she did see an effect that she would have given thousands
to be able to transfer to canvas.

His face, above all she had ever seen, seemed designed
to express feeling, passion; and his wearing life had made
it so thin, and his eyes were so large and lustrous that
the spiritual greatly predominated, and she felt as if she
could almost see the throbs of the strong passionate heart.

Apart from her artistic purposes, contact with such
warm intense life had for Christine a glowing fascination.
She had not realized that in kindling and fanning this
flame of honest love to sevenfold power and heat, she
might be kindled herself. When, therefore, she saw the
face of Dennis Fleet eloquent with the deepest, strongest
feeling that human features can portray, another chord than
the artistic one was touched, and there was a low faint

trill of that music which often becomes the sweetest harmony
of life.

“And at some time in the future may I hope to enter?”
he asked tremulously.

She threw him another smile over her shoulder as she
turned to her easel—a smile that from a true woman would
mean, You may, but which from many would mean nothing,
and said vaguely:

“What is life without hope?” and then, as matters were
going too fast and far, decisively changed the subject.

Seated at her easel she painted eagerly and rapidly, while
he measured the space over and around the fireplace with a
view to its ornamentation. She kept the conversation on
the general subject of art, and though Dennis knew it not,
every glance to his face was that of a portrait-painter.