University of Virginia Library

34. CHAPTER XXXIV.
BOTH DENNIS AND CHRISTINE LEARN SOMETHING SURPRISING.

Dennis went back to the store in a maze of hopes and
fears, but hope predominated. Christine could not be indifferent
and treat him as she did, if she had a particle of
sincerity, and with a lover's faith he would not believe her
false, though he knew her to be so faulty.

“At any rate,” he said to himself, “in this new arrangement
I have all the opportunity a man could ask, and if I
cannot develop her plainly manifested interest into something
more decisive by such companionship, I may as well
despair,” and he determined to avail himself of every advantage
within his reach in making the most of what he deemed

a rare stroke of fortune. His greatly increased salary enabled
him to dress with that taste and even elegance so
pleasing to a lady's eye, and he had withal acquired that
ease and grace of manner which familiarity with the best
society bestows.

It is also well to tell the reader that after some hesitation
Dennis had confided his feelings to his mother,
and received from her the warmest sympathy. To
Ethel Fleet's unworldly nature, that he should fall in
love with and marry his employer's daughter, seemed eminently
fitting, with just a spice of beautiful romance.
And it was her son's happiness and Christine's beauty that
she thought of, not Mr. Ludolph's money. In truth such
was her admiration for her son, she felt that with all her
wealth the young lady would receive a greater honor than
she conferred. Though Dennis wrote with the partiality
of a lover, he could not so portray Christine's character but
that his mother felt the deepest anxiety, and often sighed
in sad foreboding of serious trouble in the future.

From Mrs. Fleet's knowledge of her son's passion,
Christine, though she knew it not, received another advantage
of incalculable value. Dennis had painted an excellent
little cabinet likeness of her, and sent it to his
mother. In the quiet of the night she would sit down before
that picture, and by her strong imagination summon
her ideal of Christine, and then lead her directly to Christ,
as parents brought their children of old. Could such
prayers and faith be in vain? Faith is often sorely tried
in this world, but never tried in vain.

Day after day Dennis went to Mr. Ludolph's new home
during the morning hours, and Christine's spell worked
with bewildering and increasing power. While she tortured
him with many doubts and fears, his hope grew to be
almost a certainty that he had at last made a place for himself

in her heart. Sometimes the whole story of his love
trembled on his lips, but she never permitted its utterance.
That she determined should be reserved for the
climax. He usually met her alone, but noticed that in
the presence of others she was cool and undemonstrative.
Mr. Ludolph rarely saw them together, and when he did,
there was nothing in his daughter's manner to awaken suspicion.
This perfectly acted indifference in the presence
of others, and equally well acted regard when alone, often
puzzled Dennis sorely. But at last he concluded:

“She is wiser than I. She knows that I am in no condition
now to make proposals for her hand: therefore it is
better that there should be no recognized understanding
between us,” and he would resolve to be as prudent as she.
Then again she would so awaken his jealousy and fears,
that he would feel that he must know his fate,—that anything
was better than such torturing uncertainty.

As for Christine, two processes were going on in her
mind, one that she recognized, and one that she did not.

Her artistic aims were clear and definite. In the first
place she meant to perfectly master the human face as
it expressed emotions, especially such as were of a tender
nature; and in the second place she intended to paint a
picture that in itself would make her famous. She chose
a most difficult and delicate subject—of the character she
had ever failed in—a declaration of love. When Dennis
commenced to work again in her presence, the picture
was well advanced.

In a grand old hall, whose sides were decorated with
armor and weapons, a young man stood pleading his cause
with a lady whose hand he held. The young girl's face
was so averted that only a beautiful profile was visible,
but her form and attitude were grace itself. The lovers
stood in an angle of the hall near an open window, through

which was seen a fine landscape, a picture within a picture.
But Christine meant to concentrate all her power and skill
on the young knight's face. This should be eloquent with
all the feeling and passion that the human face could express,
and she would insure its truthfulness to life by copying
life itself—the reality. Dennis Fleet was the human
victim that she was offering on the altar of her ambition.

Much of the picture was merely in outline, but she
finished the form and features of the suppliant in all
save the expression, and this she meant to paint from
his face whenever she was in the right mood, and could
bring matters to a crisis.

After he had been coming to the house two or three
times a week for nearly a month, she felt that she was ready
for the final scene, and yet she dreaded it, she had staked
so much hope upon it. It also provoked her to find that
she was really afraid of him. His was such a strong, sincere
nature, that she felt increasingly the wrong of trifling
with it. In vain she tried to quiet herself by saying: “I
do not care a straw for him, and he will soon get over his
infatuation on discovering the truth.”

But she had a lesson to learn as well as he, for as we
have intimated, unrecognized as yet, there was a process
going on in her mind that in time would make strange
havoc in her cold philosophy. Her heart's long winter
was slowly breaking up; her girlish passion, intense as
it was foolish, proved that she had a heart. Everything
had been against her. Everything in her experience
and education, and especially in her father's strong
character and prejudices, had combined to deaden and to
chill her; and had these influences continued, she would
undoubtedly have become as cold and hard as some whom
we find in advanced life with natures like the poles, where
the ice gathers year after year, but never melts.

But in Dennis Fleet she met a nature as positive as
she was becoming negative. He was so warm and earnest
that when she commenced to fan his love into a stronger
flame for purely artistic purposes, as she vowed to herself,
some sparks of the sacred fire fell on the cold altar of
her own heart and slowly began to kindle.

But this awakening would not now be that of a child
but of the woman. Therefore, Mr. Ludolph, beware!

But she had yet much to learn in the hard, strange
school of experience before she would truly know herself
or her own needs.

Success in art, however, was still her ruling passion. And
though strange misgivings annoyed and perplexed her,
though her respect for Dennis daily increased, and at times
a sudden pity and softness made her little hands hesitate
before giving an additional wrench to the rack of uncertainty
upon which she kept him; still, she would not for the
world have abandoned her purpose, and such compunctions
were as yet but the little back eddies of the strong current.

One day, the latter part of August, Christine felt herself
in the mood to give the finishing touch to the principal
figure in her picture. The day was somewhat hazy, the
light subdued and favorable for artistic work. Though she
had prolonged and delayed Dennis' labors, to his secret
delight and great encouragement, she could not keep him
employed much longer.

She sent for him to come over in the afternoon. “Some
brackets, carvings and pictures had come for her studio,
and she wished him to put them up,” she said coolly as he
entered.

He had come glowing with hope and almost assurance,
for, the last time they parted, she had dismissed him with
unusual kindness. But here was one of those capricious
changes again that he could not understand.

She took her seat at her easel, saying with a nod and
smile, “I can direct you here, for I am in a mood for
work this afternoon.”

He bowed quietly and went on with his task. Her
rather cool reception oppressed him, and the tormenting
question presented itself, for the hundredth time, “Can
she in any degree feel as I do?” He longed to settle the
matter by plain straightforward action.

Her maid knocked at the door, saying: “The mail,
Mademoiselle.”

A dainty note was handed her which seemed decidedly
pleasing, and Dennis noticed that as she read it she wore
a solitaire diamond on her finger that he had not seen
before. His latent jealousy was aroused. She saw that
her spell was working, and smiled. Soon she said:

“Mr. Fleet, you seem very grave. What is the matter?”

He answered curtly, “Nothing.”

She looked at him with a pretty, pained surprise. At
the same time her heart smote her. His face was so pale
and thin, and indicated such real suffering that she pitied
him more than ever. But she would have suffered much
herself for the sake of success, and she was not one to
hesitate long over the suffering of another. She compressed
her lips as she said mentally, “Art is first, and
these transient feelings secondary. There is little in the
world but that has cost some one deeply.” She thought a
profounder truth than she knew.

After a few moments Dennis said, in a tone that had a
jealous tinge:

“Miss Ludolph, your correspondent seems to interest
you deeply.”

“And you also, I think,” she replied with an arch
smile; “and you will be interested still more when you
know who she is.” And she tossed him the note.

“I have no right—do not think me prying,” said he,
flushing.

“I give the right,” said she. “You know a lady can
give many rights—if she chooses,” she added significantly.

He looked at her eagerly.

Her eyes fell consciously, and her cheeks glowed with
excitement, for she felt that the critical moment had come.
But instantly her proud, resolute nature aroused as never
before, and she determined to make the most of the occasion,
let the consequences be what they might. Therefore
she worked eagerly and watched him closely. Never had
she been so conscious of power. She felt inspired, capable
of placing on the canvas anything she chose. If in
this mood she could succeed in bringing into his face just
the expression she desired, she could catch it and fix it
forever, and with it make a laurel (not a hymeneal) wreath
for her own brow. But what could Dennis know of all
this? To him the glowing cheek and eyes so lustrous told
a different tale; and hope—sweet, exquisite, almost assured
—sprang up in his heart.

And he meant that it should be assured. He would
speak that day if it were possible, and know his happiness,
instead of fondly believing and hoping that all was sure.
Then he would be as prudent and patient as she desired.
Thus Christine was destined to have her wish fulfilled.

She continued: “The note is from a special friend of
yours; indeed I think you form a little mutual-admiration
society, and you are spoken of, so I think you had better
read it.”

“I shall not read the note,” said Dennis, “but you may
tell me, if you choose, what you think the writer will have
no objection to my knowing.”

“And do you mean to suggest that you do not know
who wrote the note? I can inform you that you are to be

invited to a moonlight sail and musicale on the water. Is
not that a chance for romance?”

“And will you go?” asked Dennis eagerly.

“Yes, if you will,” she said in a low tone, giving him a
sidelong glance.

This was too much for Dennis, the manner more than
the words, and taken together they would have led any
earnest man to committal. He was about to speak eagerly,
but she was not quite ready.

“Moreover,” she continued quickly, while Dennis stood
before her with cheeks alternately hot and pale, “this
special friend who invites you will be there. Now don't
pretend innocence of her name.”

“I suppose you mean Miss Winthrop,” said Dennis,
flushing.

“Ah, you blush, do you? Well, it is my turn to ask
pardon for seeming curiosity.”

He drew a few steps nearer to her, and the expression
she had so longed to see came into his face. She looked
at him earnestly with her whole soul in her eyes. She
would photograph him on memory, if possible. For a
moment or two he hesitated, embarrassed by her steady
gaze, and seemingly at a loss for words. Then, in a low,
deep tone he said:

“You, better than any one, know that I have no cause
to blush at the mention of Miss Winthrop's name.”

She did not answer, but was painting rapidly. He
thought this was due to natural excitement expressing itself
in nervous action. But she did not discourage him, and
this he felt was everything. With his heart in his eyes
and tones, he said:

“O Christine, what is the use of wearing this transparent
mask any longer? Your quick woman's eye has
seen for weeks the devoted love I cherish for you. I have

heard much of woman's intuitions. Perhaps you saw my
love before I recognized it myself, since your grace and
beauty caused it to grow unconsciously while I was your
humble attendant. But Christine, believe me, if you will
but utter in words what I fondly believe I have read in
your kindly glances and manner, though so delicately
veiled, if you will give me the strength and rest which come
of assured hope, I know that not far in the future I shall
be able to place at your feet more than mere wealth. I,
too, hope to be an artist, and you have been my chief inspiration.
At the store I could show you a picture now that
would tell more of what I mean than can my poor words.
There is a richer and happier world than you have yet
known, and O how I have prayed that I might lead you to
it,” and in words of burning eloquence he proceeded to
tell the story of his love.

She heard him as in a dream. She understood his
words, remembered them afterward, but so intent was she
on her darling propose that she heeded him not. His
voice sounded far away, and every power of mind and body
was concentrated to transfer his expression to the canvas
before her. Even he, blinded as he was by his emotions,
occupied by the long pent-up torrent of feeling that he was
pouring into her unheeding ear, wondered at her strange
dazzling beauty and peculiar manner.

After speaking a moment or two, the blur from his eyes
and confusion of mind began to pass away, and he was
perplexed beyond measure at the way she was receiving
the open declaration of his love. She was painting through
it all, not with the nervous random stroke of one who
sought to hide excitement and embarrassment in occupation.
She was working earnestly, consciously, with precision,
and, what was strangest of all, she seemed so intent
upon his face that his words, which would have been such

music to any woman that loved, apparently were unheard.
He stopped, but the break in his passionate flow of language
was unnoted.

“Christine, listen to me!” he cried, in an agony of fear
and perplexity. The tone of his appeal might have stirred
a marble bosom to pity, but she only raised her left hand
deprecatingly as if warding off an interruption, while she
worked with intense eagerness with her right.

“Christine!”—a frown contracted her brow for a
second, but she worked on.

He looked at her as if fearing she had lost her reason,
but there was no madness in her swift, intelligent strokes.
Then like a flash the thought came to him—

“It is my face, not myself, that she wants! This, then,
has been the secret of her new hope as an artist. She
would not feel, as I told her she must, but she would call
out and copy my emotion; and this scene, which means
life or death to me, is to her but a lesson in Art, and I am
no more than the human subject under the surgeon's knife.
But surely no anatomist is so cruel as to put in his lancet
before the man is dead.”

Every particle of color receded from his face, and he
watched her manner for the confirmation of his thought.

Her face was indeed a study. A beautiful smile parted
her lips, her eyes glowed with the exultation of assured and
almost accomplished success, and she looked like an
inspired priestess at a Greek oracle.

But a bitterness beyond words was filling his heart.

A few more skilful strokes, and she threw down her
brush, crying in ecstatic tones—

“Eureka! Eureka!” as she stood before the painting
in rapt admiration.

In an instant he stood by her side. With all the pride
of triumph she pointed to the picture, and said:

“Criticise that, if you can! Deny that there is soul,
life, feeling there, if you dare! Is that painting but a `beautiful
corpse?'”

Dennis saw a figure and features suggesting his own,
pleading with all the eloquence of true love before the
averted face of the maiden in the picture. It was indeed
a triumph, having all the power of the reality.

Dennis passed his hand quickly across his forehead,
as if to repel some terrible delusion, while yet he whispered
its reality to himself, in silent despairing confession—

“Ah my God! How cold she must be when she can
see any one look like that, and yet copy the expression as
from a painted face upon the wall!”

Then his own pride and indignation rising, he determined
at once to know the truth; whether he held any place
in her heart, or whether the picture was all, and he nothing.

Drawing a step nearer, as if to examine more closely,
he seized a brush of paint and drew it over the face that
had cost both him and Christine so much, and then turned
and looked at her.

For a moment she stood paralyzed, so great seemed
the disaster. Then she turned on him in fury. “How
dare you!” she exclaimed.

Only equal anger, and the consciousness of right, could
have sustained any man under the lightning of her eyes.

“Rather, let me ask, How dare you?” he replied in the
deep concentrated voice of passion—and lover and lady
stood before the ruined picture with blazing eyes. In the
same low stern voice he continued:

“I see the secret of your artistic hope now, Miss Ludolph,
but permit me to say that you have made your first
and last success, and there in that black stain, most appropriately
black, is the result.

She looked as if she could have torn him to atoms.

“You have been false,” he continued. “You have
acted a lie before me for weeks. You have deceived in
that which is most sacred, and with sacrilegious hands
have trifled with that which every true man regards as
holy.”

She trembled beneath his stern accusing words. Conscience
echoed them, anger and courage were fast deserting
her in the presence of the aroused and more powerful
spirit of her wronged lover. But she said petulantly:

“Nonsense! You know well that half the ladies of the
city would have flirted with you from mere vanity and love
of power; my motive was infinitely beyond this.”

Until now this had almost seemed sufficient reason to
excuse her action, but she distrusted it even to loathing as
she saw the look of scorn come out on his noble face.

“And is that your best plea for falsehood? A moment
ago I loved you with a devotion that you will never
receive again. But now I despise you.”

“Sir!” she cried, with her face scarlet with shame and
anger, “leave this room!”

“Yes, in a moment, and never again to enter it while
Christine Ludolph is as false in character as she is beautiful
in person. But before I go, you, in your pride and
silken luxury, shall hear the truth for once. Not only have
you been false, but you have been what no true woman
ever can be—cruel as death. Your pencil has been a
stiletto with which you have slowly felt for my heart. You
have dipped your brush in human suffering as if it were
common paint. Giotto stabbed a man and mercifully took
him off by a few quick pangs, that he might paint his
dying look. You, more cruel, accomplish your purpose by
slow, remorseless torture. Merciful Heaven only knows
what I have suffered since you smiled and frowned on me

by turns, but I felt that if I could only win your love, I
would gladly endure all. You falsely made me believe
that I had won it, and yet all the while you were dissecting
my heart as a surgeon might a living subject. And
now what have you to offer to solace the bitterness of
coming years? Do you not know that such deeds make
men bad, faithless, devilish? Never dream of success till
you are changed utterly. Only the noble in deed and in
truth can reach high and noble art.”

He left her seated at the defaced picture with her face
bowed in her hands.

She thought he was gone, but sat still like one doomed.
A few moments passed and she was startled by hearing
his voice again. It was no longer harsh and stern, but
sad, grave, and pitiful.

“Miss Ludolph, may God in His mercy forgive you.
I also will pray for strength to do the same.”

She trembled. Pride and better feeling were contending
for the mastery. After a few moments she sprang up
and reached out her hands; but he was gone now in very
truth.