 | CHAPTER XXXV.
THE TWO PICTURES. Barriers burned away |  |
35. CHAPTER XXXV.
THE TWO PICTURES.
When Christine saw that Dennis was not in the room,
she rushed to a window only in time to see his retreating
form passing down the street. For a moment she felt like
one left alone to perish on a sinking wreck. His words,
so assured in their tones, seemed like those of a prophet.
Conscience echoed them, and a chill of fear came over her
one golden opportunity of her life pass? Even though she
had stolen her inspiration from him through guile and
cruelty, had he not enabled her to accomplish more than in
all her life before? To what might he not have led her, if
she had put her hand frankly and truthfully in his? There
are times when to those most bewildered in mazes of error,
light breaks, clear and unmistakable, defining right and
wrong with terrible distinctness. Such an hour was this
to Christine. The law of God written on her heart asserted
itself, and she trembled at the guilty thing she saw
herself to be. But there seemed no remedy save in the
one she had driven away, never to return, as she believed.
After a brief but painful revery she exclaimed:
“But what am I thinking of? What can he or any man
of this land be to me?”
Then pride, her dominant trait, awoke as she recalled
his words.
“He despises me, does he? I will teach him that I
belong to a sphere he cannot touch, the poor infatuated
youth! And did he dream that I, Christine Ludolph, could
give him my hand. He shall learn some day that none in
this land could receive that honor, and none save the
proudest in my own may hope for it. The idea of my
giving up my ancient and honorable name for the sake of
this unknown Yankee youth! Father would indeed say that
the Gudgeon farce was enacted over again.”
Bold, proud words that her heart did not echo.
But pride and anger were now her controlling impulses,
and with the strong grasp of her resolute will she crushed
back her gentler and better feelings, and became more icy
and hard than ever.
By such choice and action, men and women commit
moral suicide.
With a cold white face, and a burnished gleam in her
eyes, she went to the easel and commenced painting out
the ominous black stain.
“I'll prove him a false prophet also. I will be an artist
without passing through all his sentimental and superstitious
phases that have so amused me during the past weeks
I have seen his lovelorn face too often not to be able to
reproduce it and its various expressions.”
Her strokes were quick and almost fierce.
“Mrs. Dennis Fleet, ha! ha! ha!” and her laugh was
as harsh and discordant as the feeling that prompted it.
Again, a little later:
“He despises me! Well, he is the first man that ever
dared say that,” and her face was flushed and dark with
anger.
Dennis at first walked rapidly from the scene of his bitter
disappointment, but his steps soon grew slow and feeble.
The point of endurance was passed. Body and mind acting
and reacting on each other had been taxed beyond
their powers, and both were giving way. He felt that they
were, and struggled to reach the store before the crisis
came. Weak and trembling, he mounted the steps but fell
fainting across the threshold. One of the clerks saw him
fall and gave the alarm. Mr. Ludolph, Mr. Schwartz, and
others hastened to the spot. Dennis was carried to his
room and a messenger despatched for Dr. Arten. Ernst,
with flying feet, and wild, frightened face, soon reached his
home in DeKoven-street, and startled his father and mother
with the tidings.
The child feared that Dennis was dead, his face was
so thin and white. Leaving the children in Ernst's care,
both Mr. and Mrs. Bruder, prompted by their strong gratitude
for Dennis, rushed through the streets as if distracted.
them to heed no more the curious glances cast after them
than would a man swimming for life note the ripple he
made.
When Dennis regained consciousness, they, with Mr.
Ludolph, and Dr. Arten, were standing around. At first
his mind was confused and he could not understand it all.
“Where am I?” he asked feebly, “and what has happened?”
“Do not be alarmed, you have only had a faint turn,”
said the Doctor.
“O Mr. Fleet, you vork too hart, you vork too hart, I
knew dis vould come,” sobbed Mrs. Bruder.
“Why, his duties in the store have not been so onerous
of late,” said Mr. Ludolph, in some surprise.
“It is not de vork in de store, but he vork nearly all
night too. Den he haf had trouble, I know he haf. Do he
say no vort about him?”
Dennis gave Mrs. Bruder a sudden warning look, and
then, through the strong instinct to guard his secret, roused
himself.
“Is anything serious, Doctor?” he asked.
The physician looked grave, and said:
“Your pulse and whole appearance indicate great exhaustion
and physical depression, and I also fear that fever
may set in.”
“I think you are right,” said Dennis. “I feel as if I
were going to be sick. My mind has a tendency to wander.
Mr. Ludolph, will you permit me to go home? If I am to
be sick, I want to be with my mother.”
Mr. Ludolph looked inquiringly at the Doctor, who said
significantly in a low tone:
“I think it would be as well.”
“Certainly, Fleet,” said his employer; “though I hope
back in a few days. You must try and get a good night's
rest, and so be prepared for the journey in the morning.”
“With your permission I will go at once. A train
leaves now in an hour, and by morning I can be at home.”
“I do not scarcely think it prudent,” began the
Doctor.
“O certainly not to-night,” said Mr. Ludolph, also.
“Pardon me, I must go at once,” interrupted Dennis,
briefly and so decidedly that the gentlemen looked at each
other and said no more.
“Mr. Bruder,” he continued, “I must be indebted to
you for a real proof of your friendship. In that drawer
you will find my money. The key is in my pocketbook.
Will you get a carriage and take me to the depot at once,
and can you be so kind as to go on home with me? I
cannot trust myself alone. Mrs. Bruder, will you pack up
what you think I need?”
His faithful friends hastened to do his bidding.
“Mr. Ludolph, you have been very kind to me. I am
sorry this has occurred, but cannot help it. I thank you
gratefully, and will now trespass on your valuable time no
longer.”
Mr. Ludolph, feeling that he could be of no further use,
said:
“You will be back in a week, Fleet. Courage. Good-bye.”
Dennis turned eagerly to the Doctor and said:
“Can you not give me something that will reduce the
fever and keep me sane a little longer? I know that I am
going to be delirious, but would reach the refuge of home
first.”
A prescription was given and immediately procured,
and the Doctor went away shaking his head—
“This is the way people commit suicide. They know
no more about, or pay no more heed to, the laws of health
than the laws of China. Here is the result: This young
fellow has worked in a way that would break down a cast-iron
machine, and now may never see Chicago again.”
But Dennis might have worked even in his intense way
for months and years without serious harm, had not a fair
white hand kept him on the rack of uncertainty and fear.
Not work, but worry makes havoc of health.
In the gray dawn Ethel Fleet, summoned from her rest,
received her son, weak, unconscious, muttering in delirium,
and not recognizing even her familiar face. He was indeed
a sad, painful contrast to the ruddy, buoyant youth
who left her a few short months before, abounding in hope
and life. But she comforted herself with the thought that
neither sin nor shame had brought him home.
We need not dwell on the weary weeks that followed.
Dennis had every advantage that could result from good
medical skill and the most faithful nursing. But we believe
that his life lay rather in his mother's prayers of faith.
In her strong realization of the spiritual world she would
go continually into the very presence of Jesus, and say,
“Lord, he whom Thou lovest is sick:” or, like parents
of old, she would seem by her importunity to bring the
Divine Physician to his very bedside.
Mr. Bruder, too, insisted on remaining, and watched
with the unwearied faithfulness of one who felt that he
owed to Dennis far more than life. It was indeed touching
to see this man, once so desperate and depraved, now
almost as patient and gentle as the mother herself, sitting
by his unconscious friend, often turning his eyes heavenward
and muttering in deep guttural German as sincere a
spared.
The hand of God seemed about to take him from them,
but their strong, loving faith laid hold of that hand, and
put upon it the restraint that only reverent, believing
prayer can. Dennis lived. After many days delirium
ceased, and the confused mind became clear. But during
his delirium Ethel and Mr. Bruder learned from the oft-repeated
words, “Cruel, cruel Christine!” the nature of
the wound that had nearly destroyed his life.
Mr. Ludolph was late in reaching his home the
evening Dennis was taken sick. Christine sat in the
dusk on the ivy-shaded piazza, awaiting him. He said
abruptly:
“What have you been doing to Fleet, over here?”
For a second her heart stood still, and she was glad
the increasing gloom disguised her face. By a great effort
she replied in a cool, matter-of-fact tone:
“I do not understand your question. Mr. Fleet was
here this afternoon, and gave some finishing touches to
my studio. I do not think I shall need him any more.”
Her quiet, indifferent voice would have disarmed suspicion
itself.
“It is well you do not, for he seems to have received
some `finishing touches' himself. He fell across the
threshold of the store in a dead faint, and has gone home,
threatened with a serious illness.”
Even her resolute will could not prevent a sharp,
startled exclamation.
“What is the matter?” said her father hastily; “you
are not going to faint also, are you?”
“No,” said Christine quietly again; “but I am tired
and nervous, and you told your news so abruptly. Why it
seemed but a moment ago he was here at work, and now
forward in the dark life is!”
This was a style of moralizing peculiarly distasteful to
Mr. Ludolph—all the more repugnant because it seemed
true, and brought home in Dennis' experience. Anything
that interfered with his plans and interests, even though it
might be God's providence, always angered him. And now
he was irritated at the loss of one of his best clerks, just
as he was becoming of great value; so he said sharply:
“I hope you are not leaning toward the silly cant of
mysterious providence. Life is uncertain, stumbling only to
fools who can't see the chances that fortune throws right
in their way, or recognize the plain laws of health and success.
This young Fleet has been putting two days' work
in one for the past four months, and now perhaps his work
is done forever, for the doctor looked very grave over him.”
Again the shadow of night proved most friendly to
Christine. Her face had a frightened, guilty look that it
was well her father did not see, or he would have wrung
from her the whole story. She felt the chill of a terrible
dread at heart. If he should die, her conscicnce would
give a fearful verdict against her. She stood trembling,
feeling almost powerless to move.
“Come,” said her father sharply, “I am hungry and
tired.”
“I will ring for lights and supper,” said Christine
hastily, and then fled to her own room.
When she appeared, her father was sitting at the table
impatiently awaiting her. But her face was so white, and
there was such an expression in her eyes, that he started
and said:
“What is the matter?”
His question irritated her, and she replied as sharply
as he had spoken:
“I told you I was tired, and I don't feel well. I have
been a month in constant effort to get this house to rights,
and I am worn out, I suppose.”
He looked at her keenly, but said more kindly:
“Here, my dear, take this wine,” and he poured out a
glass of old port.
She drank it eagerly, for she felt she must have something
that would give her life, warmth, and courage. In a
way she could not understand, her heart sank within her.
But she saw her father was watching her and knew she
must act skilfully to deceive him. Rallied and strengthened
by the generous wine, her resolute will was soon on its
throne again, and Mr. Ludolph with all his keen insight
was no match for her. In a matter-of-fact tone she said:
“I do not see how we have worked Mr. Fleet to death.
Does he charge anything of the kind?”
“O no! but he too seems possessed with the idea of
becoming an artist. That drunken old Bruder, whom he
appears to have reformed, was giving him lessons, and
after working all day he would paint all night. He might
have made something if he had had a judicious friend to
guide him,” (and such you might have been, whispered
her conscience,) “but now he drops away like untimely
fruit.”
“It is a pity,” said she coolly, and changed the subject
as if she had dismissed it from her mind.
Mr. Ludolph believed Dennis to be no more to his
daughter than a useful clerk.
The next morning Christine rose pale and listless.
Her father said, “I will arrange my business so that
we can go off on a trip in a few days.”
When left alone she sat down at her easel and tried to
restore the expression that had so delighted her on the preceding
day. But she could not. Indeed she was greatly
scornful expression, which had made a deeper impression
on her mind than any she had ever seen on his face,
because so unexpected and novel. She became irritated
with herself, and cried fiercely:
“Shame on your weakness. You are unworthy of
your blood and ancestry. I will reproduce that face as it
was before he so insolently destroyed it,” and she bent
over her easel with an expression anything but in harmony
with her work. Unconsciously she made a strange contrast,
with her severe, hard face and compressed lips, to
the look of love and pleading she sought to paint. For
several days she wrought with resolute purpose, but found
that her inspiration was gone. At last she threw down
her brush in despair, and cried:
“I cannot catch it again, the wretch either smiles or
frowns upon me. I fear he was right, I have made my
first and last success,” and she leaned her head sullenly
and despairingly on her hand. Again the whole scene
passed before her, and she dwelt upon every word, as she
was beginning often to do now, in painful revery. When
she came to the words, “I too mean to be an artist. At
the store I could show you a picture that would tell you
far more of what I mean than can my poor words,” she
started up, and hastily arraying herself for the street, was
soon on her way to the Art Building.
No one heeded her movements there, and she went
directly upstairs to his room. Though so simple and
plain, it had unmistakably been the abode of a gentleman
and a person of taste. It was partially dismantled, and in
disorder from his hasty departure, and she found nothing
which satisfied her quest there. She hastened away, glad
to escape from a place where everything seemed full of
mute reproach, and next bent her steps to the top floor of
and seldom entered, she saw near a window facing the
east an easel with canvas upon it. She was startled at
the throbbing of her heart.
“It is only climbing these long stairs,” she said, but
any one would have seen that this was not all, from the
hesitating manner and rosy face with which she approached
and removed the covering from the canvas.
She gazed a moment and then put out her hands for
something by which to steady herself. His chair was near
and she sank in that, exclaiming:
“He has indeed painted more than he—more than any
one could put in words. He has the genius that I have
not. All here is striking and original,” and she sat with
her eyes riveted to a painting that had revealed to her—
herself.
Here was the secret of Dennis' midnight toil and
early work. Here the results of his insatiable demand for
the incongruous elements of ice and sunlight.
Side by side were two emblematic pictures. In the
first there opened before Christine a grotto of ice. The
light was thin and cold but very clear and distinct, stalactites
hung glittering from the vaulted roof. Stalagmites
in strange fantastic forms rose to meet them. There was
a vivid brightness and beauty on every side, but of that
kind that threw a chill on the eye of the beholder. All
was of cold blue ice, and so natural was it that the eye
seemed to penetrate its clear crystal. To the right was an
opening in the grotto, through which was caught a glimpse
of a summer landscape, a vivid contrast to the icy cave.
But the main features of the picture were two figures.
Sleeping on a couch of ice was the form of a maiden.
The flow of the drapery, the contour of the form, was grace
itself, and yet all was ice. But the face was the most
as beautiful as in her vainest moments she had ever dared
to hope. So perfect was the portrait that the delicate blue
veins branched across the temple in veiled distinctness.
It was a face that lacked but two things, life and love;
and yet with all its beauty the want of these was painfully
felt—all the more painfully, even as a lovely face in death
awakenes a deeper sadness and regret.
One little icy hand grasped a laurel wreath, also of ice.
The other hand hung listless, half open down the couch,
and from it had dropped a brush that formed a small
stalagmite at her side.
Bending over her in a most striking contrast is the
figure of a young man, all instinct with life, power, and
feeling. Though the face was turned away, Dennis had
suggested his own form and manner. His left hand was
extended toward the sleeping maiden, as if to awaken her,
while with the right he pointed toward the opening through
which was seen the summer landscape, and his whole attitude
indicated an eager wish to rescue her. This was the
first picture.
The second one was still more suggestive. At the entrance
of the grotto, which looked more cold than ever, in
its partial shadow, Christine saw herself again, but how
changed! She now had a beauty which she could not
believe in—could not understand.
The cold icy hue and rigidity were all gone. She stood
in the warm sunlight, and seemed all warmth and life to herself.
Her face glowed with feeling, yet was full of peace.
Instead of the barren ice, flowers bloomed at her feet
and fruitful trees bent over her. Birds were seen flitting
through their branches. Their bended tops, her flowing
costume, and the tress of golden hair lifted from her temple,
all showed that the summer wind was blowing.
Everything, in contrast with the frozen, death-like cave,
indicated life, activity. Near where she stood, a plane-tree,
which in nature's language is the emblem of genius, towered
into the sky. Around its trunk twined the passion-flower,
meaning in Flora's tongue, “Holy love;” while just
above her head, sipping the nectar from an open blossom,
was a bright-hued butterfly, the symbol of immortality. By
her side stood the same tall, manly form, with face still
averted, that was in the act of awakening her in the first
picture. He was pointing, and her eyes, softened, and yet
so lustrous and happy, were following where a path wound
through a long vista, in alternate light and shadow, to a
gate, that in the distance looked like a pearl. Above and
beyond it, in airy outline, rose the walls and towers of the
Holy City, the New Jerusalem.
For a long time she sat in rapt attention—moment by
moment the paintings in their meaning grew upon her. At
last her eyes filled with tears, her bosom rose and fell with
an excitement and emotion in her case most unwonted, and
in low tones she murmured:
“Heavenly delusion! and taught with the logic I most
dearly love. O that I could believe it! I would give ten
thousand years of the life I am leading to know that it is
true. Is there, can there be a path that leads through light
or shade to a final and heavenly home? If this is true, in
spite of all my father's keen and seemingly convincing
arguments, what a terrible mistake our life is.”
Then her thoughts reverted to the author.
“What have I done in driving him away with contempt
in his heart for me? I can affect no more haughty superiority
to the man who painted those pictures. Though he
could not be my lover, what a friend he might have been.
I fear I shall never find his equal. O this world of chaos
and confusion! What is right? What is best? What is
that portrayed those wonderful scenes may soon turn to
dust, and I will go to my grave burdened with the thought
that I have quenched the brightest genius that will ever
shine upon me,” and she clasped her hands in an agony of
regret.
Then came the thought of securing the pictures. Dropping
a veil over her red eyes, she went down and got some
large sheets of paper, and by fastening them together made
a secure covering. Then she carried the light frame with
the canvas to the second floor, and summoning Ernst
started homeward with her treasure. The boy obeyed with
reluctance. Since the time she had surprised him out of
his secret in regard to the strawberries he had never liked
her, and now he felt that in some way she was the cause of
the sickness of his dearest friend. Christine could not bear
the reproach in his large, truthful eyes, and their walk was
a silent one. At parting she handed him a large bill, but
he shook his head.
“Have you heard from Mr. Fleet?” she asked with a
flush.
The boy's lip quivered at the mention of that name,
and he answered hastily:
“Fader wrote moder he was no better. I fear he die,”
and in an agony of grief he turned and ran sobbing away.
From under her veil Christine's tears were falling fast
also, and she entered her elegant home as if it had been a
prison.
| CHAPTER XXXV.
THE TWO PICTURES. Barriers burned away | |