University of Virginia Library

36. CHAPTER XXXVI.
REGRET.

The next day was the Sabbath, and a long, dreary one
it was to Christine. But late in the afternoon Susie Winthrop
came with a pale, troubled face.

“O Christine, have you heard the news?” she exclaimed.

Christine's heart stood still with fear, but by a great
effort she said composedly:

“What news?”

“Mr. Fleet has gone home very ill; indeed he is not
expected to live.”

For a moment she did not answer, and when she did it
was with a voice unnaturally hard and cold:

“Have you heard what is the matter?”

Miss Winthrop wondered at her manner, but replied:

“Brain fever, I am told.”

“Is he delirious?” asked Christine in a low tone.

“Yes, all the time. Ernst, the little office-boy, told me
he did not know his own mother. It seems that the boy's
father is with Mrs. Fleet, helping take care of him.”

Christine's face was averted and so colorless that it
seemed like marble.

“O Christine, don't you care?” said Susie, springing
up and coming toward her friend.

“Why should I care?” was the quick answer.

Susie could not know that it was in reality but an incoherent
cry of pain, the blind desperate effort of pride to

shield itself. But the tone checked her steps and filled her
face with reproach.

“Perhaps you have more reason to care than you
choose to admit,” she said pointedly.

Christine flushed, but said coldly:

“Of course I feel an interest in the fate of Mr. Fleet,
as I do in that of every passing acquaintance. I feel very
sorry for him and his friends.” But never was sympathy
expressed in a voice more unnaturally frigid.

Susie looked at her keenly, and again saw the tell-tale
flush rising to her cheek. She was puzzled, but saw that
her friend had no confidence to give, and she said with a
voice growing somewhat cold also:

“Well really, Christine, I thought you capable of seeing
as much as the rest of us in such matters, but I must
be mistaken, if you only recognized in Dennis Fleet a passing
acquaintance. Well, if he dies I doubt if either you or
I look upon his equal again. Under right influences he
might have been one of the first and most useful men of
his day. But they need not tell me it was overwork that
killed him. I know it was trouble of some kind.”

Christine was very pale, but said nothing; and Susie,
pained and mystified that the confidence of other days
was refused, bade rather a cold and abrupt adieu.

Left alone, Christine bowed her white face in her hands
and sat so still that it seemed as if life had deserted her.
In her morbid state she began to fancy herself the victim
of some terrible fatality. Her heart had bounded at the
announcement of Susie Winthrop, believing that from her
she would gain sympathy, but in strange perverseness she
had hidden her trouble from her friend, and permitted her
to go away in coldness. Christine could see as quickly
and as far as any, and from the first had noted that Dennis
was very interesting to her friend. Until of late she had

not cared, but now for some reason the fact was not pleasing,
and she felt a sudden reluctance to speak to Susie of
him.

But now that she was gone a deeper sense of loneliness
and isolation came over her than she had ever felt before.
Her one confidential friend had departed, chilled and hurt.
She made friends but slowly, and having once become
estranged, from her very nature, she found it almost impossible
to offer the first advances towards reconciliation.

Soon she heard her father's steps, and fled to her room
to nerve herself for the part she must act before him. But
she was far from successful; her pale face and preoccupied
manner awakened his attention and surmises as to
the cause. Having an engagement out, he soon left her to
welcome solitude; for when she was in trouble he was no
source of help or comfort.

Monday dragged wearily to a close. She tried to work
but could not. She took up the most exciting book she
could find, only to throw it down in despair. For ever between
the canvas or the page would rise a pale thin face, at
times stern and scornful, again full of reproach, and then of
pleading.

Even at night her rest was disturbed, and in dreams
she heard the mutterings of his delirium, in which he continually
charged her with his death. At times she would
get out his picture and look at it as one might some priceless
thing past and gone beyond reach forever. Then she
would become irritated with herself, and say angrily:

“What is this man to me? Why am I worrying about
one who never could be much more to me living than dead?
Forget the whole miserable affair.”

But she could not forget. Tuesday morning, but no relief.
“Whether he lives or dies he will follow me to my
grave!” she cried. “From the time I first spoke to him

there has seemed no escape, and in strange unexpected
ways he constantly crosses my path!”

She felt that she must get some relief from the oppression
on her spirit. Suddenly she thought of Ernst, and at
once went to the store and asked if he had heard anything
later. He had not, but thought that his mother would get
a letter that day.

“I want to see your father's picture, and will go home
that way, if you will give me the number.”

The boy hesitated, but at last complied with her wish.

A little later Christine knocked at Mr. Bruder's door.
There was no response, though she heard a stifled sound
within. After a little she knocked more loudly. Then the
door slowly opened, and Mrs. Bruder stood before her just
as she came from her washtub. Her eyes were very red,
and she held in her hand an open letter. Christine expected
to find more of a lady than was apparent at first
glance in the hard-working woman before her, so she said:

“My good woman, will you tell Mrs. Bruder I would
like to see her.”

“Dis is Mrs. Bruder,” was the answer.

Then Christine noticed the letter, and the half-effaced
traces of emotion, and her heart misgave her, but she nerved
herself to say: “I came to see your husband's picture.”

“It is dare,” was the brief reply.

Christine commenced expatiating on its beauty, though
perhaps for the first time she looked at a fine picture without
really seeing it. She was at a loss how to introduce
the object of her visit, but at last said:

“Your husband is away?”

“Yes.”

“He is taking care of one of my father's—of Mr. Fleet,
I am told. Have you heard from him as to Mr. Fleet's
health?”

“Dis is Miss Ludolph?”

“Yes.”

“You can no read Sherman?”

“O yes I can. German is my native tongue.”

“Strange that him should be so.”

“Why so?”

“De Shermans haf hearts.”

Christine flushed deeply, but Mrs. Bruder without a
word put her husband's letter in her hand, and Christine
read eagerly what, translated, is as follows:

As Christine read she suffered her veil to drop over her
face. When she looked up she saw Mrs. Bruder regarding

her as she might one who had murdered her best
friend. She drew her veil closer about her face, laid the
letter down, and left the room without a word. She felt so
guilty and miserable on her way home that it would scarcely
have surprised her had a policeman arrested her for the
crime with which her own conscience as well as Mr. Bruder's
letter charged her; and yet her pride revolted at it all.

“Why should this affair take so miserable a form with
me?” she said. “To most it ends with a few sentimental
sighs on one side, and as a good joke on the other. All
seems to go wrong of late, and I am destined to have
everything save happiness and the success upon which I
set my heart. There is no more cruel mockery than to give
one all save the very thing one wants, and in seeking to
grasp that I have brought down upon myself this wretched
blighting experience. O this chaotic world! The idea
of there being a God! Why I could make a better world
myself!” And she reached her home in such a morbid,
unhappy state, that none in the great city need have envied
the rich and flattered girl. Mechanically she dressed and
came down to dinner.

During the afternoon Ernst, while out on an errand,
had slipped home and heard the sad news. He returned
to Mr. Ludolph's office crying. To the question, “What
is the matter?” he had answered:

“O, Mr. Fleet is dying—he is dead by dis time!”

Mr. Ludolph was sadly shocked and pained, for as far
as he could like anybody in addition to himself and
daughter, he had been prepossessed in favor of his useful
and intelligent clerk, and he was greatly annoyed at the
thought of losing him. He returned full of the subject,
and the first words with which he greeted Christine were:

“Well, Fleet will hang no more pictures for you, and
sing no more songs.”

She staggered into a chair and sat before him pale
and panting, for she thought he meant that death had
taken place.

“Why, what is the matter?” cried he.

She stared at him gaspingly, but said nothing.

“Here, drink this,” he said, hastily pouring out a glass
of wine.

She took it eagerly. After a moment he said:

“Christine, I do not understand all this. I was merely
saying that my clerk, Mr. Fleet, was not expected—”

The point of endurance and guarded self-control was
past, and she cried half hysterically:

“Am I never to escape that man? Must every one I
meet speak to me as if I had murdered him?”

Then she added, almost fiercely:

“Living or dead, never speak to me of him again! I
am no longer a child, but a woman, and as such I insist
that his name be dropped between us forever!”

Her father gave a low exclamation of surprise, and
said:

“What! was he one of the victims?” (this being his
term for Christine's rejected suitors.)

“No,” said she, “I am the victim. He will soon be at
rest, while I shall be tormented to the grave by—” She
hardly knew what to say, so mingled and chaotic were her
feelings. Her hands clenched, and with a stamp of her
foot she hastily left the room.

Mr. Ludolph could hardly believe his eyes. Could this
passionate, thoroughly aroused woman be his cold, self-contained
daughter? He could not understand, as so
many cannot, that such natures when aroused are tenfold
more intense than those whom little things excite. A long
and peculiar train of circumstances, a morbid and overwrought
physical condition, led to this outburst from

Christine, which was as much a cause of surprise to herself
afterward as to her father. He judged correctly that a
great deal had occurred between Dennis and herself of
which he had no knowledge, and again his confidence in
her was thoroughly shaken.

At first he determined to question and extort from her
the truth. But when, an hour later, she quietly entered the
parlor, he saw at a glance that he could not treat the cold,
proud, self-possessed woman before him as he might the
little Christine of former days. The wily man read from
her manner and the expression of her eye that he might
with her consent lead, but could not command without
awakening a nature as imperious as his own.

He was angry, but he had time to think. Prudence
had given a decided voice in the way of wary caution.

He saw what she did not recognize herself, that her
heart had been greatly touched, and in his secret soul he
was not sorry now to believe that Dennis was dying.

“Father,” said Christine abruptly, “how soon can we
start on our trip East?”

“Well, if you particularly wish it,” he replied, “I can
leave by the evening train to-morrow.”

“I do wish it very much,” said Christine earnestly,
“and will be ready.”

After a silent, stiff evening, they separated for the night.

Mr. Ludolph sat for a long time sipping his wine after
she had gone.

“After all it will turn out for the best,” he said.
“Fleet will probably die, and then will be out of the way.
Or, if he lives, I can easily guard against him, and it will
go no further. If she had been bewitched by a man like
Mr. Mellen, the matter would have been more difficult.

“In truth,” he continued after a little, “now that her
weak woman's heart is occupied by an impossible lover

there is no danger from possible ones,” and the man of
the world went complacently to his rest, believing that
what he regarded as the game of life was entirely in his
own hands.

The next evening the night express bore Christine
from the events she sought to escape; but she was to
learn, in common with the great host of the sinning and
suffering, how little change of place has to do with change
of feeling.

We take memory and character with us from land to
land, from youth to age, from this world to the other, from
time through eternity. Sad, then, is the lot of those who
ever carry the elements of their own torture with them.

It was Christine's purpose, and she had her father's
consent, to make a long visit in New York, and, in the
gayety and excitement of the metropolis, to forget her
late wretched experience.

As it was still early September, they resolved to stop a
while at West Point and participate in the gayest season
of that fashionable watering-place. At this time the
hotels are thronged with summer tourists returning homeward
from the more northern resorts. Though the broad
piazzas of Cozzens' great hotel were crowded by the élite
of the city, there was a hum of admiration as Christine
first made her round, on her father's arm; and in the
evening, when the spacious parlor was cleared for dancing,
officers from the post and civilians alike eagerly sought
her hand, and hundreds of admiring eyes followed as she
swept through the mazes of the dance, the very embodiment
of grace and beauty. She was very gay, and her
repartee was often brilliant, but a close observer would
have seen something forced and unnatural in all. Such
an observer was her father. He saw that the sparkle of
her eyes had no more heart and happiness in it than that

of the diamonds on her bosom, and that with the whole
strength of her resolute nature she was laboring to repel
thought and memory. But as he witnessed the admiration
she excited on every side, he became more determined
than ever that his fair daughter should shine a star of the
first magnitude in the salons of Europe. Late, and wearied
past the power of thought, she gladly sought refuge in
the blank of sleep.

The next morning they drove out early, before the sun
grew high and warm. It was a glorious Autumn day. Recent
rains had purified the atmosphere, so that the unrivalled
scenery of the Hudson stood out in clear and grand outline.

As Christine looked about her she felt a thrill of almost
delight; the first sensations of the kind since that moment
of triumph and exultation which Dennis had inspired, but
which he had also turned to the bitterness of disaster and
humiliation. She was keenly alive to beauty, and she saw
it on every side.

The Ludolph family had ever lived among the mountains
on the Rhine, and the heart of this latest child of the
race yearned with hereditary affection over the rugged
scenery before her, which had grown stronger with each
successive generation.

The dew, like innumerable pearls, gemmed the grass in
the park-like lawn of the hotel, and the slanting rays of the
sun flecked the luxuriant foliage. Never before had this
passion for the beautiful in nature been so gratified, and
all the artist feeling within her awoke.

When out upon the street the carriage turned southward,
and after passing the village of Highland Falls, they
entered on one of the most beautiful drives in America.
At times the road led under overarching forest trees, shaded
and dim with that delicious twilight which only myriads of
fluttering leaves can make.

Again it would wind around some bold headland, and
the broad expanse of the Hudson would shine out dotted
with white sails. Then through a vista its waters would
sparkle, suggesting an exquisite cabinet picture. On the
right the thickly-wooded mountains rose like emerald walls,
with here and there along their base a quiet farm-house.
With kindling eye and glowing cheeks she drank in view
after view, and at last exclaimed:

“If there were only a few old castles scattered among
these Highlands, this would be the very perfection of
scenery.”

Her father watched her closely, and with much satisfaction.

“After all, her wound is slight,” he thought, “and new
scenes and circumstances will soon cause her to forget.”

Furtively, but continually, he bent his eyes upon her,
as if to read her very soul. A dreamy, happy expression
rested on her face, as if a scene were present to her fancy
even more to her taste than the one her eyes rested upon.
In fact she was living over that evening at Miss Winthrop's,
when Dennis told her that she could reach truest and highest
art—that she could feel—could copy anything she saw;
and exhilarated by the fresh morning air, inspired by the
scenery, she felt for the moment as never before that it
might all be true.

Was he who gave those blissful assurances also exerting
a subtle, unrecognized power over her? Certainly within
the last few weeks she had been subject to strange moods
and reveries. But the first dawning of a woman's love is
more like the aurora with its strange fitful flashes. The
phenomena have never been satisfactorily explained.

But as Mr. Ludolph watched complacently and admiringly,
her expression suddenly changed, and a frightened,
guilty look came into her face. The glow upon her cheeks

gave place to extreme pallor, and she glanced nervously
around as if fearing something, then caught her father's eye,
and was conscious of his scrutiny. She at once became
cold and self-possessed, and sat at his side pale and quiet
till the ride ended. But he saw from the troubled gleam
of her eyes that there was tumult and suffering beneath that
calm exterior.

Few in this life are so guilty and wretched as not to
have moments of forgetfulness, when the happier past
comes back and they are oblivious to the painful present.
Such a brief respite Christine enjoyed during part of her
morning ride. The grand and swiftly varying scenery
crowded her mind with pleasant images, and all had ended
in a delicious revery. She felt herself to be a true priestess
of nature, capable of understanding and interpreting
her voices and hidden meanings—of catching her evanescent
beauty and of fixing it on the glowing canvas. The
strongly felt consciousness of such power was indeed sweet
and intoxicating. Her mind naturally reverted to him who
had most clearly asserted her possession of it.

“He, too, would have equal appreciation of this
scenery,” she said to herself.

Then came the sudden remembrance, shrivelling her
pretty dreams as the lightning scorches and withers.

“He—he is dead!—he must be by this time!”

And dread and guilt and something else that she did
not define, but which seemed more like a sense of great
loss, lay heavy at her heart. No wonder her father was
perplexed and provoked by the sad change in her face.
At first he was inclined to remonstrate and put spurs to
her pride. But there was a dignity about the lady at his
side, even though she was his daughter, that embarrassed
and restrained him. Moreover, though he understood
much and suspected far more—more indeed than the truth

—there was nothing acknowledged or tangible that he
could lay hold of, and she meant that there should not be.
For reasons she did not understand she felt a disinclination
to tell her troubles to Susie Winthrop, and she was most
resolute in her purpose never to permit her father to speak
on the subject.

If Mr. Ludolph had been as coarse and ignorant as he
was hard and selfish, he would have gone to work at the
case with sledge and hammer dexterity, as many a parent
has, making sad brutal havoc in delicate womanly natures
with which they were no more fit to deal than a blacksmith
with hair-springs. But though he longed to speak and
bring his remorseless logic to bear, Christine's manner
raised a barrier which a man of his fine culture could not
readily pass.

She joined her father at a late breakfast smiling and
brilliant, but all was clearly forced. The morning was
spent in sketching, she seeming to crave constant occupation
or excitement.

In the afternoon they drove up the river to the military
grounds to witness a drill. Her father did his best to rally
her, pointing out everything of interest. First, the grand
old ruin of Fort Putnam frowned down upon them. This
had been the one feature wanting, and Christine felt that
she could ask nothing more. Her wonder and admiration
grew as the road wound along the immediate bluff and
around the plain by the river fortifications. But when she
stood on the piazza of the West Point Hotel and looked
up through the Highlands towards Newburgh, tears came
even to her eyes, and she trembled with excitement.
From what had happened her nerves were morbidly sensitive.
But her father could only look and wonder, she
seemed so changed to him.

“And is the Rhine like this?” she asked.

“Well, the best I can say is, that to a German and a
Ludolph, it seems just as beautiful,” he replied.

“Surely,” said she slowly and in half soliloquy, “if one
could live always amid such scenes as these, elysium of the
gods or the heaven of the Christians would offer few temptations.”

“And among just such scenes you shall live after a
short year passes,” he answered warmly and confidently.
But with anger he missed the wonted sparkle of her eyes
when these cherished plans were broached.

In bitterness Christine said to herself: “A few weeks
since this thought would have filled me with delight. Why
does it not now?”

Silently they drove to the parade-ground. At the sally-port
of the distant barracks bayonets were gleaming.
There was a burst of martial music, then each class at the
Academy—four companies—came out upon the grassy
plain upon the double-quick. Their motions were light
and swift, and yet so accurately timed that each company
seemed one perfect piece of mechanism. A cadet stood at
a certain point with a small color flying. Abreast of this
their advance was checked as suddenly as if they had been
turned to stone, and the entire corps was in line. Then
followed a series of skilful manœuvres, in which Christine
was much interested, and her old eager manner returned.

“I like the army,” she exclaimed; “the precision and
inflexible routine would just suit me. I wish there was
war, and I a man, that I might enter into the glorious
excitements.”

Luxurious Mr. Ludolph had no tastes that way, and,
shrugging his shoulders, said:

“How about the hardships, wounds, and chances of an
obscure death? These are the rule in a campaign—the
glorious excitements the exceptions.”

“I did not think of those,” she said, shrinking against
the cushions. “Everything seems to have so many miserable
drawbacks.”

The pageantry over, the driver turned and drove northward
through the most superb scenery.

“Where are we going?” asked Christine.

“To the cemetery,” was the reply.

“No, no! not there!” she exclaimed nervously.

“Nonsense! Why not?” remonstrated her father.

“I don't wish to go there!” she cried excitedly. “Please
turn around.”

Her father reluctantly gave the order, but added:

“Christine, you certainly indulge in strange moods and
whims of late.”

She was silent a moment, and then commenced a running
fire of questions about the Academy, that left no space
for explanations.

That evening she danced as resolutely as ever, and by
her beauty and brilliant repartee threw around many bewildering
spells that even the veterans of the Point could
scarcely resist.

But, when alone in her own room, she looked at her
white face in the mirror, and murmured in tones full of
indescribable dread and remorse:

“He is dead—he must be dead by this time!”