 | CHAPTER XXXVII.
REMORSE. Barriers burned away |  |
37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
REMORSE.
Christine had a peculiar experience while at West
Point. She saw on every side what would have been to
her the choicest enjoyments, were her mind at rest. To
her artist nature, and with her passion and power for
sketching, the Highlands on the Hudson were Paradise.
But though she saw in profusion what once would have
delighted her, and which she now felt ought to be the
source of almost unmingled happiness, she was still thoroughly
wretched. It was the old fable of Tantalus
repeating itself. Her sin and its results had destroyed
her receptive power. The world offered her pleasures on
every side; she longed to enjoy them, but could not, for
her heart was preoccupied—filled and overflowing with
fear, remorse, and a sorrow she could not define.
A vain, shallow girl might soon have forgotten such an
experience as Christine had passed through. Such a
creature would have been sentimental or hysterical for a
little time, according to temperament, and then have gone
to flirting with some new victim with the same old zest.
There are belles so weak and wicked that they would
rather plume themselves on the fact that one had died out
of love for them. But in justice to all such it should be
stated that they rarely have mind enough to realize the
evil they do. Their vanity overshadows every other
faculty, and almost destroys those sweet, pitiful, unselfish
reverences next to God.
Christine was proud and ambitious to the last degree,
but she had not this small vanity. She did not realize
the situation fully, and was unsparing in her self-condemnation.
If Dennis had been an ordinary man, and interested
her no more than had other admirers, and had she given
him no more encouragement, she would have shrugged
her shoulders over the result and said she was very sorry
he had made such a fool of himself.
But as she went over the past (and this now she often
did), she saw that he was unusually gifted; nay, more, the
picture she discovered in the loft of the store proved him
possessed of genius of the highest order. And such a man
she had deceived, tortured, and even killed! This was the
verdict of her own conscience, the assertion of his own
lips. She remembered the wearing life of alternate hope
and fear she had caused him. She remembered how eagerly
he hung on her smiles and sugared nothings, and how her
equally causeless frowns would darken all the world to him.
She saw day after day how she had developed in a strong,
true heart, with its native power to love unimpaired, the
most intense passion, and all that her own lesser light
might burn a little more brightly. Then, with her burning
face buried in her hands, she would recall the bitter,
shameful consummation. Worse than all, waking or sleeping,
she continually saw a pale, thin face, that even in
death looked upon her with unutterable reproach. In
addition to the misery caused by her remorse, there was a
deeper bitterness still. Within the depths of her soul a
voice told her that the picture was true; that he might have
awakened her, and led her out into the warmth and light
of a happy life—a life which she felt ought to be possible,
dream. Now the world seemed to her utter chaos—a
place of innumerable paths leading nowhere—and her own
hands had broken the clue that might have brought her
to something assured and satisfactory. She was very
wretched, for her life seemed but a little point between
disappointment on one side, and the blackness of death
and nothingness on the other.
The very beauty of the landscapes about her often
increased her pain. She felt that a few weeks ago she
would have enjoyed them keenly, and found in their
transference to canvas a source of unfailing pleasure. With
a conscious blush she thought that if he were present to
encourage, to stimulate her, by the very vitality of his
earnest, loving nature, it would be paradise itself. In a
word, she saw the heaven she could not enter.
To that degree that she had mind, heart, conscience,
and an intense desire for true happiness, she was unhappy.
Dress, dancing, the passing admiration of society, the
pleasures of a merely fashionable life, seemed less and less
satisfactory. She had got beyond them, as children do
their toys, because she had a native superiority to them,
and yet they seemed her best resource. She had all her
old longing to pursue her art studies, and everything about
her stimulated to this, but her heart and hand appeared
paralyzed. She was in just that condition, mental and
moral, in which she could do nothing well.
And so the days passed in futile efforts to forget—to
drown in almost reckless gayety—the voices of conscience
and memory.
But she only remembered all the more vividly—she
only saw the miserable truth all the more clearly. She
suffered more in her torturing consciousness than Dennis
in his wild delirium.
After they had been at the hotel about a week, Mr.
Ludolph received letters that made his speedy return
necessary.
On the same day the family of his old New York partner
arrived at the house on their return from the Catskills.
Mrs. Von Bräkhiem gladly received Christine under her
care and protection, feeling that the addition of such a
bright star would make her little constellation one of the
most brilliant of the fashionable world.
The ladies of the house were now immersed in the excitement
of an amateur concert. Mrs. Von Bräkhiem, bent
upon shining among the foremost, though with a borrowed
lustre, assigned Christine a most prominent part. She half
shrank from it, for it recalled unpleasant memories, but she
could not decline without explanations, and so tried to
enter into the affair with a sort of recklessness.
The large parlors were filled with chairs, and these
were soon occupied by a very silent audience, and it was
evident that elegant toilets would vie for attention with the
music. Christine came down on her father's arm, dressed
like a princess, and though her diamonds were few, such
were their size and brilliancy that they seemed on fire.
Every eye followed Mrs. Von Bräkhiem's party, and that
good lady took half the admiration to herself.
A superior tenor, with an unpronounceable foreign name,
had come up from New York to grace the occasion. But
personally he lacked every grace himself, his fine voice
being the one thing that redeemed him from utter insignificance
in mind and appearance. Nevertheless he was vain
beyond measure, and made the most of himself on all occasions.
The music was fine, for the amateurs, feeling that they
had a critical audience, did their best. Christine chose
three brilliant, difficult, but heartless pieces as her contribution
with anything else), and with something approaching reckless
gayety she sought to hide the bitterness at her heart.
Her splendid voice and exquisite touch doubled the admiration
her beauty and diamonds had excited, and Mrs. Von
Bräkhiem basked in still stronger reflected light. She took
every opportunity to make it known that she was Miss Ludolph's
chaperon.
After her first effort, the “distinguished” tenor from
New York opened his eyes widely at her. At her second,
he put up his eye-glass in something like astonishment,
and the close of her last song found him nervously rumaging
a music portfolio in the corner.
But for Christine the law of association had become
too strong, and the prolonged applause recalled the evening
at Miss Brown's when the same sounds had deafened
her, but when turning from it all she had seen Dennis
Fleet standing in rapt attention, his lips parted, his
eyes glowing with such an honest admiration that even
then it was worth more to her than all the clamor. Then,
by the same law of association, she again saw that eager,
earnest face, changed, pale, dead—dead! and she the
cause.
Regardless of the compliments showered upon her she
buried her face in her hands and trembled from head to
foot.
But the irrepressible tenor had found what he wanted,
and now came forward asking that Miss Ludolph would
sing a duet with him.
She lifted a wan and startled face. Must the torturing
similarity and still more torturing contrast of the two
occasions be continued? But she saw her father regarding
her sternly, and that she was becoming the subject of
curious glances and whispered surmises. Her pride was
she was not feeling well, but it did not signify.”
“And den,” put in the tenor, “dis is von grand occazeon
to you, for it is so unfrequent dat I find any von
vorthy to sing dis style of music vith me.”
“What is the music?” asked Christine coldly.
To her horror she found it the same selection from
Mendelssohn that she had sung with Dennis.
“No,” she said sharply, “I cannot sing that.”
“Pardon me, my daughter, you can sing it admirably
if you choose,” interposed her father.
She turned to him imploringly, but his face was inflexible,
and his eyes had an incensed, meaning look. For a
moment she, too, was angry. Had he no mercy? She
was about to coldly decline, but her friends were very
urgent and clamorous, “Please do—don't disappoint us,”
echoing on every side. The tenor was so surprised and
puzzled at her insensibility to the honor he had conferred,
that, to prevent a scene she could not explain, she went to
the piano as if led to the stake.
But the strain was too great upon her in her suffering
state. The familiar notes recalled so vividly the one who
once before had sung them at her side, that she turned
almost expecting to see him,—but saw only the vain little
animated music-machine, who with many contortions was
producing the harmony. “Just this mockery my life will
ever be,” she thought; “all that I am—the best I can do,
will always be connected with something insignificant and
commonplace. The rich, impassioned voice of the man
who sang these words, and who might have taught me to
sing the song of a new and happier life, I have silenced
forever.”
The thought overpowered her. Just then her part recurred,
but her voice died away in a miserable quaver, and
sprang from the piano, darted through the low-cut open
window near, and a moment later ordered her startled
maid from the room, turned the key, and was alone.
Her father explained coldly to the astonished audience
and the half-paralyzed tenor (who still stood with his mouth
open,) that his daughter was not at all well that evening,
and ought not to have appeared at all. This Mrs. Von
Bräkhiem took up and repeated with endless variations.
But the evidences of sheer mental distress on the part of
Christine had been too clear, and countless were the whispered
surmises of the fashionable gossips in explanation.
Mrs. Von Bräkhiem herself, burning with curiosity,
soon retired, that she might receive from her lovely charge
some gushing confidences, which she expected, as a matter
of course, would be poured into what she chose to regard
as her sympathizing heart. But she knocked in vain
at Christine's door.
Later, Mr. Ludolph knocked—there was no answer.
“Christine!” he called.
After some delay a broken voice answered:
“You cannot enter—I am not well—I have retired.”
He turned on his heel and strode away, and that night
drank more brandy and water than was good for him.
As for Christine, warped and chilled though her nature
had been, she was still a woman, she was still young, and
though she knew it not, she had heard the voice which had
spoken her heart into life. Through a chain of circumstances
for which she was partly to blame, she had been
made to suffer as she did not believe she could. The terrible
words of Mr. Bruder's letter rang continually in her
ears,—“Mr. Fleet is not dying a natural death; he has
been slain.”
For many long weary days the conviction had been
wounded herself. Until to-night she had kept herself
outwardly under restraint, but now the long pent-up feeling
gave way, and she sobbed as if her heart would break—
sobbed till the power to weep was gone. If now some
kind, judicious friend had shown her that she was not so
guilty as she deemed herself; that, however frightful the
consequences of such acts, she was really not to blame for
what she did not intend and could not foresee; more than
all, if she could only have known that Dennis was recovering
instead of being dead and buried, she might at once
have entered on a new and happier life. But there was no
such friend, no such knowledge, and her wounded spirit
was thrown back upon itself.
At last, robed as she had been for the evening, she fell
asleep from sheer exhaustion and grief—for grief induces
sleep.
The gems that shone in her dishevelled hair, that rose
and fell as at long intervals her bosom heaved with a convulsive
sob, like the fitful gusts of a storm that is dying
away; the costly fabrics she wore made sad mockery in
their contrast with the pale, tear-stained, suffering face.
The hardest heart might have pitied her—yes, even the
wholly ambitious heart of her father, incensed as he was
that a plebeian stranger of this land should have caused such
distress.
When Christine awoke, her pride awoke also. With
bitterness of spirit she recalled the events of the past evening.
But a new phase of feeling now begun to manifest
itself.
After her passionate outburst she was much calmer.
In this respect the unimpeded flow of feeling had done her
good, and, as intimated, if kindness and sympathy could
now have added their gentle ministrations, she might have
old and worst traits resumed their sway. Chief among
these was pride; and under the influence of this passion
and the acute suffering of her unsoothed, unguided spirit,
she began to rebel in impotent anger. She grew hard,
cynical, and reckless. Her father's lack of sympathy and
consideration alienated her heart even from him. Left
literally alone in the world, her naturally reserved nature
shut itself up more closely than ever. Even her only
friend, Susie Winthrop, drifted away. One other, who
might have been—but she could think of him with only a
shudder now. All the rest seemed either indifferent, or to
condemn, or worse still, to be using her like Mrs. Von
Bräkhiem, and even her own father, as a stepping-stone to
their personal ambition. Christine could not see how she
was to blame for this isolation. She did not understand
that cold, selfish natures, like her own and her father's,
could not surround themselves with warm, generous
friends.
She saw only the results. But with flashing eyes she
resolved that they should pry into her heart's secrets not a
hair's breadth further; that she would be used only so far
as she chose. She would, in short, “face out” the events
of the past evening simply and solely on the ground that
she was not well, and permit no questions to be asked.
Cold and self-possessed she came down to a late breakfast.
Mrs. Von Bräkhiem, and others who had been introduced,
joined her, but nothing could penetrate through the
nice polished armor of her courteous reserve. Her father
looked at her keenly, but she coolly returned his gaze.
When alone with her soon afterward, he turned and
said sharply:
“What does all this mean?”
She looked around as if some one else were near.
“Were you addressing me?” she asked coldly.
“Yes, of course I am,” said her father impatiently.
“From your tone and manner, I supposed you must
be speaking to some one else.”
“Nonsense! I was speaking to you. What does all
this mean?”
She turned on him an indescribable look, and after a
moment said in a slow, meaning tone:
“Have you not heard my explanation, sir?”
Such was her manner, he felt he could as easily strike
her as say another word.
Muttering an oath, he turned on his heel and left her
to herself.
The next morning her father bade her “Good-bye.”
In parting, he said meaningly:
“Christine, beware!”
Again she turned upon him that peculiar look, and
replied in a low, firm tone:
“That expression applies to you, also. Let us both
beware, lest we repent at leisure.”
The wily man, skilled in character, was now thoroughly
convinced that in his daughter he was dealing with a nature
very different from his wife's—that he was now confronted
by a spirit as proud and imperious as his own. He clearly
saw that force, threatening, sternness would not answer in
this case, and that if he carried his points it must be through
skill and cunning. By some means he must ever gain her
consent and coöperation.
His manner changed. Instinctively she divined the
cause; and hers did not. Therefore father and daughter
parted as father and daughter ought never to part.
After his departure she was to remain at West Point
till the season closed, and then accompany Mrs. Von Brakhiem
to New York, where she was to make as long a visit
In the scenery, and the society of the officers at West Point,
and the excitements of the metropolis, she found more to
occupy her thoughts than she could have done at Chicago.
She went deliberately to work to kill time and snatch from
it such fleeting pleasures as she might.
They stayed in the country till the pomp and glory of
October began to illumine the mountains, and then (to
Christine's regret) went to the city. There she entered into
every amusement and dissipation that her tastes permitted,
and found much pleasure in frequent visits to the Central
Park, although it seemed tame and artificial after the wild
grandeur of the mountains. It was well that her nature
was so high toned that she found enjoyment only in what
was refined or intellectual. Had it been otherwise she
might soon have taken, in her morbid, reckless state, a path
to swift and remediless ruin, as many a poor creature all
at war with happiness and truth, has done. And thus in
a giddy whirl of excitement (Mrs. Von Bräkhiem's normal
condition) the days and weeks passed, till at last, thoroughly
satiated and jaded, she concluded to return home, for the
sake of change and quiet, if nothing else. Mrs. Von Brakhiem
parted with her in much regret. Where would she
find such another ally in her determined struggle to be
talked about and envied a little more than some other
pushing, jostling votaries of fashion?
In languor or sleep she made the journey, and in the
dusk of a winter's day her father drove her to their beautiful
home, but which from association was now almost hateful
to her. Still she was too weary to think or suffer much.
They met each other very politely, and their intercourse
assumed at once its wonted character of high-bred courtesy,
though perhaps a little more void of manifested sympathy
and affection than before.
Several days passed in languid apathy, the natural reaction
of past excitement; then an event occurred which
most thoroughly aroused her.
| CHAPTER XXXVII.
REMORSE. Barriers burned away | |