University of Virginia Library

38. CHAPTER XXXVIII.
AN APPARITION.

Mr. Ludolph had hoped to hear on his return that
Dennis was dead. That would end all difficulties. Mr.
Schwartz did not know—he was not at last accounts.
Ernst was summoned. With a bright hopeful face he stated
that his mother had just received a letter saying Dennis
was a little better. He was much surprised at his employer's
heavy frown.

“He will live,” mused Mr. Ludolph; “and now shall I
permit him to return to my employ, or discharge him?”

His brow contracted in lines of thought that suggested
shrewdness, cunning, nothing manly, and warily he judged.

“If I do not take him, he will go to Mr. Frame with
certainty. He had better return, for then both will be
more thoroughly under my surveillance.

“Curses on Christine's waywardness! there may be no
contesting her, and my best chance will be in managing
him. This I could not do if he were in the store of my
rival.” And so for unconscious Dennis this important
question was decided.

At last, as we have said, his delirium ceased, and the
quiet light of reason came into his eyes. He looked at his
mother and smiled, but was too weak even to reach out his
hand.

The Doctor coming in soon after, declared danger past,

and that all depended now on good nursing. Little fear of
his wanting that!

“Ah, mine Gott be praised! mine Gott be praised!”
exclaimed Mr. Bruder, who had to leave the room to prevent
an explosion of his grateful happy feelings that might
have proved too rude a tempest to Dennis in his weak
state. He was next seen striding across the fields to a
neighboring grove, ejaculating as he went. When he
returned his eyes shone with a great peace and joy, and he
had evidently been with Him who had cast out the demon
from his heart.

Day after day Dennis rallied back into life. Unlike
poor Christine, he had beneath him the two strongest levers,
love and prayer, and steadily they lifted him up to
health and strength and comparative peace. At last he
was able to sit up and walk about feebly, and Mr. Bruder
returned rejoicing to his family. As he wrung Dennis'
hand at parting, he said in rather a hoarse voice:

“If any von tell me Gott is not goot and heareth not
prayer, den I tell him he von grand heathen. Oh! but ve
vill velcome you soon. Ve vill haf de grandest supper, de
grandest songs, de grandest—” but just here Mr. Bruder
thought it prudent to pull his big fur cap over his eyes, and
make a rush for the stage.

As if by tacit understanding, Christine's name had not
been mentioned during Dennis' recovery. But one evening,
after the little girls had been put to bed, and the lamp
shaded, he sat in the twilight room, looking fixedly for a
long time at the glowing embers. His mother was moving
quietly about, putting away the tea-things, cleaning up after
the children's play: but as she worked she furtively
watched him. At last, coming to his side, she pushed back
the hair that seemed so dark in contrast with the thin white
face, and said gently:

“You are thinking of Miss Ludolph, Dennis.” He had
some blood yet, for that is not the glow of the fire that suffuses
his cheek; but he only answered quietly:

“Yes, mother.”

“Do you think you can forget her?”

“I don't know.”

“Prayer is a mighty thing, my son.”

“But perhaps it is not God's will,” said Dennis despondently.

“Then surely it is not yours, my child.”

“No, mother,” said Dennis with bowed head and low
tone, “but yet I am human and weak.”

“You would still wish that it were His will?”

“Yes; I could not help it.”

“But you would submit?”

“Yes, with His help I would,” firmly.

“That is sufficient, my boy; I have such confidence in
God that I know this matter will result in a way to secure
you the greatest happiness in the end.”

But after a little time he sighed wearily:

“Yet how hard it is to wait till the great plan is
worked out.”

Solemnly she quoted:

“God will render to every man according to his deeds.
To them who by patient continuance in well-doing, seek
for glory and honor and immortality, eternal life.”

Braced by the stirring words of inspiration, strengthened
by his mother's faith, he looked up after a moment
and said earnestly:

“At any rate I will try to be a man in your sense of
the word, and that is saying a great deal.”

She beamed at him through her spectacles over her
knitting-needles; and he thought as he gazed fondly at her,
that in spite of her quaint, old-fashioned garb, and homely

occupation, she appeared more truly a saint than any
painted on cathedral windows.

He soon noticed that his mother had grown quite
feeble, and determined on his return to take her with him,
believing that, by his care, and wise use of tonics, he could
restore her to her wonted strength. His increased salary
now justified the step.

Early in November his physician said he might return
to business if he would be prudent. He gladly availed
himself of the permission, for he longed to be employed
again.

The clerks all welcomed him warmly, for his good
nature had disarmed jealousy at his rapid rise. But in
the greeting of Mr. Ludolph he missed something of the
cordiality he expected.

“Perhaps she has told him,” thought he, and at once
his own manner became tinged with a certain coldness and
dignity. He determined that both father and daughter
should think of him only with respect.

At the Bruders the Millennium came with Dennis.
Metaphorically the fatted calf was killed; their plain little
room was trimmed with evergreens, and when he entered
he was greeted by such a jubilant triumphant chorus of
welcomes that almost took away his breath.

What little he had left was suddenly squeezed out of
him, for Mrs. Bruder, dropping her frying-pan and dishcloth,
rushed upon him exclaiming:

“Ah! mine fren! mine fren! De goot Gott be
praised,” and she gave him an embrace that made his
bones ache.

Mr. Bruder stalked about the room repeating with
explosive energy like minute-guns, “Praise Gott! Praise
Gott.” Ernst, with his great eyes dimmed with happy tears,
clung to Dennis' hand, as if he would make sure by sense

of touch as well as sight that he had regained his beloved
teacher once more. The little Bruders were equally
jubilant, though from rather mixed motives. Dennis was
very well, but they could not keep their round eyes long
off the preparations for such a supper as never before had
blessed their brief career.

“Truly,” thought Dennis, as he looked around upon the
happy family, and contrasted its appearance with the
time he had first seen it, “my small investment of kindness
and effort in this case has returned large interest. I
think it pays to do good.”

The evening was one of almost unmingled happiness,
even to his sore, disappointed heart, and passed into
memory as among the sunniest places of his life.

He found a pleasant little cottage over on the West
side, part of which he rented for his mother and sisters.

With Mr. Ludolph's permission he went after them,
and installed them in it. Thus he had what he had
needed all along, a home—a resting-place for body and
soul, under the watchful eye of love.

About this time Dr. Arten met him—stared a moment,
then clapped him on the back in his hearty way, saying:

“Well, well, young man! you have cause to be thankful,
and not to the doctors, either.”

“I think I am,” said Dennis smiling.

Suddenly the Doctor looked grave, and asked in a
stern voice:

“Are you a heathen, or a good Christian?”

“I hope not the former,” replied Dennis, a little startled.

“Then don't go and commit suicide again. Don't you
know flesh and blood can only stand so much? When an
intelligent young fellow like you goes beyond that, he is
committing suicide. Bless your soul, my ambitious friend,
the ten commandments ain't all the law of God. His

laws are also written all over this long body of yours, and
you came near paying a pretty penalty for breaking them.
You won't get off the second time.”

“You are right, Doctor, I now see that I acted very
wrongly.”

“`Bring forth fruits meet for repentance,' I am rich
enough to give sound advice,” said the brusque old physician,
passing on.

“Stop a moment, Doctor,” cried Dennis, “I want you
to see my mother.”

“What is the matter with her? She been breaking
the commandments, too?”

“Oh no!” exclaimed Dennis. “She is not a bit of a
heathen.”

“I'm not so sure about that. I know many eminent
saints in the church who will eat lobster salad for supper,
and then send for the doctor and minister before morning.
There is a precious twaddle about `mysterious Providence.'
Providence isn't half as mysterious as people
make out. The doctor is expected to look serious and
sympathetic, and call their law-breaking and its penalty
by some outlandish Latin name that no one can understand.
I give 'em the square truth, and tell 'em they've been
breaking the commandments.”

Dennis could not forbear smiling at the Doctor's rough
handling of humbug, even in one of its most respectable
guises. Then remembering his mother, he added gravely:

“I am truly anxious about my mother, she has grown
so feeble. I want, and yet dread, the truth.”

The bantering manner of the good old Doctor changed
at once, and he said kindly:

“I'll come, my boy; I'll be in within a few days, though
I am nearly run off my feet.”

He went off muttering, “Why don't the people send for

some of the youngsters that sit kicking up their heels in
their offices all day?”

Dennis soon fell into the routine of work and grew
stronger rapidly. But his face had acquired a gravity, a
something in expression that only experience gives, which
made him appear older by ten years. All trace of the boy
had gone, and his face was now that of the man, and of
one who had suffered.

As soon as he recovered sufficient strength to act with
decision, he indignantly tried to banish Christine's image
from his memory. But he found this impossible. Though
at times his eyes would flash in view of her treatment, they
would soon grow gentle and tender, and he found himself
excusing and extenuating by the most special pleadings
that which he had justly condemned.

One evening his mother startled him out of a long revery
in which he had almost vindicated Christine, by saying:

“A very pleasant smile has been gradually dawning on
your face, my son.”

“Mother,” replied he, hesitatingly, “perhaps I have
judged Miss Ludolph harshly.”

“Your love, not your reason, has evidently been pleading
for her.”

“Well, mother, I suppose you are right.”

“So I suppose the Divine love pleads for the weak
and sinful,” said Mrs. Fleet dreamily.

“That is a very pleasant thought, mother, for sometimes
it seems that my love could make black white.”

“That the Divine love has done, but at infinite cost to
itself.”

“Oh! that my love at any cost to itself could lead her
into the new life of the believer,” said Dennis in a low
earnest tone.

“Your love is like the Divine in being unselfish, but
remember the vital differences, and take heed. God can
change the nature of the imperfect creature that He loves,
you cannot. His love is infinite in its strength and patience.
You are human. The proud, selfish, unbelieving
Miss Ludolph (pardon mother's plain words) could not
make you happy. To the degree that you were loyal to
God, you would be unhappy, and I should surely dread
such a union. The whole tone of your moral character
would have to be greatly lowered to permit even peace.”

“But mother,” said Dennis almost impatiently, “in view
of my unconquerable love, it is nearly the same as if I was
married to her now.”

“No, my son, I think not. I know your pretty theory
on this subject, but it seems more pretty than true. Marriage
makes a vital difference. It is the closest union that
we can voluntarily form on earth, and is the emblem of the
spiritual oneness of the believer's soul with Christ. We may
be led through circumstances, as you have been, to love
one with whom we should not form such a union. Indeed,
in the true and mystic meaning of the rite, you could not
marry Christine Ludolph. The Bible declares that man
and wife shall be one. Unless she changes, unless you
change (and that God forbid), this could not be. You
would be divided, separated in the deepest essentials of your
life here, and in every respect hereafter. Again, while God
loves every sinful man and woman, He does not take them
to His heart till they cry out to Him for strength to
abandon the destroying evil He hates. There are no unchanged,
unrenewed hearts in heaven.”

“Oh, mother, how inexorable is your logic,” said Dennis,
breathing heavily.

“Truth in the end is ever more merciful than falsehood,”
she answered gently.

After a little, he said with a heavy sigh, “Mother, you
are right, and I am very weak and foolish.”

She looked at him with unutterable tenderness; she
could not crush out all hope, and so whispered, as before,
“Prayer is mighty, my child. It is not wrong for you to
love. It is your duty, as well as privilege, to pray for her.
Trust your Heavenly Father, do His will, and He will solve
this question in the very best way.”

Dennis turned to his mother in sudden and passionate
earnestness, and said:

“Your prayers are mighty, mother, I truly believe. Oh,
pray for her—for my sake as well as hers. Looking from
the human side, I am hopeless. It is only God's almighty
power that can make us, as you say, truly one. I fear
that now she is only a heartless fashionable girl. Yet, if
she is only this, I do not see how I came to love her as I
do. But my trust now is in your prayers to God.”

“And in your own also; the great Father loves you too,
my son. If He chooses that the dross in her character
should be burned away, and your two lives fused, there are
in His providence just the fiery trials, just the circumstances
that will bring it about.” (Was she unconsciously uttering
a prophecy?) “The crucible of affliction, the test of some
great emergency, will often develop a seemingly weak and
frivolous girl into noble life, where there is real gold of
latent worth to be acted on.”

“Christine Ludolph is anything but weak and frivolous,”
said he. “Her character is strong, and I think most
decided in its present bent. But, as you say, if the Divine
Alchemist wills it, He can change even the dross to gold,
and burn unbelief to faith.”

Hope! Christine. There is light coming, though as yet
you cannot see it. There are angels of mercy flying toward
you, though as yet you cannot hear the rustle of their

wings. The dark curtain of death and despair can never
shut down upon a life linked to heaven by such true strong
prayers.

And yet the logical results of wrong-doing will work
themselves out; sin must be punished, and faith sorely
tried.

Dennis heard incidentally that Christine was absent on
a visit to New York, but knew nothing of the time for her
return.

He now bent himself steadily and resolutely to the
mastering of his business, and under Mr. Bruder's direction
resumed his art studies, though now in such moderation
as Dr. Arten would commend.

He also entered on an artistic effort that would tax his
powers and genius to the very utmost, of which more anon.

By the time Christine returned, he was quite himself
again, though much paler and thinner than when first
entering the store.

After Christine had been home nearly a week, her
father, to rouse her out of her listlessness, said one
morning:

“We have recently received quite a remarkable painting
from Europe—you will find it in the upper show-room,
and had better come down to-day to see it, for it may be
sold soon. I think you would like to copy one or two
figures in it.

The lassitude from her New York dissipation was
passing away, and her active nature beginning to assert
itself again. She started up and said:

“Wait five minutes and I will get sketching materials
and go down with you.”

By reason of her interdict, made so earnestly, and indeed
fiercely, and confirmed by her manner, at West Point, her

father had never mentioned the name of Dennis Fleet.
The very fact that no one had spoken of him since that
dreadful day when tidings came in on every side that he
could not live, was confirmation in her mind that he was
dead.

She dreaded going to the store, especially for the first
time, for everything would irresistibly remind her of him
of whom she could never think now without a pang. But
as the ordeal must come, why the sooner it was over the
better. So a few moments later her hand was on her
father's arm, and they on their way to the Art Building
as in former and happier days.

Mr. Ludolph went to his office, and Christine, looking
neither to the right or left, ascended to the upper show-room,
and at once sought to engage every faculty in making
the sketch her father had suggested.

Since Dennis was not, as she believed, either on the
earth or elsewhere, she tried to take up life again as it was
before he came, and act as if he never had been.

Hopeless task! In that familiar place, where they had
commenced re-arranging the store, everything spoke of
him. She saw his glowing cheeks again, his dark, eager
eyes followed her every movement, and interpreted her
wishes even before she could speak. Some of the pictures
on the walls his hands had handled, and in her strong
fancy his lithe form seemed moving the ladder to lift them
down again, while she, with heart and mind at rest, looked
on with growing curiosity and interest on her humble
helper.

What changes had occurred within a short half year!
She shuddered at the thought that one who was then so
instinct with life and happiness could now be dust and
nothingness, and she the cause.

Association and conscience were again too powerful.

She was becoming nervous and full of a strange unrest, so
she concluded to finish her sketch at another time. As
she was gathering up her materials, she heard some one
enter the room.

She was in that morbid unstrung state that the least
thing startled her.

But imagine if you can her wonder and terror as she saw
Dennis Fleet—the dead and buried, as she fully believed
—enter carrying a picture as of old, and looking as of old,
save that he was paler and thinner. Was it an apparition?
or, as she had read, had she dwelt so long on this trouble
that her mind and imagination were becoming disordered
and able to place their wild creations before her as realities?

Her sketching materials fell clattering to the floor,
and after one sharp exclamation of alarm she stood as if
transfixed, with lips parted, eyes dilated, and panting like
a frightened bird.

If a sculptor had wished to portray the form and attitude
of one startled by the supernatural, never could he
have found a more perfect model than Christine at this
moment.

As she had been seated a little to one side Dennis had
not seen her at first; but on recognizing her so unexpectedly
he was scarcely less startled than she, and the valuable
picture he was carrying nearly met sudden and untimely
destruction. But he had no such reason as Christine for
the continuance of his surprise, and at once recovering
himself, he set the picture against the wall.

This made the illusion still more strange and terrible
to Christine. There was the dead before her doing just as
she had been imagining. Just what he had done at her
bidding months before.

Dennis was greatly puzzled by her look of alarm and

distress. Then he thought that perhaps she feared he
would break out in bitter and angry invectives again, and
he advanced toward her to assure her of the contrary.

Slowly and instinctively she retreated and put up her
hands with an indescribable and deprecatory gesture.

She cannot endure the sight of me, thought he, but at
once said with dignified courtesy:

“Miss Ludolph, you have nothing to fear from me that
you should regard me in that manner. You need not
shrink as if I had a contagion. We can treat each other
as courteous strangers, at least.”

“I—I—I—thought you were dead!” gasped she in a
loud whisper.

Dennis' cheek grew paler than it had been in all his
sickness, and then as suddenly became dark with anger.
With eyes terrible in their indignation he advanced a few
paces almost fiercely. She trembled violently and shrank
farther away.

“You thought I was dead?” he asked sternly.

“Ye-e-s,” in the same unnatural whisper.

“What!” he exclaimed, in short and bitter emphasis,
“do you mean to say that you never cared even to ask
whether I lived or died in my long, weary illness that you
were so supremely indifferent to my fate that you could
not articulate one sentence of inquiry? Surely this is the
very sublimity of heartlessness; this is to be callous beyond
one's power of imagination. It seems to me that I would
feel that much interest in any human being I had once
known. If even a dog had licked my hand in good will,
and afterwards I had seen it, wounded or sick, creep off
into a covert, the next time I passed that way I would
step aside to see whether the poor creature had lived or
died. But after all the wealth of affection that I lavished
upon you, after toiling and almost dying in my vain effort

to touch your marble heart, you have not even the humanity
to ask if I am above ground!”

The illusion had now passed from Christine's mind, and
with it her alarm. The true state of the case was rapidly
dawning upon her, and she was about to speak eagerly, but
in his strong indignation he continued impetuously:

“You thought I was dead! The wish probably was
father of the thought. My presumption deserved no better
fate. But permit me to tell you, though all unbidden, I
did not die. With God's blessing I expect to live to a
good old age, and intend that but few years shall pass before
my name is as well known and honored as the ancient one
of Ludolph,” and he turned on his heel and strode from
the room.