 | CHAPTER XL.
THE GATES OPEN. Barriers burned away |  |
40. CHAPTER XL.
THE GATES OPEN.
At Dennis' request, Dr. Arten called and carefully inquired
into Mrs. Fleet's symptoms. Her son stood anxiously
by awaiting the result of the examination. At last
the physician said cheerily:
“There is no immediate occasion for alarm here. I
am sorry to say that your mother's lungs are far from
strong, but they may carry her through many comfortable
years yet. I will prescribe tonics, and you may hope for
the best. But mark this well, she must avoid exposure. A
severe cold might be most serious in its consequences.”
How easy to say, “Do not take cold.” How many
whose lives were at stake, sought to heed and obey the
warning, but all in vain. Under Dr. Arten's tonics, Mrs.
Fleet grew stronger, and Dennis rejoiced over the improvement.
But in one of the sudden changes attendant on the
breaking up of winter, the dreaded cold was taken, and it
soon developed into acute pneumonia.
For a few days she was very sick, and Dennis never left
her side. In the intervals of pain and fever she would
smile at him and whisper:
“The harbor is near. This rough weather cannot last
much longer.”
“Mother, do not leave us; we cannot spare you,” ever
pleaded her son.
Contrary to her expectations however, she rallied, but
continued in a very weak and feeble state. Dennis was able
to believe that the warm spring and summer days soon to
come would renew his mother's strength. But every day
she grew feebler, and Dr. Arten shook his head.
The Bruders were very kind, and it was astonishing
how much Mrs. Bruder, though burdened with her large
family, found time to do. If Mrs. Fleet had been her own
mother she could not have been the object of more loving
solicitude. Mr. Bruder was devotion itself. He removed
his easel to an attic room in Mrs. Fleet's house, and every
hour of Dennis' absence heard him say:
“Vat I do for you now? I feel no goot unless I do
sometink.”
Some little time after Mrs. Fleet was taken sick a
mystery arose. The most exquisite flowers and fruit were
left at the house from time to time, marked in a bold
manly hand, “For Mrs Fleet.” But all efforts to discover
their source failed.
The readers will guess that Christine was the donor,
and Dennis hoped it, though, he admitted to himself, with
little reason.
Mrs. Fleet had not much pain. She seemed gently
wafted as by an ebbing tide away from time and earth.
Kindly but firmly she sought to prepare Dennis' mind for
the change soon to take place. At first he could not
endure its mention, but she said earnestly:
“My son, I am not dying. I am just entering on the
true, real, eternal life—a life which is as much beyond this
poor feeble existence as the sun is brighter than a glowworm
I shall soon clasp my dear husband to my heart
again, and, oh, ecstasy, I shall soon in reality see the
Saviour that I now see almost continually in vision.”
Then again she would turn towards her earthly treasures
with unutterable yearning and tenderness.
“Oh, that I could gather you up in my arms and take
you all with me,” she would often exclaim. Many times
during the day she would call the little girls from their
play and kiss their wondering faces.
One evening Dennis came home and found a vase of
flowers, with a green background of mint, at his mother's
bedside. Their delicate fragrance greeted him as soon as
he entered. As he sat by her side holding her hand, he
said softly:
“Mother, are not these sprays of mint rather unusual
in a bouquet? Has the plant any special meaning? I have
noticed it before mingled with these mysterious flowers.”
She smiled and answered:
“When I was a girl its language was, Let us be friends
again.”
“Do you think—can it be possible that she sends
them?” said he in a low hesitating tone.
“Prayer is mighty, my son.”
“And have you been praying for her all this time,
mother?”
“Yes, and will continue to do so to the last.”
“Oh mother, I have lost hope. My heart has been
full of bitterness toward her, and I have felt that God was
against the whole thing.”
“God is not against her learning to know Him, which
is life. Jesus has loved her all the while, and she has
wronged Him more than you.”
Dennis bowed his head on his mother's hand, and she
felt hot tears fall upon it. At last he murmured:
“You are indeed going to heaven soon, dear mother,
for your language is not of earth. When will such a spirit
dwell within me?”
“Again remember your mother's words,” she answered
gently; “prayer is mighty.”
“Mother,” said he with a sudden earnestness, “do you
think you can pray for us in heaven?”
“I know of no reason to the contrary.”
“Then I know you will, and the belief will ever be a
source of hope and strength.”
Mrs. Fleet was now passing through the land of Beulah.
To her strong spiritual vision, the glories of the other
shore seemed present, and at times she thought that she
really heard music; again it would seem as if her Saviour
had entered the plain little room, as He did the humble
home at Bethany.
Her thoughts ran much on Christine. One day she
wrote feebly:
“Would Miss Ludolph be willing to come and see a
dying woman?
Mr. Bruder carried it, but most unfortunately Christine
was out, so that her maid, ever on the alert to earn the
price of her treachery, received it. It was slightly sealed.
She opened it, and saw from its contents that it must be
given to Mr. Ludolph. He with a frown committed it to
the flames.
“I have written to her,” she whispered to her son in
the evening, “and think she will come to see me.”
Dennis was sleepless that night, through his hope
and eager expectation. The following day, and the next
passed, and she came not.
“I was right,” exclaimed he bitterly. “She is utterly
heartless. It was not she who sent the flowers. Who
that is human would have refused such a request! Waste
no more thought upon her, for she is unworthy, and it is
all in vain.”
“No!” said Mrs. Fleet in sudden energy. “It is not
in vain. Have I not prayed again and again? and shall I
doubt God?
“Your faith is stronger than mine,” he answered in
deep despondency.
“God's time is not always ours,” she answered gently.
But an angry fire lurked in Dennis' eyes, and he muttered
to himself as he went to his room: “She has snapped
the last slender cord that bound me to her. I could
endure about anything myself, but that she should refuse
to visit my dying mother proves her a monster, with all
her beauty.”
As he was leaving in the morning, his mother whispered
gently: “Who was it that said, `Father forgive
them, they know not what they do?'”
“Ah, but she does know,” said he bitterly. “I can
forgive about everything against myself, but not slights to
you.”
“The time will come when you will forgive everything,
my son.”
“Not till there is acknowledgment and sorrow for the
wrong,” answered he sternly. Then with a sudden burst
of tenderness added: “Good-bye, darling mother. I will
try to do anything you wish, even though it is impossible.”
But his love, through Janette's treachery, suffered the
deepest wound it had yet received.
Christine, of her own accord, had almost decided to
call upon Mrs. Fleet, but before she could carry out her
purpose, while hastily coming downstairs one day, she
sprained her ankle, and was confined to her room some
little time.
She sent Janette with orders for the flowers, who, at
once surmising their destination, said to the florist that
she was Miss Ludolph's confidential maid, and would carry
them to those for whom they were designed. He, thinking
it “all right,” gave them to her, and she took them to a
them at half-price, giving him a significant sign to ask no
questions. To the same market she brought the fruit; so
from that time they as mysteriously ceased as they had appeared
at Mrs. Fleet's bedside.
But Dennis was so anxious, and his mother was now
failing so rapidly, that he scarcely noted this fact. The
warm spring days seemed rather to enervate than strengthen
her. He longed to stay with her constantly, but his daily
labor was necessary to secure the comforts needful to an invalid.
Every morning he bade her a most tender adieu, and
during the day often sent Ernst to inquire how she was.
One evening, Christine ventured to send Janette on
the same errand, and impatiently awaited her return. At
last she came, appearing as if flushed and angry.
“Whom did you see?” asked Christine eagerly.
“I saw Mr. Fleet himself.”
“Well, what did he say?”
“He bite his lip, frown, and say, `Dare is no answer,'
and turn on his heel into de house.”
It was now Christine's turn to be angry. “What!”
she exclaimed, “does his Bible teach him to forget and
forgive nothing? Can it be, that he, like the rest of them,
believes and acts on only such parts as are to his mood?”
“I don't know nothing about him,” said the maid,
“only I don't want to go dare again.”
“You need not,” was the brief reply.
After a long, bitter revery, she sighed:
“Ah, well, thus we drift apart. But it is just as well,
for apart we must ever be.”
One morning early in May, Mrs. Fleet was very weak,
and Dennis left her with painful misgivings. During the
morning he sent Ernst to see how she was, and he soon
returned, with wild face, crying, “Come home quick!”
Breaking abruptly from his startled customer, Dennis
soon reached his mother's side. Mr. and Mrs. Bruder
were sobbing at the foot of the bed, and the girls were
pleading piteously on either side:
“Oh, mother, please don't go away.”
“Hush!” said Dennis solemnly. Awed by his manner,
all became comparatively silent. He bent over the
bed, and said:
“Mother, you are leaving us at last.”
The voice of her beloved son rallied the dying woman's
wandering mind. After a moment, she recognized him,
smiled faintly, and whispered:
“Yes, I think I am—kiss me—good-bye. Bring—the
children. Jesus—take care—my little—lambs. Good-bye
—true—honest friends—meet me—heaven. Dennis—these
children—your charge—bring them home—to me. Pray
for her. I don't know—why—she seems very—near to
me. Farewell—my good—true—son—mother's blessing—
God's blessing—ever rest—on you.”
Her eyes closed, and she fell into a gentle sleep.
“She vake no more in dis vorld,” said Mrs. Bruder in
an awed tone.
Mr. Bruder, unable to control his feelings any longer,
hurried from the room. His wife, with streaming eyes,
silently dressed the little girls, and took them home with
her, crying piteously all the way for mamma.
Pale, tearless, motionless, Dennis sat, hour after hour,
holding his mother's hand. He noted that her pulse grew
more and more feeble. At last the sun in setting broke
through the clouds that had obscured it all day, and filled
the room with a sudden glory.
To Dennis' great surprise, his mother's eyes opened
wide, with the strange, far-off look they ever had when she
was picturing to herself the unknown world.
Her lips moved—he bent over her and caught the
words: “Hark! hear!—It never was so sweet before.
See the angels—thronging toward me—they never came
so near before.”
Then a smile of joy and welcome lighted up her wan
features, and she whispered:
“O, Dennis, husband—are we united once more?”
Suddenly there was a look of ecstasy such as her son had
never seen on any human face, and she cried almost aloud:
“Jesus—my Saviour!” and received, as it were, directly
in His arms she passed from earth.
We touch briefly on the scenes that followed. Dennis
took the body of his mother to her old home, and buried it
under the wide-spreading elm in the village church-yard,
where as a happy child and blooming maiden she had often
sat between the services. It was his purpose to remove
the remains of his father and place them by her side as
soon as he could afford it.
His little sisters accompanied him east, and he found a
home for them with a sister of his mother, who, though in
rather straitened circumstances, was a good, kind, Christian
lady. Dennis' salary was not large, but sufficient to insure
that his sisters would be no burden to his aunt, and he also
arranged that the small annuity should be paid for their
benefit.
It was hard parting from his sisters, whose little hearts
seemed breaking at what seemed a new loss and bereavement.
“How can I leave them!” he exclaimed with tears
falling fast from his eyes.
“They are children,” said his aunt soothingly, “and
will forget their troubles in a few days.”
And so it proved; but Dennis, with a sore heart, and
feeling very lonely, returned to Chicago.
When at last Christine got out again, she learned from
Ernst at the store that Dennis' mother had died, and he
had taken the remains and his sisters east. In his sorrow
he seemed doubly interesting to her.
“How I wish it were in my power to cheer and comfort
him,” she sighed, “and yet I fear my power to do this is
less than that of any one else. In very truth he seems to
despise and hate me now. The barriers between us grow
stronger and higher every day. How different it all might
have been if— But what is the use of these wretched `ifs?'
What is the use of resisting this blind remorseless fate that
brings happiness to one and crushes another?”
Wearily and despondingly she rode back to the elegant
home where she found so little enjoyment.
But whom should she meet there but Mrs. Von Bräkhiem
from New York, bound westward with a gay party on a trip
to the Rocky Mountains and California. They had stopped
to spend a few days in Chicago and were determined
to take Christine on with them. Her father also strongly
seconded the plan. Though Christine surmised his motive
she did not care to resist. Since she would soon be separated
from Dennis forever, the less she saw of him, the
less would be the pain. Moreover, her sore and heavy
heart welcomed any change that would cause forgetfulness;
and so it was speedily arranged.
Mrs. Von Bräkhiem and her party quite took possession
of the Ludolph mansion, and often made it echo with gayety.
On the evening of the day that Dennis would bury his
mother, Ernst came over at Mr. Ludolph's request to carry
a message. He found the house the scene of a fashionable
revel. There was music and dancing in the parlors, and
from the dining-room the clink of glasses and loud peals
of laughter proved that this was not Christine's ideal of an
entertainment as she had portrayed it to her father on a
affair; it was quite impromptu, and Mr. Ludolph and Mrs.
Von Bräkhiem were responsible for it.
But Ernst could not know this, and to him it seemed
shocking. The simple funeral service taking place on that
day in the distant New England village had never been
absent from his thoughts a moment. Since early morning
he had gone about with his little face composed to funeral
gravity.
His simple, warm-hearted parents felt that they could
only show proper respect for the occasion by the deepest
gloom. Their rooms were arranged in stiff and formal
manner with crape here and there. All unnecessary work
ceased, and the children, forbidden to play, were dressed
in mourning as far as possible, and made to sit in solemn
and dreadful state all day. It would not have surprised
Ernst if the whole city had gone in mourning. Therefore
the revelry at the Ludolph mansion seemed to him heartless
and awful beyond measure, and nearly the first thing
he told Dennis on his return was that they had had “a
great dancing and drinking party the night of the funeral,
at Mr. Ludolph's.” Then trying to find some explanation
for what seemed to him such a strange and wicked thing,
he suggested, “Perhaps they meant it for a wake.”
Poor little Ernst's ideas of the world, outside of his
home, had been gathered from a very low neighborhood.
He also handed Dennis a letter that Mr. Ludolph requested
to be given him on his return, which read as follows:
“I have been compelled to supply your place in your
absence: therefore your services will be no longer needed
at this store. Inclosed you will find a check for the small
balance still due you.
Dennis' brow grew very dark, and in bitter soliloquy
he said, half aloud, as he strode up and down his little room
in great agitation:
“And so it all ends! The girl at whose side my mother
would have watched in the most dangerous and loathsome
of diseases, the woman of ice whom I sought to melt and
render human by as warm, true love, as ever man lavished
on one who rewarded his affection—this beautiful monster
will not even visit my mother when dying. She holds a
revel the day of the funeral, and now, through her influence,
no doubt, I am robbed of the chance of winning honest
bread. She cannot even endure the sight of the man who
once told her the unvarnished truth. Poor as you deem
me, Christine Ludolph, with God's help, not many years
shall pass before it will be condescension on my part to
recognize you.”
He would not even go to the store again. The Bruders,
having heard what had occurred, took Ernst away
also; but Dennis soon found him a better situation elsewhere.
The day on which Dennis returned, Christine was
speeding in a palace-car toward the Rocky Mountains,
outwardly gay, determined to enjoy herself and carry out
her reckless purpose to get the most possible out of life,
cost what it might.
If she had been a shallow girl, thoughtless and vain,
with only mind enough to take in the events of the passing
moment, she might have bought many fleeting pleasures
with her abundant wealth. But this she was not, with all
her faults, and wherever she went, in the midst of gayest
scenes, and in the presence of the grandest and most inspiring
scenery, thought and memory, like two spectres that
no spell could lay, haunted her and robbed her of peace
and anything like happiness. Though possessing the
scruples from doing what she chose, she felt that all
around were getting more from life than she.
During her absence she experienced a sudden and
severe attack of illness. Her friends were much alarmed
about her, and she far more about herself. All her old
terror returned. In one respect she was like her mother;
she had no physical courage, but shrank with inexpressible
dread from danger, pain, and death. Again the blackness
of darkness gathered round her, and not one in the
gay pleasure party could say a word to her.
She recovered, and soon regained her usual health, but
her self-confidence was more thoroughly shaken. She felt
like one in a little cockle-shell boat out upon a shoreless
ocean. While the treacherous sea remained calm, all might
be well, but she knew a storm would soon arise, and that she
must go down, beyond hope and remedy. Again, she had
been taught how suddenly, how unexpectedly, that storm
might rise.
Dennis resolved at once to enter on the career of an
artist. He sold to Mr. Frame, at a moderate price, some
paintings and sketchings he had made. He rented a small
room that became his studio, sleeping apartment—in brief,
his home, and then went to work with all the ordinary incentives
to success intensified by his purpose to reach a
social height that would compel Christine to look upward,
if their acquaintance was renewed.
Disappointment in love is one of the severest tests of
character in man or woman. Some sink into weak sentimentality,
and mope and languish; some become listless,
apathetic, and float down the current of existence like drift-wood.
Men are often harsh and cynical, and rail at the
sex to which their mothers and sisters belong. Sometimes
a man inflicts a well-nigh fatal wound, and leaves
she may be like the wronged Indian, who slays as many
white men as he can. Not a few, on finding they cannot enter
the beautiful paradise of happy love, plunge into imbruting
vice, and drown not only their disappointment, but
themselves in dissipation. Their course is like that of some
who deem that the best way to cure a wound or end a
disease is to kill the patient as soon as possible. If women
have true metal in them (and they usually have) they become
unselfishly devoted to others, and by gentle, self-denying
ways seek to impart to those about them the happiness
denied to themselves.
But with all manly young men, the instinct of Dennis
is perhaps the most common. They will rise, shine, and
dazzle the eyes that once looked scornfully or indifferently
at them.
As he worked patiently at his noble calling, this smaller
ambition was gradually lost in the nobler, broader one, to
be a true artist and good man.
During his illness, some gentlemen of large wealth
and liberality, who wished to stimulate and develop the
native artistic talent of their city, offered a prize of $2,000
for the finest picture painted during the year, the artist
also having the privilege of selling his work.
On his return after his illness, Dennis heard of this,
and determined to be one of the competitors. He applied
to Mr. Consoor, who had the matter in charge, for permission
to enter the lists, which that gentleman granted rather
doubtfully. He had known Dennis only as a critic, not as
an artist. But, having gained his point, Dennis went
earnestly to work on the emblematic painting he had resolved
upon, and with what success the following chapters
will show.
His mother's sickness and death, of course, put a complete
his new career as an artist, he gave himself wholly to this
effort.
The day for exhibition and decision was fixed on Saturday
morning, October 7th, 1871.
| CHAPTER XL.
THE GATES OPEN. Barriers burned away | |