University of Virginia Library

46. CHAPTER XLVI.
ON THE BEACH.

In the situation of supreme peril described in the last
chapter, Dennis stood a second helpless and hopeless.
Christine rested a heavy burden in his arms, happily unconscious.
Breathing an agonized prayer to heaven, he
looked around for any possibility of escape. Just then an
express-wagon was driven furiously toward them, its driver
seeking his way out by the same path that Dennis had
chosen. As he reached them the man saw the hopeless
obstruction, and wheeled his horses. As he did so, quick
as thought, Dennis threw Christine into the bottom of the
wagon, and clinging to it, climbed into it himself. He
turned her face downward from the fire, and covering his
own lay down beside her, trusting all now to God.

The driver urged his horses toward the lake, believing
that his only chance. They tore away through the blazing
streets. The poor man was soon swept from his seat and
perished, but his horses rushed madly on till they plunged
into the lake.

At the sound of water Dennis lifted his head and gave
a cry of joy. It seemed that the hand of God had snatched
them from death. Gently he lifted Christine out upon the
sands and commenced bathing her face from the water
that broke in spray at his feet. She soon revived and

looked around. In a voice full of awe and wonder she
whispered:

“Ah! there is another world and another life after all.”

“Indeed there is, Miss Ludolph,” said Dennis, supporting
her on his arm and bending over her, “but, thanks to
a merciful Providence, you are in this one yet.”

“How is it?” she said with a bewildered air, “I do
not understand. The last I remember, we were surrounded
by fire, you were despairing, and it seemed that I
died.”

“You fainted, Miss Ludolph. But God as by a miracle
brought us out of the fiery furnace, and for the present we
are safe.” After she had sufficiently rallied from her excessive
exhaustion and terror, he told her how they had
escaped.

“I see no God in it all,” she said, “only a most fortunate
opportunity of which you, with great nerve and presence
of mind, availed yourself. To you alone, again and
again this dreadful night, I owe my life.”

“God uses us as His instruments to do His will. The
light will come to you by-and-by, and you will learn a better
wisdom.”

“In this awful conflagration the light has come. On
every side I see as in letters of fire, `There is no God.'
If it were otherwise these scenes would be impossible.
And any being permitting or causing the evils and crimes
this dreadful night has witnessed, I should fear and hate
beyond the power of language to express.”

She uttered these words sitting on the sands with multitudes
of others, her face (from which Dennis had washed
the dust and smoke) looking in the glare so wan and white
that he feared, with a sickening dread, that through exposure,
terror, or some of the many dangers by which they
were surrounded, she might pass into the future world with

all her unbelief and spiritual darkness. He yearned over
her with a solicitude and pity that he could not express.
She seemed so near—indeed he could feel her form tremble,
as he knelt beside her, and supported her by his arm —
and yet, in view of her faithless state, how widely were
they separated! Should any one of the many perils about
them quench the little candle of her life, which even now
flickered faintly, where in the wide universe could he hope
to meet her again? God can no doubt console and make
up every loss to His children, but the passionate heart, with
its intense human love, clings to its idol none the less.

Dennis saw that the fire would probably hem them in
on the beach the remainder of the night, and the following
day. He determined therefore in every way possible to
beguile the weary, perilous hours, and, if she would permit
it, to lead her thoughts heavenward. Hence arose from
time to time religious conversations, to which, with joy, he
found Christine no longer averse. Indeed she often
introduced them.

Chafing her hands he said in the accents of the deepest
sympathy:

“How I pity you, Miss Ludolph. It must indeed be
terrible to possess your thoughtful mind—to realize these
scenes so keenly, and yet have no faith in a Divine Friend.
I cannot explain to you the mystery of evil—why it came,
or why it exists. Who can? I am but one of God's little
children, and only know with certainty that my Heavenly
Father loves and will take care of me.”

“How do you know it?” she asked eagerly.

“In several ways. Mainly because I feel it.”

“It all seems so vague and unreal,” she sighed dreamily.
“There is nothing certain, assured. There is no
test by which I can at once know the truth.”

“That does not prevent the truth from existing.

Because some are blind is no proof that color does not
exist.”

“But how can you be sure there is a God? you never
saw Him.”

“I do not see the heat that scorches us, but I feel it,
and know it exists.”

“But I feel the heat the same as yourself, but I have
no consciousness of a Divine Being.”

“That does not take away my consciousness that He
is my Saviour and friend? As yet you are spiritually
dead. If you were physically dead, you would not feel
the heat of this fire.”

“Oh, it is all mystery—darkness,” she cried piteously.

The sun had now risen quite above the waters of the
lake, but seen through the lurid smoke swept over its
face, it seemed like one of the great red cinders that
were continually sailing over their heads. In the frightful
glare, the transition from night to day had scarcely
been noted. The long narrow beach was occupied by
thousands of fugitives. They were hemmed in on every
side. On the south was the river skirted with fire, while
opposite, on the west, the heat was almost intolerable; on
the east the cold waves of the lake, and on the north a
burning pier that they could not cross. Their only hope
was to cling to that narrow line where fire and water mingled,
and with one element to fight the other. Here again
was seen that mingling of every class which the streets
and every place of refuge witnessed. Judges, physicians,
statesmen, clergymen, bankers, were jostled by roughs and
thieves. The laborer sat on the sand with his family,
side by side with the millionnaire and his household. The
poor debauched woman of the town moaned and shivered
in her scant clothing, at a slight remove from the most
refined Christian lady. In the unparalleled disaster, all

social distinctions were lost, levelled like the beach on
which they cowered. From some groups was heard the
voice of prayer, from others, bitter wailings and passionate
cries for lost members of the family; others had saved
quantities of vile whiskey, if nothing else, and made the
scene more ghastly by orgies that seemed not of earth.
Added to the liquor, was the mad excitement and recklessness
which often seizes the depraved classes on such
occasions. They committed excesses that cannot be
mentioned—these drunken, howling, fighting wretches.
Obscene epithets and words fell around like blows. And
yet all were so occupied with their own misfortunes, sufferings
and danger, that they scarcely heeded those about
them, unless they became very violent.

Upon this heterogeneous mass of humanity the fire
rained down almost as we imagine it might have fallen
upon the doomed cities of the plain, and the hot breath of
the flames scorched the exposed cheek and crisped even
eyebrows and hair. Sparks, flakes, cinders, pieces of
roof, and fiery pebbles from the same seemed to fill the
air, and often cries and shrieks announced that furniture
and bedding that many had dragged thither, and even
the clothing of women and children, were burning. Added
to all the other terrors of the scene was the presence of
large numbers of horses and cattle, snorting and plunging
in their terror and pain.

But the sound that smote Dennis' heart with the deepest
commiseration was the continuous wail of helpless little
children, many of them utterly separated from parents and
friends, and in the very agony of fear.

He greatly dreaded the effect of these scenes upon
Christine, knowing how, in the luxurious past, she had been
shielded from every rough experience. But she at length
rallied into something like composure. Her constitution

was elastic and full of vitality, and after escaping from
immediate danger she again began to hope. Moreover, to
a degree that even she could not understand, his presence
was a source of strength and courage, and her heart clung
to him with desperate earnestness, believing him the sole
barrier against immediate death, and (what she dreaded
scarcely less) a lonely, wretched existence, should her life
be spared.

Though he never lost sight of her a moment, and kept
continually wetting her hair and person, he found time to
render assistance to others, and by carrying his hat full of
water here and there, extinguished many a dangerous
spark. He also, again and again, snatched up little children
from under the trampling hoofs of frightened horses.

As she watched him, so self-forgetful and fearless, she
realized more and more vividly that he was sustained and
animated by some mighty principle that she knew nothing
of, and could not understand. The impression grew upon
her that he was right and she wrong. Though it all
remained in mystery and doubt, she could not resist the
logic of true Christian action.

But as the day advanced the flames grew hotter, and
their breath more withering. About noon Dennis noticed
that some shanties on the sands near them were in danger
of catching fire and periling all in that vicinity. Therefore
he said: “Miss Ludolph, stay here where I leave you for
a little time, so that I may know just where to find you.”

“Oh, do not leave me,” she pleaded, “I have no one in
the wide world to help me save you.”

“I shall not be beyond call. You see those shanties
there; if possible we must keep them from burning, or the
fire will come too near for safety.” Then, starting forward
he cried:

“Who will volunteer to keep the fire back? All must
see that if those buildings burn we shall be in danger.”

Quite a number of men stepped forward, and with hats
and anything that would hold water they commenced wetting
the old rookeries. But the fiery storm swooped steadily
down on them, and their efforts were as futile as to beat
back the wind. Suddenly a mass of flame leaped upon
them and in a moment they were all ablaze.

“Into the lake, quick!” cried Dennis, and all rushed
for the cool waters.

Lifting Christine from the sand, and passing his arm
around her trembling, shivering form, he plunged through
the breakers, and the crowd pressed after him. Indeed
they pushed him so far out in the cold waves that he nearly
lost his footing, and for a few moments Christine did hers
altogether, and added her cries to those of the terror-stricken
multitude. But pushing in a little nearer the shore, he
held her firmly and said, with the confidence that again inspired
hope:

“Courage, Miss Ludolph. With God's help I will
save you yet.”

Even as she clung to him in the water, she looked into
his face. He was regarding her so kindly, so pitifully, that
a great and generous impulse, the richest, ripest fruit of her
human love, throbbed at her heart, and faltered from her
lips—“Mr. Fleet, I am not worthy of this risk on your
part. If you will leave me you can save your own life, and
your life is worth so much more than mine.”

True and deep must have been the affection that could
lead Christine Ludolph to say such words to any human
being. There was a time when, in her creed, all the world
existed but to minister to her. But she was not sorry to
see the look of pained surprise which came into Dennis'
face and hear him say very sadly:

“Miss Ludolph, I did not imagine that you could think
me capable of that. I had the good fortune to rescue Miss

Brown to-night, at greater peril than this, and do you think
I would leave you?”

“You are a true knight, Mr. Fleet,” she said, humbly,
“and the need and danger of every defenceless woman is
alike a sacred claim upon you.”

Dennis was about to intimate that though this was true
in knightly creed, still among all the women in the world
there might be a preference, when a score of horses, driven
before the fire, and goaded by the burning cinders, rushed
down the beach, into the water of course, right among the
human fugitives.

Again went up the cry of agony and terror. Some were
no doubt stricken down not to rise again. In the melée
Dennis pushed out into deeper water, where the frantic
animals could not plunge upon him. A child floated near,
and he snatched it up. As soon as the poor brutes became
quiet, clasping Christine with his right arm and holding up
the child with the other he waded into shallow water.

The peril was now perhaps at its height, and all were
obliged to wet their heads, to keep even their hair from
singeing and burning. Those on the beach threw water on
each other without cessation. Many a choice bit of property—it
might be a piano, or an express-wagon loaded with
the choicest furs and driven to the beach as a place of fancied
security—now caught fire, and added to the heat and
consternation.

When this hour of extreme danger had passed, standing
with the cold billows of the lake breaking round him,
and the billows of fire still rolling overhead, Dennis commenced
singing in his loud clear voice:

Voice after voice joined in, some loud and strong, but
more weak and trembling, the pitiful cry of poor terror-stricken
women to the only One who seemingly could help
them in their bitter extremity. Never before were those
beautiful words sung in such accents of clinging, touching
faith; its sweet rise and cadence was heard above the
roar of the flames and the breakers.

Christine could only cling weeping to Dennis.

When the hymn ceased, in harshest discord, the voice
of a half-drunken man grated on their ears.

“An' what in bloody blazes does yer Jasus burn us all
up for, I'd like to know. Sure an he's no right to send us
to hell before our time.”

“Oh, hush! hush!” cried a dozen voices, shocked and
pained.

“Divil a bit will I hush, sure; an' haven't I as good a
right to have me say as that singin' parson!”

“You are an Irishman, are you not?” said Dennis, now
venturing out of the water.

“Yis! what have ye got to say agin it?” asked the man,
belligerent at once.

“Did you ever know an Irishman refuse to do what a
lady asked of him?”

“Faith no, and I niver will.”

“Then this lady, who is sick and suffering, asks you to
please keep still, and I will be still too; so that's fair.”

The Irishman scratched his head a moment, and said
in a quieter tone:

“Since ye spake as civil and dacent, I'll do as ye sez;
and here's to the leddy's health,” and he finished a bottle
of whiskey which soon laid him out on the beach.

“Thank you! thank you!” said several grateful voices
on either side.

Dennis found the mother of the child and gave it to

her; and then causing Christine to sit down near the
water, where he could easily throw it on her, he stood at
her side, vigilant and almost tender in his solicitude. Her
tears were falling very fast, and he presently stooped down
and said gently: “Miss Ludolph, I think the worst of
the danger is over.”

“Oh, Mr. Fleet,” she whispered, “dreadful as it may
seem to you, the words of that drunken brute there are
nearer the language of my heart than those of your sweet
hymn. How can a good God permit such creatures and
evils to exist?”

“Again I must say to you,” said Dennis, “that I
cannot explain the mystery of evil. But I know this,
God is superior to it; He will at last triumph over it.
The Bible reveals Him to us as able and as seeking to
deliver all who will trust Him and work with Him, and
those who venture out upon His promises find them true.
Miss Ludolph, this is not merely a matter of theory, argument
and belief. It is more truly a matter of experience.
The inspired Bible invites, `Oh, taste and see that God is
good.' I have tasted and know He is. I have trusted
Him for years, and He never failed me.”

“You certainly have been sustained throughout this
dreadful scene by a principle that I cannot understand,
but I would give all the world to possess it.”

“You may possess it, Miss Ludolph.”

“How? how?” she asked eagerly.

“Do you wish to believe as I do?”

“Yes, indeed; and yet my heart rebels against a God
who permits, even if He does not cause, all this evil.”

“Does it rebel against a Being who from first to last
tries to save men from evil?”

“Tries! tries! what an expression to apply to a God!
Why does He not do it in every case?”

“Because multitudes will not let Him.”

“Oh, that is worse still. Surely, Mr. Fleet, you let
your reason have nothing to do with your faith. How can
a poor and weak being like myself prevent an Almighty one
from doing what He pleases?”

“I am stronger than you, Miss Ludolph, and yet I could
not have saved you to-night unless you had first trusted
me, and then done everything in your power to further my
efforts.”

“But your power is human and limited, and you say
God's is all-powerful.”

“Yes, but it is His plan and purpose never to save us
against our will. He has made us in His own image and
endowed us with reason, conscience, and a will to choose
between good and evil. He appeals to these noble faculties
from first to last. He has given us hearts, and seeks
to win them by revealing His love to us. Chief of all, His
spirit, present in the world, uses every form of truth in persuading
and making us willing to become His true children.
So you see that neither on the one hand does God
gather us up like drift-wood, nor does He on the other
drag us at His chariot wheels, unwilling captives, as did
those who, at various times, have sought to overrun the
world by force. God seeks to conquer the world by the
might of the truth, by the might of love.”

Christine was hanging with the most eager interest on
his words. Suddenly his eyes, which had expressed such
a kindly and almost tender interest in her, blazed with
indignation, and he darted up the beach. Turning around
she saw, at some little distance off, a young woman most
scantily clad, clinging desperately to a bundle which a
large coarse man was trying to wrench from her. The
wretch, finding that he could not loosen her hold, struck
her in the face with such force that she fell stunned upon

the ground, and the bundle flew out of her hand. He
eagerly snatched it up, believing it to contain jewelry; but
before he could escape he was confronted by an unexpected
enemy. But Dennis was in a passion, and withal weak and
exhausted, while his adversary was cool, and an adept in the
pugilistic art. The two men fought savagely, and Christine,
forgetting herself in her instinctive desire to help
Dennis, was rushing to his side, crying:

“If there is a man here worthy of the name, let him
strike for the right!” but before she and others could reach
the combatants the thief had planted his fist on Dennis'
temple. Though the latter partially parried the blow, it fell
with such force as to extend him senseless on the earth.
The villain, with a shout of derision, snatched up the
bundle and dashed off apparently toward the fire. There
was but a feeble attempt made to follow him. Few understood
the case, and indeed scenes of violence and terror
had become so common that most had grown apathetic,
save in respect to their personal well-being.

Christine lifted the pale face, down which the blood was
trickling, into her lap, and cried in a tone of indescribable
anguish:

“Oh, he is dead! he is dead!”

“Oh no, Miss, he is not dead, I guess,” said a good-natured
voice near. “Let me bring a hat full of water
from the lake, and that'll bring him to.”

And so it did. Dennis opened his eyes, put his hand
to his head and then looked around. But when he saw
Christine bending over him with tearful eyes, and realized
how tenderly she had pillowed his aching head, he started
up with a deep flush of pleasure, and said:

“Do not be alarmed, Miss Ludolph; I was only stunned
for a moment. Where is the thief?”

“Oh, they let him escape,” said Christine indignantly.

“Shame!” cried Dennis regaining his feet rather unsteadily.

“Wal, stranger, a good many wrongs to-night must go
unrighted.”

The poor girl who had been robbed sat on the sands
swaying back and forth, wringing her hands and crying
that she had lost everything.

“Well, my poor friend, that is about the case with the
most of us. We may be thankful that we have our lives.
Here is my coat (for her shoulders and neck were bare),
and if you will come down to the lake, this lady (pointing
to Christine) will bathe the place where the brute struck
you.”

“Shall I not give up my shawl to some of these poor
creatures?” asked Christine.

“No, Miss Ludolph, I do not know how long we may
be kept here; but I fear we shall suffer as much from cold
as heat, and your life might depend upon keeping warm.”

“I will do whatever you bid me,” she said, looking
gratefully at him.

“That is the way to feel and act toward God,” he said
gently.

But, with sudden impetuosity she answered:

“I cannot. See what He has just permitted to happen
before my eyes. Right has not triumphed, but the foulest
wrong.”

“You do not see the end, Miss Ludolph.”

“But I must judge from what I see.”

After she had bathed the poor girl's face, comforted and
reassured her, Dennis took up the conversation again and
found Christine eager to listen. Seldom was the Gospel
preached under stranger circumstances. Pausing every
few moments to throw water over his companion, he said:

“Faith is beyond reason, beyond knowledge, though

not contrary to them. You are judging as we do not even
about the commonest affairs—from a few isolated mysterious
facts, instead of carefully looking the subject all over.
You pass by what is plain and well understood to what is
obscure, and from that point seek to understand Christianity.
Every science has its obscure points and mysteries,
but who commences with those to learn the science? Can
you ignore the fact that millions of highly intelligent
people, with every motive to know the truth, have satisfied
themselves as to the reality of our faith? Our Bible system
of truth may contain much that is obscure, even as
the starry vault has distances that no eye or telescope can
penetrate, and this little earth mysteries that science cannot
solve, but there is enough known and understood to
satisfy us perfectly. Let me assure you, Miss Ludolph,
that Christianity rests on broad truths, and is sustained
by arguments that no candid mind can resist, after patiently
considering them.”

She shook her head, silenced perhaps but not satisfied.