University of Virginia Library

50. CHAPTER L.
DR. ARTEN STRUCK BY LIGHTNING.

Hastening down into the body of the church, Dennis
and Christine found Mrs. Learned lying on some cushions
in a pew. She was scantily clad, her sweet face scorched
and blackened, and her beautiful hair almost crisped away.

Her husband was bending over her in an agony of
mingled grief and joy. She had just been brought in from
wandering aimlessly and alone quite out upon the prairie,
singing, in a low plaintive way to herself, words suggested
by the sudden disaster that had temporarily robbed her of
husband, reason, and almost of life.

Dennis afterward learned from Professor Learned that

when first aroused they had escaped from the hotel, but, not
realizing the danger, he had stepped back a moment at her
request to get something she valued very much, and they
became separated.

“And thus at last I find the poor child,” he cried with
a look of agony.

Mrs. Learned did not know any of them, but continued
her low plaintive singing.

Dr. Arten, who had found his way to the church as one
of the centres, was soon in attendance, his benevolent face
becoming the very embodiment of pity. The crowd were
pushed back, and Christine and other kind ladies took
charge of her poor unconscious friend, and all was done
that skill and tender love could suggest. At last, under
the doctor's opiates, her low weird singing ceased, and
she slept, her husband holding her hand. The thronging
fugitives were kept a little away, and Dr. Arten slept
near, to be within call.

A lady asked Christine to go home with her, but she
thanked her and said:

“No, I would rather remain in the church near my
friends.”

Dennis saw that she was greatly wearied. Taking her
hand, he said:

“Miss Ludolph, it is my turn to take care of you again.
See, our friends are preparing a place there for the ladies
to sleep. Please go to rest at once, for you do indeed
need it.”

“I am very tired, but I know I could not sleep. How
strange this life is! All day, the world, in spite of what
has happened, seemed growing brighter. Now with the
night has come the deeper darkness of sorrow. On every
side pain and suffering seem to predominate, and to me
there will ever be so much mystery in events like my

father's death and my friend Susie's experience, that I
know it will be hard to maintain a child-like faith.”

“God will help you to trust; you will not be left to
struggle alone. Then remember you are His child, and
earthly parents do much that little children cannot understand.”

With a faint smile she answered, “I fear I shall be one
of those troublesome children that are ever asking why?
All day it has seemed so easy to be a Christian, but already
I learn that there will be times when I shall have to cling
to my Saviour, instead of being carried forward in His arms.
Indeed, I almost fear that I shall lose Him in the darkness.”

“But He will not lose you,” replied Dennis. “Since
you are not sleepy, let me tell you a short Bible story.”

“Oh do, please do, just as if I were a little child.”

“It is in the New Testament. Jesus has sent His disciples
in a boat across the sea of Galilee, while He went
up alone in a mountain to pray. The night came, and
with it a storm swept down against the disciples. The
smooth sea was lashed into great foam-crested waves
which broke over the little ship in which were the disciples.
They tugged hour after hour at the oars, but in
vain. The night grew darker, the wind more contrary,
the waves higher and more threatening, their arms wearied,
and they may have feared they would perish alone, and
without remedy in the black midnight. But we read that
`He saw them toiling in rowing,' though they knew it
not. From the distant mountain side `He saw them'—
marked every weary stroke of the oar, and every throb of
fear. But at last, when they were most ready to welcome
Him, when none could say, `We would have rowed through
the storm alone,' He came to them walking safely on the
dark waves that threatened them with death, and said, `Be

of good cheer, it is I; be not afraid.' Then they gladly
received Him into the ship, and immediately the rough
waves were hushed, and the keel of the boat grated on the
beach, toward which they had vainly rowed. Then they
that were in the ship came and worshipped Him, saying,
`Of a truth thou art the Son of God.'

“Now it was on the evening of that very night that these
same disciples had engaged in a scene of festivity. They
had stood in the sunset on the mountain slope, and seen
their Lord feed many thousand. Then all was peace,
safety, and good cheer. Life changed as quickly for them
as you, but did not their Divine Master see them as truly
in the stormy night as in the sunlight? Did He leave them
to perish?

“He is watching you, Miss Ludolph, for He is ever the
same; and before this stormy night of your sorrow passes
away, you will hear His voice, saying, `Be of good cheer, it
is I; be not afraid.'”

“Already I hear it,” she said in a low glad voice, smiling
through her tears. “I can, I do trust Him, and the conflicting
winds of doubt and fear are becoming still. Among
all these homeless people there must be many sad discouraged
hearts. You have helped me so much; can you not
say a word or sing something that will help them?”

Dennis thought a moment and then in a sweet, clear
voice that penetrated every part of the large building, sang:

After the first line there was a breathless hush, but
when he closed, low sobbings might be heard from many
of the women, and in the dim light not a few tears shone
in the eyes of manhood. Dennis' voice was sympathetic
in its character, and he had the power of throwing into it
much feeling.

Christine was weeping silently and quietly, but her tears
now were like the warm spring rain as it falls on the precious
seed. At last she said:

“You have done these people much good.”

“To you belongs all the credit, for it was at your suggestion
I sang.”

She shook her head, and then said: “Good-night,
my friend, I shall never forget this day with its mingled
experience; but I think, I hope, I shall never doubt God
again,” and she went to her rest.

The light of the next day brought to view many hard
realities, and chief among these was the bread question.
Dennis was up with the dawn, and by eager inquiries
sought to comprehend the situation somewhat. Some
were gloomy and discouraged, some apathetic, and some
determined, courageous, and hopeful: and to this last class
he belonged.

Most thankful that he had come out of the fiery ordeal
unscathed, he resolved to contribute his quota towards a
new and better Chicago. Young, and sanguine in temperament,

he already saw the city rise from its ashes in
statelier proportions and richer prosperity. With a thrill
of exultation he heard the report that some Napoleonic
business-men had already telegraphed for building material,
and were even now excavating the hot ruins.

Christine had hardly joined him as he stood at the
door, when a gentleman entered and asked:

“Who here are willing and able to work for fair
wages?”

“I am at your service,” said Dennis, stepping forward
promptly.

“You are a gentleman, sir,” said the speaker, impressed
with the fact by Dennis' bearing, though his hat
and coat were gone; “I need laborers who can handle the
pick and shovel.”

“I will work for less, then, till I can handle these
tools as well as a laborer. There is no reason why I
should eat the bread of charity a day longer, especially
when so many need it more than I.”

“I said you were a gentleman; I now say you are a
man, and that to me means a great deal more,” said the
energetic stranger. “You shall have two dollars a day
with the rest.”

He turned to Christine and said almost proudly:
“The supper you have to-night shall be yours also.”

“That is,” she replied with a smile, “I shall live on
your charity instead of that of some one else.”

His face grew sad at once, but he answered, as he
went away: “I could not give you charity, Miss Ludolph.”

Christine saw that she had pained him, and was much
vexed with herself. But his remark added to the hope
and almost belief that she still held her old place in his
heart, and she resolved to make amends in the evening
for her unlucky speech.

With a smile she said to herself: “If he only knew that
I would prefer the coarsest, scantiest fare provided by
him, to the most costly banquet, he would not have gone
away with that long face. How rich life would be if I
could commence it with him, and we struggle up together.
Oh, Heaven grant,” she sighed, looking earnestly
upward, “that through these wonderful terrible changes, I
may climb the mountain at his side, as he so graphically
portrayed it in his picture.”

Mrs. Learned still slept, and her husband in an
agony of anxiety watched at her side. At last, a little
before midday, she opened her eyes and said in her natural
tone:

“Why, John, I must have greatly overslept. Where am
I?” and then, as her husband commenced fairly sobbing
for joy, she started up and said hurriedly:

“What is the matter? What has happened?”

“Oh, be calm,” whispered Christine to the Professor.
“Everything depends on keeping her quiet.” Then she
bent over her friend, and said: “Do not be alarmed, Susie;
you are now safe and well, and so is your husband.
But you have been sick, and for his sake and your own
you must keep quiet.”

She turned inquiringly to her husband, who said more
calmly:

“It is all true, and if you can only be careful we can
go back to Boston as well as ever.”

“I will do anything you say, John, but why am I in a
church?”

“You were taken sick in the street, and this was the
nearest place to bring you.”

“Oh, dear, I have had such strange, dreadful dreams.
I am so glad they were only dreams, and you are here with
me,” and she lay quietly holding her husband's hands and

looking contentedly in his face; and it was evident she was
herself again, and much better.

Dr. Arten soon after came and said cheerily:

“All right! all right! will have you out in a day or
two as good as new, and then, Miss Ludolph, you see how
much more grateful she is to the old Doctor than you were.”

“You must present your bill,” replied Christine with a
smile.

“May I?” retorted the Doctor, wiping his lips.

“Oh, I don't know about that,” cried Christine, adding
quickly, “when I welcome you to my own home you may.”

“An old maid's hall, I suppose.”

“It will be an orphan's home at least,” said Christine,
softly and sadly.

Tears sprang to the old man's eyes, and putting his
arm around her he drew her to him saying, as he stroked
her drooping head:

“Poor child! poor child! I did not know. But you
shall never want a protector while the old Doctor is above
ground. As far as possible, I will be a father to you,” and
Christine knew she had found a friend as true and strong
as steel, and she buried her face on his shoulder and cried
as trustingly as his own child might.

“Oh, Christine,” cried Mrs. Learned, “I am so sorry
for you.”

At the voice of her old friend she at once rallied, and
trying to smile through her tears, said:

“God has been so much better to me than I deserved
that I have only gratitude when I think of myself; but my
poor father,” and again she covered her face and wept.

“Christine, come here,” said Mrs. Learned softly, and
she put her arms around the weeping girl, “You spoke
of God's being good to you. Have you in truth found and
learned to trust Him?”

“Yes,” she replied eagerly, joy and peace coming out
in her face like the sun shining through clouds and rain.
Then with bowed head she whispered low, “The one I
wronged on earth led me to the one I wronged in Heaven,
and both have forgiven me. Oh, I am so glad, so happy.”

“Then you have seen Mr. Fleet?”

“Yes, he saved my life again and again, but in teaching
me how to find my Saviour, he has done far more for
me.”

“And you will not wrong him any more, will you, Christine?
He has loved you so long and faithfully.”

In reply she lifted an eager face to her friend and said:
“Do you think he can love me still after my treatment of
him?”

“Give him a chance to tell you,” said Mrs. Learned,
with a half-mischievous smile; “has he not shown his
feelings?”

“He has treated me more as a brother might, and yet
he is so very respectful and deferential—I hope—but I
am not perfectly sure—and then he seems under some
restraint.”

Mrs. Learned said musingly: “He knows that you are
Baroness of Ludolph. I told him last week, for I thought
he ought to know, and the fact of your departure for
Europe soon has been no secret of late. He thinks you
are pledged to a future in which he cannot share; and in
your grateful dependent condition he would not cause you
the pain of refusing him. I think that is just where he
stands,” she concluded, with a woman's mastery of the
science of love, and taking almost as much interest in her
friend's affair as she had in her own. To most ladies this
subject has a peculiar fascination, and having settled their
own matters they enter with scarcely less zest on the task
of helping others arrange theirs. Mrs. Learned rallied

faster under the excitement of this new interest than from
the Doctor's remedies.

After a few moments' thought Christine said decidedly:

“All that nonsense about the Baroness of Ludolph is
passed forever—burned up in the fire with many things of
more value. I have been fed too long on the husks of
human greatness and ambition to want any more of them.
They never did satisfy me, and in the light and heat of the
terrific ordeal through which I have just passed, they
shrivelled into utter nothingness. I want something that I
cannot lose in a whif of smoke and flame, and I think I
have found it. Henceforth I claim no other character save
that of a simple Christian girl.” Then bowing her head
on her friend's shoulder she added in a whisper: “If I
could climb to true greatness by Mr. Fleet's side, as he
portrayed it in his picture, it seems to me heaven would
begin at once.”

The Doctor, who had taken the Professor aside, now
joined them, and said:

“Mrs. Learned, you have only to take reasonable care
of yourself and you will soon recover from this shock and
exposure. I wish all my patients were doing as well.”

She replied with a smile, taking her husband's hand:
“Since I have found my old Greek here, with his learned
spectacles, I am quite myself, and feel as if I were only
playing invalid.”

“You may have slept in a church before,” said the
Doctor with a twinkle in his eye, “and you must do so
again. But no one will thunder at you from the pulpit
this time, so I leave you in peace and security, and to-night
will be within call.”

Christine followed him to to the lobby of the church,
when the irrepressible joker could not forbear saying,
“Now let me give you a little paternal advice. Don't be

too grateful to that young Fleet. He only did his duty,
and of course doesn't deserve any special—”

Christine, with flushing cheeks, interrupted him as if
she had not heard:

“Doctor, how good and kind you are. Here you are
off without any rest to look after the sick and suffering, and
you seem to bring health and hope wherever you go.”

“Yes, yes; but I send my bill in too—mind that.”
(Some of his poorer patients never received any, and when
twitted of the fact he would mutter roughly, “Business
oversight—can't attend to everything.”)

Christine looked for a moment at the face so contagious
in its hearty benevolence, and with an impulse, so unlike
the cold haughty girl of old, sprang forward, threw her arms
around his neck, and gave him a kiss which he declared
afterwards was like a mild stroke of lightning, and said:

“And there is the first instalment of what I owe you.”

The old gentleman looked as if he decidedly liked the
currency, and with moistened eyes that he vainly tried to
render humorous, he raised his finger impressively in parting,
and said:

“Don't you ever get out of debt to me.”