 | CHAPTER XXXI.
DENNIS' LOVE PUT TO PRACTICAL USE. Barriers burned away |  |
31. CHAPTER XXXI.
DENNIS' LOVE PUT TO PRACTICAL USE.
The day following his unlucky criticism of the pictures
was one of great despondency to Dennis. He read in
Christine's face that he had wounded her sorely, and
though she knew it to be unintentional, would it not prejudice
her mind against him, and snap the slender thread
by which he hoped to draw across the gulf between them
the cord, and then the cable, that might unite their lives,
in time?
In the evening his restless, troubled spirit drove him, in
spite of the rain, to seek to be at least nearer to her. He
felt sure that in the dusk and wrapped in his greatcoat
he would not be noticed, but was mistaken, as we have
seen. He was rewarded, for he heard her sing as never
before, as he did not believe she could sing. For the first
time her rich, thoroughly trained voice had the sweetness
and power of feeling. To Dennis her song seemed like an
appeal, a cry for help, and his heart responded in the deepest
sympathy. As he walked homeward he said to himself:
“She could be a true artist, perhaps a great one, for
she can feel. She has a heart. She has a taste and skill
in touch that few can surpass. I can scarcely believe the
beautiful coloring and faultless lines of that picture are
her work.”
He longed for a chance to speak with her and explain.
He felt that he had so much to say, and in a thousand imaginary
ways introduced the subject of her painting. He
hoped he might find her sketching in some of the rooms
again. He thought he knew her better having heard her
sing, and that he could speak to her quite frankly.
The next day she came to the store, but passed him
without the slightest notice. He hoped she had not seen
him, and, as she passed out, so placed himself that she
must see him, and secured for his pains only a slight, cold
inclination of the head.
“It is as I feared,” he said bitterly. “She detests me
for having spoiled her triumph. She is not just,” he
added angrily. “She has no sense of justice, or she would
not blame me. What a mean-spirited craven I would
have been had I shrunk away under her taunts yesterday.
Well, I can be proud too.”
When she came in again he did not raise his eyes, and
Christine saw no tall muffled figure under her window
again, though she had the curiosity to look. That even
this humble admirer whom she cared not a jot for should
show such independence, rather nettled and annoyed her
for a moment. But she paid no more heed to him than
to the other clerks.
But what was the merest jar to Christine's vanity, cost
Dennis a desperate struggle. It required no effort on her
part to pass him by without a glance. To him it was torture.
In a few days she ceased to think about him at all,
and only remembered him in connection with her disappointment.
But she was restless, could settle down to no
work, and had lost her zest in her old pleasures. She tried
to act as usual, for she saw her father's eye was on her.
He had not much indulgence for any one's weaknesses
save his own, and often by a little cold satire would sting
her to the very quick. On the other hand, his admiration,
openly expressed in a certain courtly gallantry, nourished
her pride but not her heart. Though she tried to keep up
her usual routine, her manner was forced before him, and
languid when alone. But he said:
“All this will pass away like a cold snap in Spring,
and the old zest will come again in a few days.”
It did, but from a cause he could not understand, and
which his daughter with consummate skill and care concealed.
He thought it was only the old zest rallying after
a sharp frost of disappointment.
Dennis' pride gave way before her cool and unstudied
indifference. It was clearly evident to him that he had
no hold upon her life whatever, and how ever to gain any
he did not see. He became more and more dejected.
“She must have a heart, or I could not love her so, but
it is so encased in ice I fear I can never reach it.”
That something was wrong with Dennis, any friend
who cared for him at all might see. The Bruders did, and
with the quick intuitions of woman, Mrs. Bruder half guessed
the cause. Mr. Bruder seeing preoccupation and
sometimes weary apathy in Dennis' face, would say, “Mr.
Fleet is not well.”
Then, as even this slight notice of his different appearance
seemed to give pain, Mr. Bruder was patiently and
kindly blind to his pupil's inattention.
He faithfully kept up all his duties on Sunday as during
the week; but all was now hard work.
Some little time after the unlucky morning which he
could never think of without an expression of pain, he went
to his mission-class as usual. He heard his boys recite
their lessons, said a few poor lame words in explanation,
and then leaned his head listlessly and wearily on his hand.
He was startled by hearing a sweet voice say:
“Well, Mr. Fleet, are you not going to welcome a new
laborer into your corner of the vineyard?”
With a deep flush he saw that Miss Winthrop was in
charge of the class next to him, and that he had been oblivious
to her presence nearly an hour. He tried to apologize.
But she interrupted him, saying:
“Mr. Fleet, you are not well. Any one can see that.”
Then Dennis blushed as if he had a raging fever, and
she was perplexed.
The closing exercises of the school now occupied them,
and then they walked out together.
“Mr. Fleet,” she said, “you never accepted my invitation.
We have not seen you at our house. But perhaps
your circle of friends is so large that you do not wish to
add to it.”
Dennis could not forbear a smile at the suggestion, but
he said in apology:
“I do not visit any one, save a gentleman from whom
I am taking lessons.”
“Do you mean to say that you have no friends at all
in this great city?”
“Well, I suppose that is nearly the truth, that is, in the
sense you use the term. My teacher and his wife—”
“Nonsense! I mean friends of one's own age, people
of the same culture and status as yourself. I think we
need such society, as truly as food and air. I did not
mean those whom business or duty brought you in contact
with, or who are friendly or grateful as a matter of course.”
“I have made no progress since my introduction to
society at Miss Brown's,” said Dennis.
“But you had the sincere and cordial offer of introduction,”
said Miss Winthrop, looking a little hurt.
“I feel hardly fit for society,” said Dennis, all out of
sorts with himself. “It seems that I can only blunder and
give pain. But I am indeed grateful for your kindness.”
Miss Winthrop looked into his worn, pale face, and instinctively
felt that something was wrong, and she felt real
sympathy for the lonely young man, isolated among thousands.
She said gently but decidedly:
“I did mean my invitation kindly, and I truly wished
you to come. The only proof you can give that you appreciate
my courtesy, is to accept an invitation for to-morrow
evening. I intend having a little musical entertainment.”
Quick as light flashed the thought, “Christine will be
there.” He said promptly:
“I will come, and thank you for the invitation. If I
am awkward, you must remember that I have never mingled
in Chicago society, and for a long time not in any.”
She smiled merrily at him and said:
“Don't do anything dreadful, Mr. Fleet.”
He caught her mood, and asked what had brought
her down from her theological peak to such a valley of humiliation
as a mission school.
“You and Miss Ludolph,” she answered seriously.
“Between you, you gave me such a lesson that afternoon
at Miss Brown's, that I have led a different life ever since.
Christine made all as dark as despair, and against that
darkness you placed the fiery Cross. I have tried to cling
to the true cross ever since. Now He could not say to me
`Inasmuch as ye did it not.' And oh!” said she, turning
to Dennis with a smile full of the light of heaven, “His
service is so very sweet! I heard last week that teachers
were wanted at this mission-school, so I came, and am
glad to find you a neighbor.”
Dennis' face also kindled at her enthusiasm, but after a
moment grew sad again.
“I do not always give so lifeless a lesson as to-day,”
he said in a low voice.
“Mr. Fleet, you are not well. I can see that you look
worn and greatly wearied. Are you not in some way over-taxing
yourself?”
Again that sensitive flush, but he only said:
“I assure you I am well. Perhaps I have worked a
little hard. That is all.”
“Well, then, come to our house and play a little, to-morrow
evening,” she answered from the platform of a
street car, and was borne away.
Dennis went to his lonely room, full of self-reproach.
“Does she find Christ's service so sweet, and do I find
it so dull and hard? Does human love alone constrain
me, and not the love of Christ? Truly I am growing weak.
Every one says I look sick; I think I am, body and soul,
and am ceasing to be a man; but with God's help I will
be one—and what is more, a Christian. I thank you, Miss
you. I will accept your invitation to go out into the
world. I will no longer mope, brood, and perish in the
damp and shade of my own sick fancies. If I cannot win
her, I can at least be a man without her,” and he felt better
and stronger than he had for a long time. The day
was breaking again.
In accordance with a custom that was growing with
him ever since the memorable evening when Bill Cronk
befriended him, he laid the whole matter before his Heavenly
Father, as a child tells an earthly parent all his heart.
Then he added one simple prayer, “Guide me in all
things.”
The next day was brighter and better than its forerunners.
“For some reason I feel more like myself,” he
thought. After the excitement and activity of a busy day,
he said:
“I can conquer this, if I must.”
But when he made his simple toilet, and was on his
way to Miss Winthrop's residence, his heart began to flutter
strangely, and he knew the reason. Miss Winthrop
welcomed him most cordially, and put him at his ease in a
moment, as only a true lady can. Then she turned to
receive other guests. He looked around. Christine was
not there—and his heart sank like lead. “She will not be
here,” he sighed. But the guests had not ceased coming,
and every new arrival caused a flutter of hopes and fears.
He both longed and dreaded to meet her. At last, when
he had about given up seeing her, he suddenly saw her
advancing up the parlor on her father's arm. Never had
she seemed so dazzlingly beautiful. He was at that
instant talking to Mr. Winthrop, and for a few moments
that gentleman was perplexed at his incoherent answers,
and the changes in his face. Having paid their respects
Winthrop, and of course Dennis had to meet them. Having
greeted them warmly, Mr. Winthrop said:
“Of course you do not need an introduction to Mr.
Fleet.”
Dennis had shrunk a little back, and at first they had
not noticed him. Mr. Ludolph said good-naturedly:
“Glad to see you, Mr. Fleet, and will be still more
glad to hear your fine voice.”
But Christine merely bowed as to one with whom her
acquaintance was slight, and turned away. At first Dennis
had blushed, and his heart had fluttered like a young
girl's; but as she turned so coolly away, his native pride
and obstinacy were aroused.
“She shall speak to me and do me justice,” he muttered.
“She must understand that I spoke unconsciously
on that miserable morning, and am not to be blamed. As
I am a man, I will speak boldly and secure recognition.”
But as the little company mingled and conversed before
the music commenced, no opportunity offered. He determined
to show her, however, that he was no country
boor, and with skill and taste made himself agreeable.
Christine furtively watched him. She was surprised
to see him, as the idea of meeting him in society as an
equal had scarcely been realized before. But when she
saw him greeting one after another with grace and ease,
and that all seemed to enjoy his conversation, so that a
little knot of Miss Winthrop's most intelligent guests were
about him at last, she felt that it would be no great condescension
on her part to be a little more affable. In her
heart, though, she had not forgiven the unconscious words
that had smitten to the ground her ambitious hopes.
Then again, his appearance deeply interested her.
There was a suppressed excitement and power about him.
tones, that stirred her languid pulses.
“He is no vapid society-man,” she said to herself, and
her artist eye was gratified by the changes in his noble
face.
“Look at Fleet,” whispered her father; “could you
believe he was sweeping the store the other day? Well, if
we don't find out his worth and get what we can from him,
the world will. We ought to have had him up to sing
before this, but I have been so busy since your illness that
it slipped my mind.”
Miss Winthrop now led Christine to the piano, and she
played a classical piece of music in faultless taste. Then
followed duets, solos, quartets, choruses, and instrumental
pieces, for nearly all present were musical amateurs.
Under the inspiration of this soul-stirring art, coldness and
formality melted away, and with jest and brilliant repartee
alternating with song, there gathered around Miss Winthrop's
piano such a group as could never grace the parlors
of Miss Brown. Sometimes they would carry a new
and difficult piece triumphantly through: again they would
break down, with much laughter and good-natured rallying.
Dennis, as a stranger, held back at first; but those who
remembered his voice at the Tableau party, were clamorous
to hear him again, and they tested and tried his voice
during the evening in many and varied ways. But he held
his own, and won greener laurels than ever. He did his
very best, for he was before one he would rather please
than all the world; moreover, her presence seemed to
inspire him to do better than when alone. Christine with
the others could not help listening with delight to his rich
clear tenor, and Mr. Ludolph was undisguised in his
admiration.
“I declare, Mr. Fleet, I have been depriving myself of
sing with us before, but have been under such a press of
business of late. But the first evening I am disengaged
you must surely come.”
Christine had noticed how quietly and almost indifferently
Dennis had taken the many compliments showered
on him before, but now when her father spoke, his face
flushed, and a sudden light came into his eyes. Dennis
had thought, “I can then see and speak to her.” Every
now and then she caught his eager questioning and almost
appealing glance, but he made no advances. “He thinks
I am angry because of his keen criticism of my picture.
For the sake of my own pride, I must not let him think
that I care so much about his opinion,” and Christine
resolved to let some of the ice thaw that had formed
between them. Moreover, in spite of herself, when thrown
into his society, he greatly interested her. He seemed to
have just what she did not.” He could meet her on her
own ground in matters of taste, and then, in contrast with
her cold negative life, he was so earnest and positive.
“Perhaps papa spoke for us both,” she thought, “and I
have been depriving myself of a pleasure also, for he certainly
interests while most men only weary me.”
Between ten and eleven, supper was announced; not
the prodigal abundance under which the Brewer's table
groaned, but a dainty elegant little affair, which inspired
and promoted social feeling, though the “spirit of wine”
was absent. The eye was feasted as truly as the palate.
Christine had stood near Dennis as the last piece was
sung, and he turned and said in a low, eager tone:
“May I have the pleasure of waiting on you at
supper?”
She hesitated, but his look was so wistful that she
could not well refuse, so with a slight smile she bowed
his arm, which so trembled that she looked inquiringly
and curiously into his face. It was very pale, as was ever
the case when he felt deeply. He waited on her politely
but silently at first. She sat in an angle, somewhat apart
from the others. As he stood by her side thinking how to
refer to the morning in the show-room, she said:
“Mr. Fleet, you are not eating anything, and you look
as if you had been living on air, of late—very differently
from when you so efficiently aided me in the rearrangement
of the store. I am delighted you keep up the better
order of things.”
Dennis' answer was quite irrelevant.
“Miss Ludolph,” he said abruptly, “I saw that I gave
you pain that morning in the show-room. If you only
knew how the thought has pained me.”
Christine flushed almost angrily, but said coldly:
“Mr. Fleet, that is a matter you can never understand,
therefore we had better dismiss the subject.”
But Dennis had determined to break the ice between
them at any risk, so he said firmly but respectfully:
“Miss Ludolph, I did understand all, the moment
I saw your face that day. I do understand how you have
felt since, better than you imagine.”
His manner and words were so assured and decided,
that she raised a startled face to his, but asked coldly and
in an indifferent manner:
“What can you know of my feelings?”
“I know,” said Dennis in a low tone, looking searchingly
into her face, from which cool composure was fast
fading, “I know the dearest hope of your heart was to be
among the first in art. You staked that hope on your
success in a painting that required a power that you do
not possess.” Christine became very pale, but from her
before; but Dennis' love was so true and strong, that he
could wound her for the sake of the healing and life he
hoped to bring, and he continued—“On that morning
this cherished hope for the future failed you, not because
of my words, but because your artist eye saw that my
words were true. You have since been unhappy”—
“What right have you, you who were but a few days
since—who are a stranger, what right have you to speak
to me thus?”
“I know what you would say, Miss Ludolph,” said
Dennis, a slight flush coming into his pale face. “Friends
may be humble and yet true. But am I not right?”
“I have no claim on your friendship,” said Christine
coldly. “But for the sake of argument, grant that you
are, what follows?” and she looked at him more eagerly
than she knew. She felt that he had read her very soul,
and was deeply moved, and again the superstitious feeling
crept over her, “That young man is in some way connected
with my destiny.”
Dennis saw his power and proceeded rapidly, for he
knew they might be interrupted any moment, and so they
would have been had anything less interesting than eating
occupied attention.
“I saw in the picture what in your eyes and mine
would be a fatal defect—the lack of life and true feeling—
the lack of power to live. I did not know who painted it,
but felt that any one who could paint as well as that, and
yet leave out the soul as it were, had not the power to put
it in. No artist of such ability could willingly or ignorantly
have permitted such a defect.”
Christine's eyes sank, their fire faded out, and her face
had the pallor of one listening to her doom. This deeper
feeling mastered the momentary resentment against the
in her pain and despair.
In a low earnest tone Dennis continued:
“But since I have come to know who the artist is,
since I have studied the picture more fully, and have taken
the liberty of some observation,”—Christine hung on his
lips breathlessly, and Dennis spoke slowly, marking the
effect of every word—“I have come to the decided belief
that the lady who painted that picture can reach the sphere
of true and highest art.”
The light that stole into Christine's face under his slow,
emphatic words was like a rosy dawn in June; and the
thought flashed through Dennis' mind, “If an earthly hope
can so light up her face, what will be the effect of a heavenly
one?”
For a moment she sat as one entranced, looking at a
picture far off in the future. His words had been so earnest
and assured that they seemed reality. Suddenly she
turned on him a look as grateful and happy as the former
one had been full of pain and anger, and said:
“Ah, do not deceive me, do not flatter. You cannot
know the sweetness and power of the hope you are inspiring.
To be disappointed again, would be death. If you
are trifling with me, I will never forgive you,” she added in
sudden harshness, her brow darkening.
“Nor would I deserve to be forgiven if I deceived you
in a matter that to you is so sacred.”
“But how—how am I to gain this magic power to
make faces feel and live on canvas?”
“You must believe. You must feel yourself.”
She looked at him with darkening face, and then in a
sudden burst of passion said, “I don't believe, I can't feel.
All this is mockery, after all.”
“No!” said Dennis, in the deep assured tone that ever
speak the words of truth and soberness. You do not believe,
but that is not the same as cannot. And permit me
to contradict you when I say you do feel. On this subject
so near your heart you feel most deeply—feel as I never
knew any one before. This proves you capable of feeling
on other and higher subjects, and what you feel, your
trained and skilful hand can portray. You felt on the evening
of that miserable day, and sang as I never heard you
before. Your tones then would move any heart, and my
tears fell with the rain in sympathy—I could not help it.”
Her bosom rose and fell tumultuously, and her breath
came hard and quick—
“O, if I could believe you were right.”
“I know I am right,” he said so decidedly that again
hope grew rosy and beautiful in her face.
“Then again,” he continued eagerly, “see what an advantage
you have over the most of us. Your power of imitation
is wonderful. You can copy anything you see.”
“Good-evening, Miss Ludolph. Where have you been
hiding? I have twice made a tour of the supper-room in
my search,” broke in the voluble Mr. Mellen. Then he
gave Dennis a cool stare, who acted as if unconscious of
his presence. An expression of disgust flitted across
Christine's face at the interruption, or the person—perhaps
both, and she was about to shake him off that Dennis
might speak further, when Miss Winthrop and others came
up, and there was a general movement back to the parlors.
“Why, Christine, what is the matter?” asked her
friend. “You look as if you had a fever. What has Mr.
Fleet been saying?”
“O, we have had an argument on my hobby, Art, and
of course don't agree, and so got excited in debate.”
Miss Winthrop glanced keenly at them and said:
“I would like to have heard it, for it was Greek meeting
Greek.”
“To what art or trade did Mr. Fleet refer?” asked Mr.
Mellen, with an insinuation that all understood.
“One that you do not understand,” said Christine
keenly.
The petted and spoiled millionnaire flushed angrily a
moment, and then said with a bow:
“You are right, Miss Ludolph; Mr. Fleet is acquainted
with one or two arts that I have never had the
pleasure of learning.”
“He has at least learned the art of being a gentleman,”
was the sharp retort.
The young man's face grew darker, and he said:
“From the sweeping nature of your remarks, I perceive
that Mr. Fleet is high in your favor.”
`A poor pun made in poorer taste,” was all the comfort
he got from Christine.
Dennis was naturally of a very jealous disposition
where his affections were concerned. His own love took
such entire possession of him that he could not brook the
interference of another, or sensibly consider that they had
the same privilege to woo, and win if possible, that he had.
This rich and favored youth was especially distasteful to
him, and his presence awakened all his combativeness,
which was by no means small.
Mr. Mellen's most inopportune interruption and covert
taunts provoked him beyond endurance. His face was
fairly white with rage, and for a moment he felt that he could
stamp his rival out of existence. In the low, concentrated
voice of passion he said:
“If Mr. Mellen should lose his property, as many do,
I gather from his remarks that he would still keep up his
idea of a gentleman on charity.”
Mr. Mellen flushed to the roots of his hair, his hands
clenched. In the flashing eyes and threatening faces of
the young men, those witnessing the scene foresaw trouble.
A light hand fell on Dennis' arm, and Miss Winthrop said:
“Mr. Fleet, I wish to show you a picture, and ask your
judgment in regard to it.”
Dennis understood the act, and in a moment more his
face was crimson with shame.
“Miss Winthrop, you ought to send me home at once.
I told you I was unfit for society. Somehow I am not
myself. I humbly ask your pardon.”
“So sincere a penitent shall receive absolution at once.
You were greatly provoked. I trust you for the future.”
“You may,” was the emphatic answer. After that
pledge Mr. Mellen might have struck him and received no
more response than from a marble statue.
Mr. Mellen also took a sober second thought, remembering
that he was in a lady's parlor.
He walked away with his ears stinging, for the flattered
youth had never had such an experience before. The few
who witnessed the scene smiled significantly, and Christine
half contemptuously; but Miss Winthrop soon made
all serene, and the remaining hours passed away in music
and some dancing. Christine did not speak to Dennis
again, that is by word of mouth, but she thought of him
constantly, and their eyes often met—on his part that same
eager, questioning look. She ever turned hers at once
away. But his words kept repeating themselves continually,
especially his last sentence, when the unlucky
Mr. Mellen broke in upon them,—“You can copy anything
you see.”
“How noble and expressive of varied feeling his face
is,” she thought, watching it change under the playful badinage
of Miss Winthrop.
“How I would like to copy it. Well, you can—`You
can copy anything you see.'” Then like a flash came a
suggestion—“You can make him love you, and copy feeling,
passion, life—from the living face. Whether I can
believe or feel, myself, is very doubtful. This I can do—
he himself said so. I cannot love, myself, I must not; I
do not wish to now, but perhaps I can inspire love in him,
and then make his face a study. As to my believing, he
can never know how utterly impossible his Faith is to me.
This is my one way out of darkness to the glory-crowned
heights of fame.”
Then conscience entered a mild protest against the
cruelty of the thing. “Nonsense!” she said to herself;
“most girls flirt for sport, and it is a pity if I cannot with
such a purpose in view. He will soon get over a little
puncture in his heart after I have sailed away to my bright
future beyond the sea, and perhaps Susie will comfort him,”
and she smiled at the thought. Dennis saw the smile and
was entranced by its loveliness. How little he guessed the
cause!
Having resolved, Christine acted promptly. When
their eyes again met, she gave him a slight smile. He
caught it instantly and looked bewildered, as if he could
not believe his eyes. Again, when, a little later, at the urgent
request of many, he sang alone for the first time, and
again moved his hearers deeply by the real feeling in his
tones, he turned from the applause of all, with that same
questioning look, to her. She smiled an encouragement
that she had never given him before. The warm blood
flooded his face instantly. All thought that it was the
general chorus of praise. Christine knew that she had
caused it. Surprise and almost exultation came into her
face. “I half believe he loves me now,” she said. She
threw him a few more kindly smiles from time to time as
every moment assured her of her power.
“I will try one more test,” she said, and by a little
effort lured to her side the offended Mr. Mellen, and appeared
much pleased by his attention. Then unmistakably
the pain of jealousy was stamped on Dennis' face, and
she was satisfied. Shaking off the perplexed Mr. Mellen
again, she went to the recess of a window to hide her look
of exultation.
“The poor victim loves me, already,” she said. “The
mischief is done. I have only to avail myself of what
exists from no fault of mine, and surely I ought to; otherwise
the passion of the infatuated youth will be utterly
wasted, and do nobody any good.”
Thus in somewhat a novel way Christine obtained a
new master in painting, and poor Dennis and his love were
put to use somewhat as a human subject might be if dissected
alive.
| CHAPTER XXXI.
DENNIS' LOVE PUT TO PRACTICAL USE. Barriers burned away | |