University of Virginia Library

41. CHAPTER XLI.
SUSIE WINTHROP APPEARS AGAIN.

Our story passes rapidly over the scenes and events
of the summer and fall of '71. Another heavy blow fell
upon Dennis, in the loss of his old friend and instructor,
Mr. Bruder.

By prayer and effort, his own and others', he was saved
morally and spiritually, but he had been greatly shattered
by past excess. He was attacked by typhoid fever, and
after a few days' illness died. Recovery from this disease
depends largely upon strength and purity of constitution.
But every one of the innumerable glasses of liquor that
poor Bruder had swallowed robbed him of these, and so
there was no constitution to resist.

Under her husband's improved finances, Mrs. Bruder
had removed to comfortable lodgings in Harrison Street, and
these she determined to keep if possible, dreading for the
sake of her children the influences of a crowded tenement
house. Dennis stood by her, a staunch and helpful friend;
Ernst was earning a good little sum weekly, and by her
needle and wash-tub the patient woman continued the
hard battle of life with fair prospects of success.

Dennis' studio was over on the south side, at the top
of a tall building overlooking the lake. Even before the

early summer sun rose above the shining waves he was at
his easel, and so accomplished what is a fair day's work
before many of his profession had left their beds. Though
he worked hard, and many hours, he still worked judiciously.
Bent upon accomplishing what was almost impossible
within the limited time remaining, he determined, with
all his long hours of labor, Dr. Arten should never charge
him with suicidal tendencies again. Therefore he trained
himself mentally and morally for his struggle as the athlete
does physically.

He believed in the truth too little recognized among
brain-workers, that men can develop themselves into splendid
mental conditions, wherein they can accomplish almost
double their ordinary amount of labor.

The year allotted to the competitors for the prize to
be given in October was all too short for such a work as he
had attempted, and through his own, his mother's and
Mr. Bruder's illness, he had lost a third of the time, but in
the careful and skilful manner indicated he was trying to
make it up.

He had a long conversation with shrewd old Dr. Arten,
who began to take quite an interest in him. And also read
several books on hygiene. Thus he worked under guidance
of reason, science, Christian principle, instead of mere
impulse, as is too often the case with genius.

In the absorption of his task he withdrew utterly from
society, and, with the exception of his mission-class, Christian
worship on Sabbath, and attendance on a little-prayer
meeting in a neglected quarter during the week, he permitted
no other demands upon his time and thoughts.

His pictures had sold for sufficient to provide for his
sisters and enable him to live, with close economy, till after
the prize was given, and then, if he did not gain it (of which
he was not at all sure), his painting would sell for enough
to meet future needs.

And so we leave him for a time earnestly at work. He
was like a ship that had been driven hither and thither
tempest-tossed and in danger, but which, on reaching a clear
sky and smooth water at last, finds its true bearings, and
steadily pursues its homeward voyage.

The Christine that he first had learned to love in
happy unconsciousness while they arranged the store
together, became a glorified, artistic ideal. The Christine
he had learned to know as false and heartless, was now to
him a strange, fascinating, unwomanly creature, beautiful
only as the sirens were beautiful, that he might wreck
himself body and soul before her unpitying eyes. He
sought to banish all thought of her.

Christine returned about midsummer. She was compelled
to note, as she neared her native city, that of all the
objects it contained, Dennis Fleet was uppermost in her
thoughts. She longed to go to the store and see him
once more, even though it should be only at a distance,
with not even the shadow of recognition between them.
She condemned it all as folly, and worse than in vain, but
that made no difference to her heart; that would have its
way.

Almost trembling with excitement, she entered the
Art Building the next day, and glanced around with a
timidity that was in marked contrast to her usual cold and
critical glance. But, as the reader knows, Dennis Fleet
was not to be seen. From time to time she went again,
but neither he nor Ernst appeared. She feared that for
some reason he had left, and determined to learn the
truth. Throwing off the strange timidity and restraint
that ever embarrassed her where he was concerned, she
said to Mr. Schwartz one day:

“I don't like the way that picture is hung. Where is
Mr. Fleet? I believe he has charge of that department.”

“Why, bless you! Miss Ludolph,” replied Mr.
Schwartz, with a look of surprise, “Mr. Ludolph discharged
him over two months ago.”

“Discharged him! what for?”

“For being away too much, I heard,” said old Schwartz
with a shrug indicating that that might be the reason and
might not.

Christine came to the store but rarely thereafter, for it
had lost its chief element of interest. That evening she
said to her father:

“You have discharged Mr. Fleet?”

“Yes,” was the brief answer.

“May I ask the reason?”

“He was away too much.”

“That is not the real reason,” she said, turning suddenly
upon him. “Father, what is the use of treating me
as a child? What is the use of trying to lock things up
and keep them from me? I intend to go to Germany
with you this fall, and that is sufficient.”

With a courtly smile Mr. Ludolph replied: “And I
have lived long enough, my daughter, to know that what
people intend and what they do are two very different
things.”

She flushed angrily and said:

“It was most unjust to discharge him as you did.
Do you not remember that he offered his mother's services
as nurse, when I was dreading the small-pox?”

“You are astonishingly grateful in this case,” said her
father with a meaning that Christine understood too well,
“but if you will read the records of the Ludolph race, you
will find that its representatives have often been compelled
to do things somewhat arbitrarily. Since you have been
gone, I have received letters announcing the death of my
brother and his wife. I am now Baron Ludolph!”

But Christine was too angry and too deeply wounded
to note this information, which at one time would have
elated her beyond measure, and she coldly said:

“It is a pity that noblemen are compelled to aught but
noble deeds,” and, with this parting arrow, left him.

Even her father winced, and then with a heavy frown
said, “It is well that this Yankee youth has vanished;
still the utmost vigilance is required.”

Again he saw the treacherous maid, and promised
increased reward if she would be watchful, and inform him
of every movement of Christine.

In the unobtrusive ways that her sensitive pride permitted,
Christine tried to find out what had become of Dennis,
but vainly. She offered her maid a large reward if she
would discover him, but she had been promised a larger
sum not to find him, and so did not. The impression was
given that he had left the city, and Christine feared, with a
sickening dread, she would never see him again. But one
evening Mr. Consoor stated a fact, in a casual way, that
startled both Mr. and Miss Ludolph.

He was calling at their house, and they were discussing
the coming exhibition of the pictures of those who
would compete for the prize.

“By the way, your former clerk and porter is among
the competitors; at least he entered the lists last spring,
but I have lost sight of him since. I imagine he has given
it up, and betaken himself to tasks more within the range
of his ability.”

The eyes of father and daughter met, but she turned to
Mr. Consoor, and said, coolly, though with a face somewhat
flushed:

“And has Chicago so much artistic talent that a real
genius has no chance here?”

“I was not aware that Mr. Fleet was a genius,”
answered Mr. Consoor.

“I think he will satisfy you on that point, and that you
will hear from him before the exhibition takes place.”

Mr. Ludolph hastily changed the subject, but he had
forebodings as to the future.

Christine went to her room, and thought for a long
time; suddenly she sprang up, exclaiming:

“He told me his story once, on canvas, I will now tell
him mine.”

She at once stretched the canvas on a frame for a small
picture, and placed it on an easel, that she might commence
with the dawn of day.

During the following weeks she worked scarcely less
earnestly and patiently than Dennis. The door was locked
when she painted, and before she left the studio the picture
was hidden.

She meant to send it anonymously, so that not even her
father should know its authorship. She hoped that Dennis
would recognize it.

When she was in the street her eyes began to have an
eager, wistful look, as if she was seeking some one. She
often went to galleries, and other resorts of artists, but in
vain, for she never met him, though at times he was nearer
than Evangeline's lover, the dip of whose oar she heard in
her dream. Though she knew, if she met him, she would
probably give not one encouraging glance, yet the instinct
of her heart was just as strong.

Mr. Ludolph told the maid that she must find out what
Christine was painting, and she tried to that degree that
she awakened suspicion.

On one occasion Christine turned suddenly on her and
said:

“What do you mean? If I find you false—if I have
even good reason to suspect you, I will turn you into the
street, though it be at midnight!”

And the maid learned, as did Mr. Ludolph, that she
was not dealing with a child.

At last, Monday, October 2d, dawned, and on the following
Saturday the prize would be given. All the long day
Dennis was employed in giving the finishing touches to his
picture. It was not worked up as finely as he could
have wished; time did not permit this. But he had brought
out his thought vividly, and his drawings were full of power.

In the evening he walked out for air and exercise.
As he was passing one of the large hotels, he heard his
name called. Turning, he saw on the steps, radiant with
welcome, his old friend, Susie Winthrop. Her hand was
on the arm of a tall gentleman, who seemed to have eyes
for her only. But in her old impulsive way she sprang
down the steps, and gave Dennis a grasp of the hand that
did his lonely heart good. Then, leading him to the
scholarly-looking gentleman, who was looking through his
glasses in mild surprise, she said:

“Professor Learned, my husband, Mr. Fleet. This is
the Dennis Fleet I have told you about so often.”

“Oh—h,” said the Professor in prolonged accents,
while a genial light shone through the rims of his gold
spectacles; “Mr. Fleet, we are old acquaintances, though
we have never met before. If I were a jealous man, you
are the only one I should fear.”

“And we mean to make you woefully jealous to-night,
for I intend to have Mr. Fleet dine with us and spend the
evening. No, I will take no excuse, no denial. This infatuated
man will do whatever I bid him, and he is a sort
of a Greek athlete. If you do not come right along I shall
command him to lay violent hands on you and drag you
ignominiously in.”

Dennis was only too glad to accept, but only wished to
make a better toilet.

“I have just come from my studio,” he said.

“And you wish to go and divest yourself of all artistic
flavor and become commonplace. Do you imagine I
will permit it? No! so march in as my captive. Who
ever heard of disputing the will of a bride. This man”
(pointing up to the tall Professor) “never dreams of it.”

Dennis learned that she was on her wedding trip, and
saw that she was happily married, and proud of her Professor,
as he of her.

With feminine tact she drew his story from him, and
yet it was but a meagre, partial story, like the play of Hamlet
with Hamlet left out, for he tried to be wholly silent
on his love and disappointment. But in no respect did
he deceive Mrs. Learned.

Her husband went away for a little time. In his absence
she asked abruptly:

“Have you seen Miss Ludolph lately?”

“No!” said Dennis with a tell-tale flush. Seeing her
look of sympathy, and knowing her to be such a true friend,
the impulsive young man gave his confidence almost before
he knew it. She was just the one to inspire trust, and
he was very lonely, having had no one to whom he could
speak his deeper feelings since his mother died.

“Miss Ludolph wronged me in a way that a man finds
it hard to forget or forgive,” he said in a low bitter tone,
“but I should have tried to do both had she not treated my
mother most inhumanly,” and he told his story over again
with Hamlet in.

Mrs. Learned listened with breathless interest, and then
said:

“She is a strange girl, and that plan of making you her
unconscious model is just like her, though it was both cruel
and wicked. And yet, Mr. Fleet, with shame for my sex
I admit it, how many would have flirted with you to the
same degree from mere vanity and love of excitement. I

have seen Miss Ludolph, and I cannot understand her.
We are no longer the friends we once were, but I cannot
think her utterly heartless. She is bent upon becoming a
great artist at any cost, and I sometimes think she would
sacrifice herself as readily as any one else for this purpose.
She looks to me as if she had suffered, and she has lost
much of her old haughty, cold manner, save when something
calls it out. Even in the drawing-room she was abstracted,
as if her thoughts were far away. You are a man
of honor, and it is due that you should know the following
facts. Indeed I do not think that they are a secret any
longer, and at any rate they will soon be known. If Mr.
Ludolph were in Germany he would be a noble. It is his
intention to go there this Fall, and take his wealth and
Christine with him, and assert his ancestral titles and position.
Christine could not marry in this land without incurring
her father's curse, and I think she has no disposition
to do that,—her ambition is fully in accord with his.”

“Yes,” said Dennis bitterly, “and where other women
have hearts, she has ambition only.”

The Professor returned and the subject was dropped.

Dennis said, on leaving: “I did not expect to show
any one my picture till it was placed on exhibition, with
the others, but if you care to see it, you may to-morrow.
Perhaps you can make some suggestions that will help
me.”

They eagerly accepted the invitation, and came the
following morning. Dennis watched them with much
solicitude.

When once they understood his thought, their delight
and admiration knew no bounds.

The Professor turned and stared at him as if he were
an entirely different person from the unpretending youth
who was introduced on the preceding evening.

“If you do not get the prize,” he said sententiously,
“you have a great deal of artistic talent in Chicago.”

“`A Daniel come to judgment!'” cried his wife.