Roe, Edward Payson, 1838-1888 [1872], Barriers burned away. (Dodd & Mead, New York) [word count] [eaf667T].
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CHAPTER I. LOVE UNKNOWN.
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From its long sweep over the unbroken prairie, a
heavier blast than usual shook the slight frame house.
The windows rattled in the casements, as if shivering in
their dumb way in the December storm. So open and
defective was the dwelling in its construction, that eddying
currents of cold air found admittance at various
points—in some instances carrying with them particles
of the fine, sharp, hail-like snow that the gale was driving
before it in blinding fury.
Seated at one of the windows, peering out into the
gathering gloom of the swiftly coming night, was a pale,
faded woman, with lustrous dark eyes. An anxious light
shone from them, as she tried in vain to catch a glimpse
of the darkening road that ran about fifty yards distant
from the house. As the furious blast shook the frail tenement,
and circled round her in chilly currents from many
a crack and crevice, she gave a short, hacking cough, and
drew a thin shawl closer about her slight frame.
The unwonted violence of the wind had its effect upon
another occupant of the room. From a bed in the corner
near the stove came a feeble, hollow voice,
“Wife!”
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In a moment the woman was bending over the bed,
and in a voice full of patient tenderness answered,
“Well, dear.”
“Has he come?”
“Not yet; but he must be here soon.”
The word “must” was emphasized in such a way as to
mean doubt rather than certainty, as if trying to assure
her own mind of a fact about which painful misgivings
could not be banished. The quick ear of the sick man
caught the tone, and in a querulous voice he said,
“O! if he should not get here in time, it would be
the last bitter drop in my cup, now full and running over.”
“Dear husband, if human strength and love can accomplish
it, he will be here soon. But the storm is indeed
frightful, and were the case less urgent, I could
almost wish he would not try to make his way through it.
But then we know what Dennis is; he never stops to
consider difficulties, but pushes right on—and if—if he
doesn't—if it is possible, he will be here before very long.”
In spite of herself, the mother's heart showed its anxiety,
and too late for remedy, she saw the effect upon her
husband. He raised himself in bed with sudden and unwonted
strength. His eyes grew wild and almost fierce,
and in a sharp, hurried voice, he said,
“You don't think there is danger? There is no fear
of his getting lost? If I thought that I would curse God
and die.
“O Dennis, my husband, God forbid that you should
speak thus. How can you feel so toward our best friend?”
“What kind of a friend has He been to me, pray?
Has not my life been one long series of misfortunes?
Have I not been disappointed in all my hopes? I once
believed in God and I tried to serve Him. But if, as I have
been taught, all this evil and misfortune was ordered and
made my inevitable lot by Him, He has not been my
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friend, but my enemy. He's been against me, not for
me.”
In the Winter twilight the man's emaciated, unshorn
face had the ghostly, ashen hue of death. From cavernous
sockets his eyes gleamed with a terribly vindictive
light, akin to insanity, and, in a harsh, high voice, as unnatural
as his appearance and words, he continued:
“Remember what I have gone through! What I have
suffered! How often the cup of success that I was raising
to my lips has been dashed to the ground!”
“But, Dennis, think a moment.”
“Ah! haven't I thought till my heart is gall and my
brain bursting? Haven't I, while lying here, hopelessly
dying, gone over my life again and again? Haven't I
lived over every disappointment, and taken every step
downward a thousand times? Remember the pleasant,
plentiful home I took you from, under the great elms in
Connecticut. Your father did not approve of your marrying
me, and said I was only a poor school-teacher. But
you know then that I had every prospect of getting the village
academy, but with my luck another got ahead of me.
Then I determined to study law. What hopes I had! I
already grasped political honors that seemed within my
reach, for you know I was a ready speaker. If my friends
could only have seen that I was peculiarly fitted for public
life and advanced me sufficient means, I would have
returned it tenfold. But no; I was forced into other
things for which I had no great aptness or knowledge,
and years of struggling poverty and repeated disappointment
followed. At last your father died and gave us
enough to buy a cheap farm out here. But why go over
our experience in the West? My plan of making sugar
from the sorghum, which promised so brilliantly, has
ended in the most wretched failure of all. And now money
has gone, health has gone, and soon my miserable life
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will be over. Our boy must come back from college, and
you and the two little ones—what will you do?” and the
man covered his head with the blanket and wept aloud.
His poor wife, borne down by the torrent of his sorrow,
was on her knees at his bedside, with her face buried in
her hands, weeping also.
But suddenly he started up. His sobs ceased. The
tears congealed upon his face. His eyes grew hard and
fierce, and his hands clenched.
“But he was coming,” he said. “He may get lost in
the storm this bitter Winter night.”
He grasped his wife roughly by the arm. She was astonished
at his sudden strength, and raised a tearful, startled
face to his. It was well she could not see its terrible
expression in the dusk; but she shuddered as he
hissed in her ear,
“If this should happen—if my miserable death is the
cause of his death—if my accursed destiny involves him,
your staff and hope, in so horrible a fate, what have I to
do but curse God and die?
It seemed to the poor woman that her heart would
burst with the agony of that moment. As the storm had
increased, a terrible dread had chilled her very soul.
Every louder blast than usual had caused her an internal
shiver, while for her husband's sake she had controlled
herself outwardly. Like a shipwrecked man who is clinging
to a rock, that he fears the tide will submerge, she had
watched the snow rise from one rail to another along the
fence. When darkness set in it was half way up to the
top rail, and she knew it was drifting. The thought of
her ruddy, active, joyous-hearted boy, whose affection and
hopefulness had been the broad track of sunlight on her
hard path—the thought of his lying white and still beneath
one of these great banks, just where she could never know
till Spring rains and suns revealed to an indifferent
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stranger his sleeping-place, now nearly overwhelmed her also,
and even her faith wavered on the brink of the dark gulf
of despair into which her husband was sinking. Left to
herself, she might have sunk for a time, though her sincere
belief in God's goodness and love would have triumphed.
But her womanly, unselfish nature, her long
habit of sustaining and comforting her husband, came to
her aid. Breathing a quick prayer to heaven, which was
scarcely more than a gasp and a glance upward, she asked,
hardly knowing what she said—
“And what if he is not lost? What if God restores
him safe and well?”
She shuddered after she had thus spoken, for she saw
that her husband's belief in the hostility of God had
reached almost the point of insanity. If this test failed,
would he not, in spite of all she could say or do, curse
God and die, as he had said? But she had been guided
in her words more than she knew. He that careth for the
fall of the sparrow, had not forgotten them in their sore
extremity.
The man in answer to her question relaxed his hold
upon her arm, and with a long breath fell back on his
pillow.
“Ah!” said he, “if I could only see him again safe
and well, if I could only leave you with him as your protector
and support, I believe I could forgive all the past
and be reconciled even to my hard lot.”
“God gives you opportunity so to do, my father, for
here I am safe and sound.”
The soft snow had muffled his footsteps, and his approach
had been unnoted. Entering in at the back door,
and passing through the kitchen, he had surprised his parents
in the painful scene above described. As he saw
his mother's form in dim outline kneeling at the bed, her
face buried in its covering,—as he heard his father's
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significant words, the quick-witted youth realized the situation.
While he loved his father dearly, and honored him
for his many good traits, he was also conscious of his
faults, especially this most serious one now threatening
such fatal consequences—that of charging to God the
failures and disappointments resulting from defects in his
own character. It seemed as if a merciful Providence
was about to use this awful dread of his death—a calamity
that rose far above and overshadowed all the past—
as the means of winning back the alienated heart of this
weak and erring man.
The effect of his sudden and unexpected presence in
the sick room was most marked. The poor mother who
had shown such self-control and patient endurance before,
now gave way utterly, and clung for a few moments around
her son's neck with hysterical energy, then in strong reaction,
fainted away. The strain upon her worn and over-taxed
system had been too severe.
At first his father could only look through the dusk at
the outline of his son with a bewildered stare, his mind
too weak to comprehend the truth. But soon he too was
sobbing for joy.
But when his wife suddenly became a dead and lifeless
weight in his son's arms, and he in wild alarm cried,
“Mother, what is the matter? Speak to me! O I have
killed her by my rash entrance,” the sick man's manner
changed, and his eyes again became dry and hard, and
even in the darkness had a strange glitter.
“Is your mother dead?” he asked in a low, hoarse
voice.
“O mother, speak to me,” cried his son, forgetting for
a time his father.
For a moment there was death-like silence. Then the
young man groped for an old settle in the corner of the
room, and laid his mother tenderly upon it and sprang for
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a light, but as he passed his father's bed that same strong
grasp fell upon his arm that his mother had shuddered under
a little before, and the question was again hissed in
his ear, “Is your mother dead?” For a moment he had
no power to answer, and his father continued,
“What a fool I was to expect God to show mercy or
kindness to me or mine while I was above ground. You
are only brought home to suffer more than death in seeing
your mother die. May that God that has followed me all
my life, not with blessings—”
“Hush, father!” cried his son, in loud, commanding
tones. “Hush, I entreat,” and in his desperation he actually
put his hand over his father's mouth.
The poor woman must have been dead, indeed, had
she long remained deaf to the voice of her beloved son,
and his loud tones partially revived her. In a faint voice
she called,
“Dennis!”
With hands suddenly relaxed, and hearts almost stilled
in their beating, father and son listened for a second.
Again, a little louder, through that dark and silent room,
was heard the faint call,
“Dennis?”
Springing to her side, her son exclaimed,
“O mother, I am here; don't leave us; in mercy don't
leave us.”
“It was I she called,” said his father.
With unnatural strength he had tottered across the
room, and taking his wife's hand, cried,
“O Ethel, don't die; don't fill my already full cup to
overflowing with bitterness.”
Their familiar voices were the best of remedies. After
a moment she sat up, and passing her hand across her
brow as if to clear away confusion of mind, said,
“Don't be alarmed; it's only a faint turn. I don't
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wonder though that you are frightened, for I never was
so before.”
Poor woman, amid all the emergencies of her hard lot,
she had never in the past given way so far.
Then, becoming aware of her husband's position, she
exclaimed—
“Why, Dennis, my husband, out of your bed—you will
catch your death.”
“Ah, wife, that matters little if you and Dennis live.”
“But it matters much to me,” cried she, springing up.
By this time her son had struck a light, and they were
able to look on each other's faces. The unnatural strength,
the result of excitement, was fast leaving her husband.
The light revealed him helplessly leaning on the couch
where his wife had laid. His face was ashen pale, and he
was gasping for breath. Tenderly they carried him back
to his bed, and he was too weak now to do more than
quietly lie upon it and look at them. After replenishing
the fire, and looking at the little ones that were sleeping
in the outer room, they shaded the lamp, and sat down at
his bedside, while the mother asked her son many eager
questions as to his escape. He told them how he had
struggled through the snow till almost exhausted, when he
was overtaken by a farmer with a strong team, and thus
enabled to make the journey in safety.
As the sick man looked and listened, his face grew
softer and more quiet in its expression.
Then the young man, remembering, said,
“I bought the medicines you wrote for, mother, at
Blankville. This, the druggist said, would produce quiet
sleep, and surely father needs it after the excitement of
the evening.”
The opiate was given, and soon the regular, quiet
breathing of the sick man showed that it had taken effect.
A plain but plentiful supper, which the anxious mother had
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prepared hours before, was placed upon the kitchen-table,
and the young man did ample justice to it. For the moment
the cravings of his heart were satisfied in meeting
his kindred after absence, he became conscious of the
keenest hunger. Toiling through the snow for hours in
the face of the December storm, had taxed his system to
the utmost, and now he felt the need of food and rest.
After supper he honestly meant to watch at his father's
bedside, while his mother slept; but he had scarcely seated
himself on the old settle, before sleep, like an armed
man, overpowered him, and in spite of all his efforts he was
soon bound in the dreamless slumber of healthful youth.
But with eyes so wide and lustrous that it would seem
sleep could never close them again, the wife and mother,
pale and silent, watched between her loved ones. The
troubled expression was gone, for the ranks of her little
band had closed up, and all were about her in one more
brief rest in the forward and uncertain march of life. She
seemed looking intently at something far off—something
better discerned by the spiritual than the natural eye. Disappointments
had been bitter, poverty hard and grinding,
but she had learned to escape into a large world that was
fast becoming real to her strong imagination. While her
husband was indulging in chimerical visions of boundless
prosperity here on earth, which he would bring to pass by
some lucky stroke of fortune or invention, she also was
picturing to herself grander things which God would realize
to her beyond time and earth. When alone, in moments
of rest from incessant toil, she would take down the
great family Bible, and with her finger on some description
of the “new heavens and new earth” as the connecting
link between her promise and her strong realization of
it, she would look away with that intent gaze. The new
world, purged from sin and sorrow, would rise before her
with more than Eden loveliness. Her spirit would revel
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in its shadowy walks and sunny glades, and as the crowning
joy she would meet her Lord and Saviour in some secluded
place, and sit listening at His feet like Mary of old.
Thus, in the strong illusion of her imagination, Christ's
words seemed addressed directly to her, while she looked
up into His face with wrapt attention. Instead of reading
her Lord's familiar sayings, she seemed to listen to them as
did the early disciples. After a little time she would close
the Bible and go back to her hard practical life with an
awed yet strengthened hopeful expression, like that which
must have rested on the disciples' faces on coming down
from the Mount of Transfiguration.
CHAPTER II. LOVE KNOWN.
Hour after hour passed. The storm was dying away,
and at times, through broken rifts in the clouds, stars
would gleam out. Instead of the continued rush and roar,
the winds blew in gusts at longer intervals, and nature
seemed like a passionate child that had cried itself to
sleep. The fitful gusts were like the involuntary sobs that
heave the breast, till at last quiet and peace take the place
of stormy anger.
It seemed as if the silent watcher never could withdraw
her gaze from the beautiful world of her vision.
Never had it seemed so near and real before, and she was
unconscious of the lapse of time. Suddenly she heard
her name called:
“Ethel!”
If the voice had come from the imaginary world
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present to her fancy, it could not have startled her more for
a moment. Then she realized that it was her husband
who spoke. He had called her name in his sleep, and yet
it seemed a call of God. At once it flashed through her
mind that in dreaming of a glorious and happy future,
she was forgetting him and his need.
She turned the light upon his face. Never had he
looked so pale and wan, and she realized, as never before,
that he might be near his end. In an agony of self-reproach
and yearning tenderness she knelt at his bedside
and prayed as she never prayed before. Could he
go home? Could he be received, feeling toward his Father
as he did? He had talked of forgiving when he stood so
sorely in need of Christ's forgiveness. And she had been
forgetting that need, when every moment might involve
her husband's salvation. Out of his sleep he had called
her to his help. Perhaps God had used his unconscious
lips to summon her. With a faith naturally strong, but
greatly increased by the vision of the night, she went, as
it were, directly into the presence of her Lord, and entreated
in behalf of her husband.
As she thus knelt at the bedside, with her face buried
in the covering, she felt a hand placed softly on her head,
and again her husband's voice called—
“Ethel!”
She looked up and saw that he was awake now, his
eyes fixed on her with an expression of softness and tenderness
that she had not seen for many a long day. The
old, restless, anxious light had gone.
“What were you doing, Ethel?” he asked.
“Praying that you might see that God loved you—that
you might be reconciled to Him.”
Two great tears gathered in the man's eyes. His lips
quivered a moment, then he said, brokenly—
“Surely God must love me, or He would never have
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given me—a wife—who would watch and pray for me—
the long Winter night.”
“O Dennis, forgive me; I cannot deceive you; for a
time I forgot everything, and just wandered
through paradise alone. But in your sleep you called me
to your help, and now it seems as if I could not be happy
even there without you. I pray you, in Christ's stead, be
reconciled to God,” she pleaded, falling into the familiar
language of Scripture, as she often did under strong emotion.
Then, in low, thrilling words, she portrayed to him
the “new earth” of her vision, wherein “God shall wipe
away all tears, and there shall be no more death, neither
sorrow nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain.”
She showed him how there all might still be well—that
eternity was long enough to make up for the ills of our
brief troubled life here. But his mind seemed preoccupied.
These future joys did not take that hold upon him
that she longed to see. His eyes seemed to grow dim in
tender, tearful wistfulness, rather than become inspired
with immortal hopes. At last he spoke:
“Ethel, it seemed as if I heard some one calling me.
I woke up—and there you—were praying—for me. I
heard my name,—I heard God's name,—and I knew that
you were interceding for me. It seemed to break my hard
heart right up like the fountains of the great deep to see
you there,—praying for me,—in the cold, cold room. (The
room was not cold; it was not the Winter's chill that he
was feeling, but a chill that comes over the heart even in
the tropical Summer.) “Then, as you prayed, a great
light seemed to shine into my soul. I saw that I had been
charging God unjustly with all my failures and misfortunes,
when I had to thank myself for them. Like a wilful
child, I had been acting as if God had but to carry
out my wild schemes. I remembered all my unreasonable
murmurings and anger; I remembered the dreadful
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words I was on the point of uttering to-night, and for a
moment it seemed as if the pit would open and swallow
me up.”
He paused for breath, and then went on.
“But as my despairing eyes glanced restlessly around,
they fell upon the face of my son, noble and beautiful
even in sleep, and I remembered how God had brought
him safely back. Then your low, pleading tone fixed my
attention again. It seemed to me that God's love must
be better and stronger than human love, and yet you had
loved me through all my folly and weakness: so perhaps
had He. Then I felt that such a prayer as you were offering
could not remain unheard—you seemed to pray so
earnestly. I felt that I ought to pray myself, and I commenced
calling out in my heart, `God be merciful to me—
a sinner.” Then, while I prayed, I seemed to see my Saviour's
face right above your bowed head. O how reproachfully
He looked at me, and yet His expression was
full of love, too. It was just such a look, I think, that
He fixed on Peter when he denied Him. Then it seemed
that I fell down at His feet and wept bitterly, and as I did
so the look of reproach passed away, and only an expression
of love and forgiveness remained. A sudden peace
came into my soul which I cannot describe; a rush of
tears into my eyes, and when I had wiped them away, I
saw only your bowed form praying—praying on for me.
And Ethel, dear, my patient, much-enduring wife, I believe
God has answered your prayer. I feel that I am a
new man.”
“God be praised!” exclaimed his wife with streaming
eyes. Then in a sudden rush of tenderness, she clasped
her husband to her heart, her strong love seeming like the
echo of God's love, the earnest here on earth of that above
where all barriers shall pass away.
The sound of their voices toward the last had
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awakened their son, and he now stood beside them with wet eyes
and heaving breast.
When his wife rose from her embrace, she saw that her
husband was very weak. For a few moments he gasped
for breath. Then getting a little easier, he looked up and
saw his son, and exclaimed—
“Thank God—my boy,—thank God—you are here.
Ah, my son,—I have learned much—since we spoke together
last. I have seen that—I have much more—need
of forgivness than—to forgive. Thanks to your—mother's
prayers,—I believe,—I feel sure that I am forgiven.”
“More thanks to God's love, Dennis,” said his wife.
“God wanted to forgive you all the while more than we
wanted Him to. Thank God, who is rich in mercy, for
His great love wherewith He loved us. He is long suffering
to us-ward, not willing that any should perish.”
“Those are sweet words, wife, and I have found them
true.”
For a little time they sat with clasped hands, with
hearts too full to speak. Faint streaks along the Eastern
horizon showed that the dawn was near. The sick man
gave a slight shiver, and passed his hands across his eyes
as if to clear away a mist, and then said feebly,
“Dennis, my son,—won't you turn up the lamp a little—
and fix the fire? The room seems getting so cold—and
dark.”
The wife looked at her son in quick alarm. The stove
was red-hot, and the lamp no longer shaded, stood openly
on the table.
The son saw that he must take the lead in the last sad
scene, for in the presence of death the heart of the loving,
constant woman clung to her husband as never before.
Throwing herself on her knees by his side, she cried with
loud, choking sobs,
“O Dennis,—husband,—I fear—you are leaving me!”
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“Is this death?” he asked of his son, in an awed tone.
“I fear it is, father,” said the young man gently.
After a moment his father said composedly,
“I think you are right. I feel that—my end is near.
Ethel,—darling,—for my sake—try to be calm—during the
last few moments I am with you.”
A few stifled sobs and the room was still.
“I have but little time to—put my house—in order,—
and if I had months—I could not do it. Dennis, I leave
you — little else —than debts,—embarrassments, and the
record of many failures. You must do—the best you can.
I am not able to advise you. Only never love this world
as I have. It will disappoint you. And whatever happens,
never lose faith in the goodness of God. This has been my
bane. It has poisoned my life here, and had it not been
for this dear wife, it would have been my destruction hereafter.
For long years—only her patient love—has stood
between me and a miserable end. Next to God—I commit
her and your little sisters to your care. Be true to
this most sacred trust.”
Ethel, dear, my more than wife,—my good angel,—
what shall I say to you?” And the man's lip quivered, and
for a time he could say no more. But an unwonted composure
had come into his wife's manner. The eyes were
gaining that intent look which was their expression when
picturing to herself scenes in the life beyond.
“O Dennis, we seem just on the confines of a glorious
world,—it is so near, so real—it seems as if but a step
would take us all into it. O if you could but see its beauties,
its glories,—if you could hear the music, you would
not fear to enter. It seems as if we were there together
now.”
“O Ethel, come back, come back,” cried her husband
piteously. “I am not worthy of all that. I have no heart
for glory now. I can see only my Savour's face looking—
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at me—with love and forgiveness. That is heaven enough
for me,—and when you come—my cup will be more than
full. And now—farewell—for a little while.”
For a few moments they clung to each other. Then
the little girls were brought, and their father pressed his
cold lips to their warm, fresh young faces, wondering at a
scene they could not understand, and tearful because of
the tears of others.
He was now going very fast. Suddenly he turned to
his son and said,
“Dennis, repeat to me that verse, `This is a faithful
saying.'”
With a hoarse voice and broken by emotion, his son
complied—
“This is a faithful saying, and worthy of all acceptation,
that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.”
“Of whom I am the chief,” said his father emphatically.
“And yet”—his face lighting up with a wan smile, like
a sudden ray of light falling on a clouded landscape before
the sun sinks below the horizon—“and yet forgiven.”
By and bye he again whispered—
“Forgiven!”
Then his eyes closed, and all was still. They thought
he was gone. But as they stood over him in awed, breathless
silence, his lips again moved. Bending down, they
heard in faint, far away tones, like an echo from the other
side,
“Forgiven!”
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CHAPTER III. LAUNCHED.
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Scarcely was the last word spoken when a sudden glory
filled the room. So brilliant was the light that mother
and son were startled. Then they saw what had been unnoted
before, that day had broken, and that the sun,
emerging from a single dark cloud, was shining, full
orbed, into the apartment with a light that, reflected from
myriads of snowy crystals, was doubly luminous. Nevertheless
it seemed to them a good omen, an earnest, an
emblem of the purer, whiter light into which his cleansed
and pardoned spirit had entered. The snow-wrapped
prairie was indeed pure and bright, but it was cold, whereas
no tropical Summer was ever so warm as the Father's embrace,
receiving home the long absent, erring, but forgiven
child.
Though the bereaved wife believed that a brighter
dawn than that which made the world resplendent around
her, had come for her husband, still a sense of desolation
came over her, which only those can understand who
have known the loss of one who filled the greater part of
time, thought, and heart. As she saw her first and only
love, the companion of a life which, though hard, still had
the light and solace of mutual affection—as she saw him
so still, and realized that she would hear him speak no
more—complain no more—(for even the weaknesses of
those we love are sadly missed after death)—a flood of
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that natural sorrow, which Christianity consoles, but was
never designed to prevent, overwhelmed her, and she gave
way utterly.
Her son took her in his arms and held her silently,
believing that unspoken sympathy was worth more at such
a time than any words.
After the convulsive sobbing had somewhat ceased, he
struck the right chord by saying—“Mother, father is not
lost to us. He himself said good-bye only for a little
while. Then you have us to love and think of; and remember,
what could we do without you?”
The unselfish woman would have tried to rise from a
bed of death to do anything needed by her loved ones,
and this reminding her of those still dependent on her
care, proved the most potent of restoratives. She at once
arose and said,
“Dennis, you are right. It is indeed wrong for me to
give way thus, when I have so much to be thankful for—
so much to live for. But, oh Dennis, you cannot understand
this separation of husband and wife, for God said,
“they twain shall be one flesh; and it seems as if half my
very life had gone, as if half my heart had been wrenched
away, and only a bleeding fragment left.”
The patter of feet was heard on the kitchen floor; the
door opened, and two little figures in white trailing night-gowns
entered. At first they looked in shy wonder and
perplexity at their tall brother, whom they had not seen
for months, but at his familiar voice, recalling many a
romp and merry time together, they rushed to his arms
as of old.
Then they drew near the bed to give their father his
accustomed morning kiss; but as they approached, he
seemed so still that awe began to creep over their little
faces. A dim recollection of the farewell kiss given a few
hours before, when scarcely awake, recurred to them.
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“Father,” said the eldest, (about five), “we want to
give you good-morning kiss.”
Seldom had their father been so sick or irritable but
that he reached out his arms to his little ones and gave
them a warm embrace that soothed and did him more
good than he realized. The influence of trusting children
is sometimes the most subtile oil that can be thrown
on the troubled waters of life.
But as the little ones saw that their father made no response
to their approach and appeal, they timidly drew a
step nearer, and looked into his wasted, yet peaceful face,
with its closed eyes and motionless repose, and then turning
to their mother, said in a loud whisper, with faces full
of perplexity and trouble,
“Is papa asleep?”
The little figures in their white drapery, standing over
their dead father, waiting to perform the usual, well-remembered
household rite, proved a scene too touching
for the poor mother's self-control, and again she gave way
to an irresistible burst of sorrow. But her son, true to
his resolution to be the stay and strength of the family,
hastened to the children, and taking them by the hand,
said gently,
“Yes, little ones, papa is asleep. It may be a long
time before he wakes up, but he surely will by-and-by, and
then he will never be sick any more. Come, we will go
into the other room and sing a pretty hymn about papa's
sleep.”
The thought of hearing their brother sing, lured them
away at once, for he had a mellow tenor voice that seemed
to the little girl's sweeter than a bird's. A moment later
the widow's heart was comforted by hearing those words
that have been balm for so many wounds:
“Asleep in Jesus! blessed sleep!
From which none ever wakes to weep.”
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Then putting on his sisters' flannel wrappers, he sat
them down by the fire, telling stories in the meantime to
divert their thoughts from the scene they had just witnessed.
Thus no horror of death was suffered to enter their
young minds. They were not brought face to face with a
dreadful mystery they could not understand, but which
would leave a sinister impression for life. Gradually they
would learn the truth, but still the first impression would
remain, and their father's death would ever be to them a
sleep from which he would wake by-and-by, “never to be
sick any more.”
He set about preparations for their simple morning
meal so deftly and easily as to show that it was no unaccustomed
task. A sister older than himself had died
while yet an infant, leaving a heartache till he came—
God's best remedy. Then two sisters had died after his
day, and he was compelled to be to his mother daughter
as well as son, to make himself useful in every household
task. His father had been wrapped up in useless inventions,
vain enterprises, and was much away. So mother
and son were constantly together. He had early become
a great comfort and help to her, God blessing her in this
vital respect, though her lot seemed hard in other ways.
Thus while he had the heart and courage of a man, he also
had the quick, supple hand and gentle bearing of a woman,
when occasion required. As proof of his skill, a tempting
meal from the simplest materials was placed smoking on
the table, and the little girls were soon chatting contentedly
over their breakfast. In the meantime the wife within
had drawn near her dead husband and taken his cold
hand. For awhile she dwelt on the past in strong and
tearful agony, then in accordance with long-established
habit, her thoughts went forward into the future. In imagination
she was present at her husband's reception in
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heaven. The narrow, meagre room melted away, and her
feet seemed on the “golden pavement.” The jubilant
clash of heavenly cymbals thrilled her heart. She seemed
taking part in a triumphal march, led by celestial minstrelsy,
toward the throne. She saw her husband mount its
white glistening steps, so changed, and yet so like his
former self when full of love, youth and hope. He appeared
overwhelmed with a sense of unworthiness, but his
reception was all the more kind and reassuring. Then
as he departed from the royal presence, crowned with
God's love and favor forever, though he had all heaven
before him, he seemed looking for her as that he longed
for most, and her strong effort to reach his side aroused
her from her revery as from a dream. But her vision had
strengthened her, as was ever the case, and the bitterness
of grief was past. Imprinting a long kiss on her husband's
cold forehead, she joined her family in the outer room with
calm and quiet mien. Her son saw and understood the
change in his mother's manner, and from long experience
knew its cause.
We need not dwell on what followed—preparations for
burial, the funeral, the return to a home from which one
who had filled so large a place had gone—a home on
which rested the shadow of death. These are old familiar
scenes, acted over and over every day, and yet in the little
households where they occur there is a terrible sense of
novelty as if then happening for the first time. The family
feel as if they were passing through a chaotic period,
the old world breaking up and vanishing, and a new formation
and combination of all elements that make up life,
taking place.
Four days after the death a small procession passed
from the farmhouse to the church, and from thence to the
graveyard. Shivering with cold, on the bleak snow-clad
prairie, they laid away in the frozen earth the body of one
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who was himself in the warmth and comfort of the “Father's
house.”
Many changes followed. Their country home and
farm was given up and sold. Part of a small house in the
village had been rented as their future residence. A very
small annuity from some property in the East, left by her
father, and Dennis's labor, were all the family had to depend
on now—a meagre prospect for the present.
But Dennis was very sanguine. For in this respect
he had his father's temperament. The world was all before
him, and Chicago, the young and giant city of the West,
seemed an Eldorado, where fortune, and perhaps fame,
might soon be won. Not only would he place the family
beyond want, but surround them with every luxury.
Dennis, wise and apt as far as his knowledge went, was
in some respects as simple and ignorant as a child. There
were many phases and conditions of society of which he
had never dreamed. Of the ways of the rich and fashionable,
of the character of artificial life, he had not the
remotest experience. He could not see nor understand
the distinctions and barriers that to the world are more
impassable than those of ignorance, stupidity, and even
gross immorality. He would learn to his infinite surprise,
that even in a Western democratic city, men would be
welcomed in society, whose hand no pure woman or honorable
man ought to touch, while he, a gentleman by birth,
education, and especially character, would not be recognized
at all. He would discover that wealth and the
endorsement of a few fashionable people, though all else
were lacking, would be a better passport than the noblest
qualities and fine abilities. Of course there must be outward
polish. In the former case, entrance would be
secured at once through the jealously guarded barriers;
in the latter it must be won inch by inch.
As we follow him from the seclusion of his simple
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[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
country home out into the complicated life of the world,
all this will become apparent.
Long and earnest was the conversation between mother
and son before they separated. Pure and noble were
the maxims that she sought to instill into his mind. They
may not have been worldly wise, but they were heavenly
wise. Though some of her advice in the letter might avail
little, since she knew less of the world than her son, still
in its spirit it contained the best of all wisdom, profitable
for this life and the life to come. But she sent him forth
to seek his fortune and theirs with less solicitude than most
mothers have just cause to feel, for she knew that he had
Christian principle, and had passed through a discipline
that had sobered and matured him far beyond his years.
She saw however in every word and act his father's sanguine
temperament. He was expecting much, hoping far
more, and she feared that he also was destined to many a
bitter disappointment. Still she believed that he possessed
a good strong substratum of common sense, which, combined
with the lessons of faith and patience that God
had taught him, would prove the ballast his father had
lacked.
She sought to modify his towering hopes and rose-colored
visions, but to little purpose. Young, buoyant, in
splendid health, with a surplus of warm blood tingling in
every vein, how could he take a prudent, distrustful view
of the world? It seemed to beckon him smilingly into
any path of success he might choose. Had not many won
the victory? and who ever felt braver and more determined
than he, with the needs of the dear ones at home
added to his own incentives and ambitions? So, with
many embraces, lingering kisses and farewell words, that
lost not their meaning though said over and over again,
they parted. The stage carried him to the nearest railway
station, and the express train bore him rapidly toward
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[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]
the great city where he expected to find all that a man's
heart most craves on earth.
Sanguine as his father, constant as his mother, with a
nature that would go right or wrong with tremendous energy,
as direction might be given it, he was destined to
live no tame, colorless life, but would either enjoy much,
or else suffer much. But to his young heart, swelling with
hopes, burning with zeal to distinguish himself and provide
for those he was leaving, even the bleak snow-clad
prairie seemed an arena in which he might accomplish a
vague something.
CHAPTER IV. COLD WATER.
The train, somewhat impeded by snow, landed Dennis
in Chicago about nine P. M. In his pocket he had ten
dollars, ample seed corn, he believed, for a golden harvest.
This large sum was expected to provide for him till he
found a situation, and received the first instalment of salary.
He would inform his employer, when he found him,
how he was situated, and ask to be paid early and often.
Without a misgiving he shouldered the little trunk
that contained his wordly effects, and stalked off to a neighboring
hotel, that, from its small proportions, suggested a
modest bill. With a highly important man-of-the-world
manner he scrawled his name in an illegible, student-like
hand on the dingy dog-eared register. With a gracious,
condescending air he ordered the filthy, tobacco-stained
porter to take his trunk to his room.
The bar-room was the only place provided for strangers.
Regarding the bar with a holy horror, he got away
-- 031 --
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from it as far as possible, and seated himself by the stove,
on which simmered a kettle of hot-water, for the concoction
of punches, which seemed more in demand at that
hotel than beds. Becoming disgusted with the profanity
and obscenity down stairs, he sought refuge in the cold,
miserable little room assigned to him. Putting on his
overcoat, he wrapped himself up in a coverlid and threw
himself down on the outside of the bed.
The night passed slowly. He was too uncomfortable,
too excited to sleep. The scenes of the past blended confusedly
with visions of the future, and it was nearly morning
when he fell into an unquiet slumber.
When at last aroused by the shriek of a locomotive, he
found that the sun was up and shining on the blotched
and broken wall above him. A few moments sufficed for
his toilet, and yet, with his black curling hair, noble forehead,
and dark, silken upper lip, many an exquisite would
have envied the result.
His plan was simple enough—dictated indeed by the
necessities of the case. He must at once find a situation
in which he could earn sufficient to support his mother and
sisters and himself. Thence he could look around till he
found some calling that promised most. Having left college
and given up his chosen profession of the law, he had
resolved to adopt any honest pursuit that seemed to lead
most quickly to fortune.
Too impatient to eat his breakfast, he sallied forth into
the great city, knowing not a soul in it. His only recommendations
and credentials were his young, honest face,
and a letter from his minister, saying that he was a member
of the church in Blankville, “in good and regular
standing,” and, “as far as he knew, a most worthy young
man;”—rather meagre capital amid the competitions of
a large city. But, with courage bold and high, he strode
off toward the business part of the town.
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As he passed the dépot it occurred to him that an
opening might exist there. It would be a good post of
observation, and perhaps he would be able to slip home
oftener. So he stopped and asked the man in the ticket-office
blandly,
“Do you wish to employ a young man in connection
with this dépot or road in any capacity?”
The ticket-man stared at him a moment through his
window, frowned, and curtly said,
“No!”
Then went on counting, what seemed to poor Dennis,
millions of money. The man had no right to say yes or
no, since he was a mere official, occupying his own little
niche, with no authority beyond. But an inveterate feud
seemed to exist between this man and the public. He
acted as if the world in general, instead of any one in particular,
had greatly wronged him. It might be a meek
woman with a baby, or a bold, red-faced drover, a delicately-gloved
or horny hand that reached him the change,
but it was all the same. He knitted his brows, pursed up
his mouth, and dealt with them in a quick, jerking way, as
if he could not bear the sight of them, and wanted to be
rid of them as soon as possible. Still these seem just the
peculiarities that find favor with railroad corporations, and
the man would probably vent his spite against the public
throughout his natural life.
From him, however, Dennis received his first dash of
cold water, which he minded but little, and went on his
way with a good-natured laugh at the crusty old fellow.
He was soon in the business part of the city. Applying
at a large dry goods store, he was told that they wanted
a cash boy; “but he would not do—one quarter his size
would answer.”
“Then I will go where they want the other three-fourths
and pay accordingly, said Dennis, and stalked out.
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He continued applying at every promising place, but
to no purpose. It was mid-winter; trade was dull; and
with clerks idling about the stores, employers were in no
mood to add to their number.
At last he found a place where an assistant book-keeper
was wanted. Dennis's heart sprang up within him,
but sank again as he remembered how little he knew of
the art. But I can learn quickly, he thought to himself.
The man looked carelessly at his poor little letter, and
then said, in a business-like tone,
“Show me a specimen of your handwriting.”
Poor Dennis had never written a good hand, but at
college had learned to write a miserable scrawl, in rapidly
taking notes of lectures. Moreover, he was excited, and
could not do himself justice. Even from his sanguine
heart hope ebbed away; but he took the pen and scratched
a line or two, of which he himself was ashamed. The
man looked at them with an expression of mild disgust,
and then said—
“Mr. Jones, hand me your ledger.”
The head book-keeper passed the volume to his employer,
who showed Dennis entries looking as from copper-plate,
and quietly remarked—
“The young man we employ must write like that, and
thoroughly understand book-keeping. Good-morning,
sir.”
Dennis walked out, feeling almost as crestfallen as if
he had been convicted of stealing, but the noon-day sun
was shining in the sky, the streets were full of life and
bustle, and hope revived.
“I will find the right niche before long,” he said to
himself, and trudged on.
Some time after he entered a retail drygoods store.
“Yes, they wanted a young man there, but he was
rather old.”
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Still as the merchant saw that Dennis was fine looking,
would appear well behind the counter, and make a taking
salesman with the ladies, he stopped to parley a moment
more.
“Do you understand the business?”
“No sir, but I can soon learn, for I am young and
strong.”
“Strength is not what is needed, but experience.
Ours is not the kind of work for Paddies.”
“Well, sir,” said Dennis, rather shortly, “I'm not a
Paddy.”
The dapper little retailer frowned slightly at Dennis'
tone, and continued.
“You spoke as if main strength was the principal
thing. Have you had any experience at all?”
“No sir!”
But seeing intelligence in the young man's face, and
scenting a sharp bargain, he said,
“Why then, you would have to begin at the very beginning,
and learn the name of everything, its quality, etc.”
“Yes sir; but I would do my very best.”
“Of course, of course, but nothing can take the place
of experience. I expect, under the circumstances, you
would look for very little remuneration the first year?”
“How much could you give?”
The man named a sum that would not have supported
Dennis alone.
He replied that though his services might not be worth
more than that, he was so situated that he could not take
a very small salary.
“Then bring something besides ignorance to the market,”
said the man, turning on his heel.
Dennis was now hungry, tired, and disappointed. Indeed
the calls of appetite became so clamorous that he
sought a cheap restaurant. After demolishing a huge plate
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
of such viands as could be had at little cost, he sat brooding
over a cup of coffee for an hour or more. The world
wore so different an aspect from what it had on the morning,
that he was lost in a sort of dull, painful wonder.
But the abundant meal and slight element of coffee
that colored the luke-warm water, quite heartened him
again. He resolved to go back to his hotel and find a
more quiet and comfortable place in which to lodge until
something permanent offered. He made what he considered
sufficient inquiry as to the right direction, and resolved
to save even the car-fare of five cents by walking
the distance.
But whether he had not understood the directions
rightly, or whether, brooding over the events of the day,
his mind had been too preocupied to heed them, he found
to his great disgust, after walking two or three miles, that
he had gone away instead of toward his destination. Angry
with himself, out of humor with all the world, the
latent obstinacy of his nature began to manifest itself.
Though everything went “contrairy,” there was one thing
under his control—himself—and he would make that do
the bidding of his will.
Turning on his heel, he resolved with dogged resolution
to walk back the whole distance. He would teach
himself a lesson. It was fine business, just when he needed
his wits so sorely, to commence blundering in this
style. No wonder he had failed during the day; he deserved
to fail in other respects, since in this one he had
not shown the good sense of a child.
When people are “out of sorts,” and things are going
wrong, the disposition to blame somebody or something is
almost universal. But we think that it will be found a
safe general rule, that the nobler the nature, the less worthy
of blame, the greater tendency to blame self rather
than anything else. Poor Dennis had no great cause for
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
bitter self-reproaches, and yet he plodded on with an intense
feeling of self-disgust.
To think that after New England schools and three
years in college he should write such a hand and have no
definite knowledge of book-keeping! “What had he learned,
he'd like to know?” Then to go and lose his way like
a country bumpkin, as he was—and he gnawed his lips
with vexation.
The street-cars glided often and invitingly by, but he
would not even look at them.
At last, foot-sore and fairly aching with cold and fatigue,
he reached the little hotel, which appeared more
miserable, obscure, and profane than ever. But a tempting
fiend seemed to have got into the gin and whiskey bottles
behind the red-nosed bartender. To his morbid
fancy and eyes, half-blinded with wind and cold, they appeared
to wink, beckon, and suggest—
“Drink and be merry; drink and forget your troubles.
We can make you feel as rich and glorious as a prince, in
ten minutes.”
For the first time in his life Dennis felt a strong temptation
to drink for the sake of the effects. When was a
man ever weak that the devil did not charge down upon
him?
But the evil and ruin wrought in one case proved another's
safeguard, for the door opened and a miserable
wreck of a man entered. As Dennis looked at his blotched,
sodden face, trembling hand, shuffling gait, and general
air of wretchedness, embodying and suggesting the worst
ills of humanity, he decided not to drink for the sake of
the effects.
Then came another rush of self-disgust that he had
even entertained such a temptation, and he flung himself
off supperless to bed.
As he bowed that night he could not pray as usual.
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For anger, passion with one's self, as well as with any one
else, renders true prayer impossible. But he went through
the form, and then wrapped himself up as before. The
wearied body soon mastered the perturbed mind, and he
fell into a heavy sleep that lasted till morning.
CHAPTER V. A HORNET'S NEST.
Dennis awoke greatly refreshed and strengthened.
For half an hour he lay quietly thinking over the scenes
of the preceding day; something of his old anger returned,
but he compressed his lips, and with a face expressing
the most resolute purpose, determined that the day before
him should tell a different story. Every faculty and energy
he possessed should be skilfully bent to the attainment
of his objects. Wise deliberation should precede everything.
He would write a few lines to his mother, decide
as to a lodging place, and then seek better success in another
part of the city. He went to the bar and inquired
as to his bill, and found that so far as bed and meals were
concerned, such as they were he could not find anything
cheaper in the city, the house evidently not depending on
these for its revenue. Disgusted as he was with his surroundings,
he resolved to lose no time in looking for a
new boarding place, but, after writing to his mother, start
off at once in search of something permanent. He was in
no mood to consult personal pleasure or wishes, and the
saving of time and money settled the question.
Where should he write? There was no place save a desk
at the end of the bar. Looking askance at the half-filled,
-- 038 --
[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
villanously-smelling bottle at his elbow, he wrote in a hand
stiff and unnatural (for he had resolved to change his scrawl
to a business hand at once), the following note:
Chicago, Ill., Jan. 10th.
“Dear Mother:—I arrived safely, and am very well.
I did not, yesterday, find a situation suited to my taste,
but expect better success to-day. I am just on the point
of starting out on my search, and when settled will write
you full particulars. Many kisses for yourself and the
little girls. Your affectionate son,
“Dennis.”
“There! there is nothing in that to worry mother, and
soon I shall have good news for her.” If he had seen its
reception, he would have learned differently. The intuitions
of love are keen, and this formal negative note in
the constrained hand, told more of his disappointment
than any words. While he knew it not, his mother was
suffering with him. She wrote a letter in reply full of
general sympathy, intending to be more specific when he
gave her his confidence.
Dennis folded the letter most carefully and mailed it—
for he was now doing the least thing with the utmost precision—
with the air of one who meant to find out the
right thing to do, and then to do it to a hair's breadth.
Nothing should go wrong that day. So quite early in the
morning he again sallied forth.
Not far from the hotel there was a new grocery store
at the point of being opened by two young men, formerly
clerks, but now setting up for themselves. They stood at
the door receiving a cart load of goods as Dennis approached.
He had made up his mind to ask at every opportunity,
and take the first thing that promised fairly; he
would also be very polite. Touching his hat to the young
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[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
men,—a little act pleasing them in their newly acquired
dignity of becoming heads of a firm, which as yet had no
subordinates,—Dennis asked if they would need any assistance.
Graciously replying to his salutations, they answered,
“Yes, they wanted a young man.”
Dennis explained that he was from the country, and
showed the ministerial letter. The young grocers looked
wise over it, seemed pleased, said they wanted a young
fellow from the country, that was not up to city tricks.
Chicago was a hard place on young men—spoiled most of
them. Glad he was a member of the church—they were
not, but believed a man must be mighty good to be one.
As the young man they hired must sleep in the store, they
wanted one they could trust, and would prefer a church
member.
The salary they offered was not large, but pretty fair in
view of his having so much to learn, and it was intimated,
that if business was good, and he suited, it would be increased.
The point uppermost in their minds seemed to
be to find some one with whom they could trust their store
and goods, and this young man from the country, with a
letter from a minister, seemed a God-send.
They engaged him, but just as he was starting, with
heart swelling with self-satisfaction and joy, one of the
firm asked carelessly,
“Where are you staying?”
“At Gamblin's Hotel.”
The man turned sharply, and looked most suspiciously
at him, and then at his partner, who gave a low whistle of
surprise, and also eyed the young man for a moment
askance. Then the men stepped aside, and there was a
brief whispered consultation. Dennis's heart sank within
him. He saw that something was wrong, but what, he
-- 040 --
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
had not the least idea. The elder member of the embryo
firm now stepped up and said decidedly,
“Good-morning, young man; we shall not need your
services.”
“What do you mean?” cried Dennis in a voice of
mingled dismay and indignation.
The man's face was growing red as with anger, but he
said coldly,
“You had better move on. We understand.”
“But I don't understand, and your course toward me
is most unjust.”
Look here young man, we are too old birds to be
caught by any such light chaff as you have got about you.
You are a pretty church member, you are! You are a
smart one, you are; nice boy, just from the country; suppose
you do not know that Gamblin's Hotel is the worst
gambling hole in the city, and every other man that goes
there a known thief. Come, you had better move on if
you do not want to get into trouble. You will make nothing
here.”
“But I tell you, gentlemen,” cried Dennis, eagerly—
“You may tell what you please. We tell you that we
would not believe any one from that den under oath.
Now you leave!”
The last words were loud and threatening. The attention
of passers-by was drawn toward them, and Dennis
saw that further words were useless. In the minds of
shrewd, but narrow business men, not over honest themselves,
more acquainted with the trickery of the world
than its virtues, suspicion against any one is fatal, and
most assuredly so against a stranger with appearances unfavorable.
With heart well nigh bursting with anger, disappointment,
and shame, Dennis hastened away. He had been
regarded as a thief, or at best a blackleg, seeking the
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
position for some sinister purpose. This was the opening
scene of the day on which he determined that no mistakes
should be made, and here at the outset he had allowed
himself to be identified with a place of notorious ill-repute.
Reaching the hotel, he rushed up-stairs, got his trunk,
and then turned fiercely on the red-nosed bartender—
“Why did you not tell me what kind of a place this
was?”
“What kind of a place is it?” asked that functionary,
coolly, arms akimbo.
“You knew well enough. You knew I was not one
of your sort.”
“You do not mean to say that this is a bad place, do
you?” said the barkeeper in mock solemnity.
“Yes, the worst in Chicago. There is your money.”
“Hold on here, my small chicken, there is some money,
but not enough by a jug full. I want five dollars out
of you before you take that trunk off.”
“Why, this is sheer robbery,” exclaimed Dennis.
“O no; just keeping up the reputation of the house.
You say it is the worst in Chicago—must try and keep up
our reputation.”
“Little fear of that; I will not pay it,” and Dennis
started for his trunk.
“Here, let that trunk alone; and if yer do not give me
that five dollars cussed quick, I'll put a head on yer,” and
he of the red nose put his hands on the bar in readiness
to spring over.
“I say, young feller,” said a good-natured loafer standing
by, “you had better gin him the five dollars; for
Barney is the worst one in all Chicago to put a head on
a man.”
“And will you stand by and see this outrage?” said
Dennis, appealing to him.
“O gosh!” said the man, “I've got quarrels 'nough of
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my own without getting my head broke for fellers I don't
know.”
Dennis was almost speechless from indignation. Conscious
of strength, his strong impulse for a moment was to
spring at the throat of the barkeeper and vent his rage on
him. For there is a latent tiger in every man. But a hand
seemed to hold him back, and a sober second thought came
over him. What! Dennis Fleet, the son of Ethel Fleet, and
a professing Christian, brawling, fighting in a bar-room,
a gambling den, and going out to seek a situation that
required confidence and fair-appearing, all blackened,
bruised and bleeding. As the truth flashed upon him, in
strong revulsion of feeling, he fairly turned pale and sick.
“There's the money,” said he, hoarsely, “and God forgive
you.”
In a moment he had taken his trunk and was gone.
The barkeeper stared after him, and then looked at the
money with a troubled and perplexed face.
“Wal,” said he, “I'm used enough to havin' folks ask
God to damn me, but I'm blessed if I ever had one to ask
him to forgive me, before. I'm plagued,” said he after a
moment, as the thought grew upon him, “I'm plagued if I
wouldn't give him back the money if he hadn't gone so
quick.”
With heart full of shame and bitterness, Dennis hastened
down the street. At the corner he met a policeman,
and told him his story. All the satisfaction he got was—
“You ought not to go to such a place. But you're
lucky if they only took five dollars from you; they don't let
off many as easy as that.”
“Can I have no redress?”
“Now look here; it's a pretty ticklish thing to interfere
with them fellers. It'll cost you plaguey sight more'n that,
and blood, too, like enough. If you'll take my advice, you
wont stir up that hornet's nest.”
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CHAPTER VI. “STARVE THEN!”
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Dennis now followed the natural impulse to go to
some distant part of the city, entirely away from the region
that had become so hateful to him. Putting the
trunk on the front of a street-car, he rode on till in the
heart of the south side district, the great business centre.
He took his trunk into a wide, roomy hardware store, and
asked if he might leave it there awhile. Receiving a good-natured
permission, he next started off in search of a
quiet, cheap boarding place. His heart was heavy, and
yet he felt thankful to have escaped as he had, for the
thought of what might have been his experience if Barney
had tried to fulfil his threat, sickened him. The rough
was as strong as he, and scenes of violence were his delight
and daily experience. He rather gloried in a black
eye, for he always gave two in exchange, and his own
bruised, swollen member paved the way gracefully for the
telling of his exploits, as it awakened inquiry from the lesser
lights among whom Barney shone. But what would
Dennis have done among the merchants with “a head on
him,” as the barkeeper understood the phrase? He would
have to return home, and that he felt was worse than
death. In fact, he came nearer to a desperate struggle
than he knew, for Barney rarely resisted so inviting an
opportunity to indulge his pugilistic turn, and had he not
seen the policeman going by just at that time, there would
have been no idle threats in the case.
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Dennis set his teeth with dogged resolution, determined
to persevere in his search till he dropped in the street
if necessary. But as he remembered that he had less
than five dollars left, and no prospect of earning another,
his heart grew like lead.
He spent several weary hours in the vain search for a
boarding house. He had little to guide him save short
answers from policemen. The places were either too expensive,
or else they were so coarse and low that he could
not bring himself to endure them. In some cases he detected
that they were accompanied by worse evils than
gambling. Almost in despair, tired, and very hungry (for
severe indeed must be the troubles that will affect the appetite
of healthful youth on a cold winter day), he stopped
at a small German restaurant and hotel in a side street
near where he had left his trunk. A round-faced, jolly
Teuton served him with a large plate of cheap viands, which
he cleared so quickly and asked for more, that the man
stared at him for a moment, and then stolidly obeyed.
“What do you ask for a small room and bed for a
night?” said Dennis.
“Zwei shillen,” said the waiter with a grin; “zat is if
you don't vant as big bed as dinner. Ve haf zwei shillen
for bed, and zwei shillen for every meal—von dollar a day—
sheap!”
The place was comparatively clean. A geranium or
two bloomed in the window, and lager instead of fiery whisky
seemed the principal beverage vended. Dennis went
out and made inquiries, and every one in the neighborhood
spoke of it as a quiet, respectable place, though frequented
only by laboring people. “That is nothing against
it,” thought Dennis. “I will venture to stay there for a
night or two, for I must lose no more time in looking for
a situation.”
He took his trunk there, and then spent the rest of the
-- 045 --
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day in unavailing search. He found nothing that gave any
promise at all. In the evening he went to a large hotel
and looked over the files of papers. He found a few advertising
for clerks and experts of various kinds, but more
seeking places. But he noted down everything hopeful,
and resolved that he would examine the morning papers
by daylight for anything new in that line, and be the first
on hand. His new quarters, though plain and meagre,
were at least clean. Too weary to think or even to feel
more than a dull ache in his heart, he went through the
form of devotion, and slept heavily till the dawn of the
following day. Poor fellow! it seemed to him that he had
lived years in those two days.
He was up by daylight, and found a few more advertisements
that looked as if they might lead to something.
As early as it was possible to see the parties, he was on
the ground, but others were there as soon as himself.
They had the advantage of some knowledge and experience
in the duties required, and this decided the question.
Some spoke kindly, and suggested that he was better fitted
for teaching than business.
“But where am I to find a position at this season of
the year, when every place is filled?” explained Dennis.
“It might be weeks before I could get anything to do, and
I must have employment at once.”
They were sorry—hoped he would do well—turned
away and went on doing well for themselves. But the
majority merely satisfied themselves that he would not answer
their purpose, and bade him a brief, business-like
good-morning. And yet the fine young face, so troubled
and anxious, haunted a good many of those who summarily
dismissed him. But “business is business.”
The day passed in fruitless inquiry. Now and then he
seemed on the point of succeeding, but only disappointment
resulted. There were at that season of the year few
-- 046 --
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situations offering where a living salary was paid, and for
these skilled laborers were required. Dennis possessed
no training for any one calling, save perhaps that of
teacher. He had merely the fragment of a good general
education, tending toward one of the learned professions.
He had fine abilities, and undoubtedly would have stood
high as a lawyer, in time. But now that he was suddenly
called upon to provide bread for himself and those he
loved, there was not a single thing of which he could say—
“I understand this, sir, and can give you satisfaction.”
He knew that if he could get a chance at almost anything,
he could soon learn enough to make himself more
useful than the majority employed, for few had his will and
motive to work. But the point was to find some one who
would pay sufficient for his own and mother's support
while he learned.
It is just under such circumstances that so many men,
and especially women, make shipwreck. Thrown suddenly
upon their own resources, they bring to the great
labor-market of the world general intelligence, and also
general ignorance. With a smattering of almost every
thing, they do not know practically how to do one thing
well. Skilled hands, though backed by neither heart nor
brains, push them aside. Take the young men or the
young women of any well-to-do town or village, and make
them suddenly dependent upon their own efforts, and how
many would compete in any one thing with those already
engaged in supplying the market? And yet just such
helpless young creatures are every day compelled to shift
for themselves. If to these unfortunates the paths of
honest industry seem hedged and thorny, not so those of
sin. They are easy enough at first, if any little difficulty
with conscience can be gotten over; and the devil and
fallen humanity doing his work, stand ready to push the
wavering into them.
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At the close of the next day, spent in weary search,
Dennis met a temptation to which many would have yielded.
As a last resort he had been going around among the
hotels, willing to take even the situation of porter, if nothing
better offered. The day was fast closing, when, worn
out and dejected, he entered a first-class house, and made
his usual inquiry. The proprietor looked at him for a
moment, slapped him on the back and said,
“Yes, you are the man I want, I reckon. Do you
drink? no! might have known that from your face. Do
not want a man that drinks for this place. Come along
with me, then. Will give you two and a half a day if you
suit, and pay you every night. I pay my help promptly;
they aint near so apt to steal from you then.”
And the man hurried away, followed by Dennis with
beating heart and flushed, wondering face. Descending a
flight of stairs, they entered a brilliantly lighted basement,
which was nothing less than a large, elegantly-arranged
bar-room, with card and lunch tables, and easy chairs
for the guests to smoke and tipple in at their leisure. All
along one side of this room, resplendent with cut glass
and polished silver, ran the bar. The light fell warm and
mellow on the various kinds of liquors, that were arranged
as temptingly as possible to the thirsting souls frequenting
the place.
Stepping up to the bulky man behind the bar the landlord
said—
“There, Mr. Swig, is a young man who will fill capitally
the place of the chap we dismissed to-day for getting
tight. You may bet your life from his face that he don't
drink. You can break him in in a few days, and you won't
want a better assistant.”
For a moment a desperate wish passed through Dennis's
mind, “O that wrong were right.” Then, indignant with
himself, he spoke up firmly,
-- 048 --
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“I think I have a word to say in this matter.”
“Well, say on, then; what's the trouble?”
“I cannot do this kind of work.”
“You will find plenty harder.”
“None harder for one believing as I do. The Bible
says `Woe unto him that giveth his neighbor drink.' I
will starve before I will do this work.”
The man stared at him for a moment, and then coolly
replied,
“Starve then!” and turned on his heel and walked
away.
Dennis also rushed from the place, followed by the
coarse jeering laugh of those who witnessed the scene. In
his morbid, suffering state their voices seemed those of
mocking demons.
The night had now fallen. He was too tired and discouraged
to look any further. Wearily he plodded up the
street, facing the bitter blast filled with snow that had commenced
falling.
This then was the verdict of the world—“Starve!” This
was the only prospect it offered—that same brave world
that had so smilingly beckoned him on to great achievements,
and unbounded success, but a few days ago—
“Starve!” Every blast that swept around the corners
howled in his ears “Starve!” Every warmly clad passenger
hurrying unheedingly by seemed to say by their indifference,
“Starve! who cares? there is no place for you, nothing
for you to do.”
The hard, stern resolution of the past few days, not to
yield an inch, to persist to hew his way through every
difficulty, began to flag. His very soul seemed crushed
within him. Even upon the threshold of his life, in his
strong, joyous youth, the world had become to him what it
-- 049 -- p667-058
[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]
literally was that night, a cold, wintry, stormy place, with
a black, lowering sky and hard frozen earth.
His father's old temptation recurred to him with sudden
and great power. “Perhaps father was right,” he
mused. “God was against him, and is also against me,
his son. Does He not visit the iniquity of the fathers
upon the children unto the third and fourth generation?
Not but that He will save us at last, if we ask Him, but
there seems some great wrong that must be severely punished
here. Or else if God does not care much about
our present life, thinking only of the hereafter, there must
be some blind fate or luck that crushes some and lifts up
others.”
Thus Dennis, too sad and morbid to take a just view
of anything, plodded on till he reached his boarding place,
and stealing in as if he had no business to be there, or
anywhere else, sat down in a dusky corner behind the
stove, and was soon lost to surrounding life, in his own
miserable thoughts.
CHAPTER VII. A GOOD SAMARITAN.
Dennis was too good a Christian, and had received
too deep a lesson in his father's case, to become bitter,
angry, and defiant, even if he had believed that God was
against him. He would have felt that it was simply his
duty to submit—to endure patiently. Somehow, until to-day,
his heart had refused to believe that God could be
against any of His creatures. In fact, it was his general
impression that God had everything to do with his being
-- 050 --
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a good Christian, but very little with his getting a good
place. The defect in his religion, and that of his mother
too, was to a certain extent, that both separated the spiritual
life of the soul too widely from present life with its
material, yet essential cares and needs. At this point,
they, like multitudes of others, fell short of their full privilege,
and enjoyment of God's goodness. His mother had
cheered and sustained her hard lot by hopes and visions
of the better life beyond—by anticipating joys to come.
She had never fully learned how God's love, like the sunlight,
could shine upon and brighten the thorny, rocky
way, and cause the thorns to blossom, and delicate fragrant
flowers to grow in the crevices, and bloom in shaded
nooks, among the sharp stones. She must wait for her
consolation. She must look out of her darkness to the
light that shone through the portals of the tomb, forgetting
that God caused His servants to sing at midnight, in the
inner prison, the deepest dungeon, though scourged and
bleeding.
Unconsciously her son had imbibed the same ideas.
Most devoutly he asked every day to be kept from sin,
that he might grow in the Christian life; but he did not
ask or expect, save in a vague, general way, that help
which a wise, good, earthly father would give to a young,
inexperienced child, struggling with the hard, practical difficulties
of this world. As the days grew darker and more
full of disappointment, he had asked with increasing earnestness
that he might be kept from sin—from falling before
the many and peculiar temptations that assailed him;
and we have seen how God answered his prayer, and kept
him where so many would have fallen. But God meant
to show him that His goodness extended farther than he
thought, and that He cared for His children's well-being
now as truly as in the hereafter, when He gathered them
home into His immediate presence. But Dennis could
-- 051 --
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not see this now. As far as he thought at all on the subject,
he had the vague feeling that God was either trying
his faith or meting out some righteous judgment, and he
must do the best he could, and only see to it that he did
not sin and give way morally.
Yet, in the thick night of his earthly prospects, Dennis
still loved and trusted God. He reasoned justly, that
if at last brought to such a place as heaven, no matter
what he suffered here, he had only cause for unbounded
gratitude. And he felt sure that all would be right in the
end, but now feared that his life would be like his father's,
a tissue of disappointments, and that he, an unsuccessful
voyager, storm-tossed and shipwrecked, would be thrown
upon the heavenly shore by some dark crested billow
of misfortune, instead of sailing into port with flying
colors.
Thus Dennis sat lost in gloomy musings, but too wearied
in mind and body to follow any line of thought long.
A few stern facts kept looming up before him, like rocks
on which a ship is drifting. He had less than a dollar in
his pocket. It was Friday night. If he did not get anything
to do Saturday, how was he was going to live Sunday
and the days that followed? Then his dependent
mother and sister rose up before him. They seemed to
his morbid fancy hungry and cold, and their famine-pinched
faces full of reproach. His head bowed lower, and he
became the very picture of dejection.
He was startled by a big, hearty voice at his side, exclaiming—
“What makes yer so down in the mouth? Come take
a drink, and cheer up!”
Raising his eyes, he saw a round, red face, like a harvest
moon, shining full upon him. It was somewhat kindly
in its expression, in keeping with the words. Rough as
was the courtesy, it went straight to the lonely,
-- 052 --
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discouraged heart of the young man, and with moistened eyes,
he said—
“I thank you for speaking to me in a tone that has a
little human touch in it, for the last man that spoke to me
left an echo in my ear that I would gladly get out of it.”
“Bad luck to him, then! Give us your fore-foot;
there! (with a grip like a vise). Bill Cronk never went
back on a man he took to. I tell yer what, stranger,” said
he, becoming confidential, “when I saw yer glowering and
blinking here in the corner as if yer was listening to yer
own funeral sermon, I be (—) if I could take a comfortable
drink. Come, now, take a good swig of old rye,
and see how things will mellow up.”
Our good Samaritan in this case was a very profane and
disreputable one, as many are in this medley world. He
had a great, kindly nature, that was crawling and groveling
in all sorts of low, unseemly places, instead of growing
straight up toward heaven.
“I hope you will think me none the less friendly if I
decline,” said Dennis. “I would drink with you as quick
as with any man living, but it is a thing I never do, except
in sickness.”
“O yer temperance, are yer? well I don't think none
the wuss of yer for standing by yer colors. Between us, it
would be better for me if I was a little more so. Hang it
all! I take a drop too much, now and then. But what is
a fellow to do, roughing it up and down the world like me?
I should often get lonely and mope in the corner as you
did, if I didn't get up steam. When I am down in the
mouth I take a drink to liven me up, and when I feel good
I take a drink to make me feel better; when I would not
take a drink on my own hook, I meet somebody that I
ought to drink with. It is astonishing how many occasions
there are to drink, specially when a man's travelling, like
me.”
-- 053 --
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“No, fear but what the devil will make occasion
enough,” said Dennis.
“What has the devil got to do with it?” asked the man
gruffly.
Just then the miserable wretch entered who, appearing
opportunely in Gamblin's Hotel, had cured Dennis of his
desire to drink, when weary and despondent, for the sake
of the effects. For a moment they looked at the blear-eyed,
trembling wreck of a man, and then Dennis asked,
“Had God any hand in making that man what he is?”
“I should say not,” sald Bill Cronk emphatically.
“Well, I should say the devil had,” said Dennis; “and
there behind the bar are the means used—the best tool he
has got, it seems to me; for with it he gets hold of men
with some heart and soul in them, like you.”
The man winced under the words that both conscience
and experience told him were true; at the same time he
was propitiated by Dennis' good opinion of him. He gave
a big, good-natured laugh, slapped Dennis on the shoulder,
and said:
“Wal, stranger p'raps you're right. 'Taint every temperance
lecturer though that has an awful example come
in just at the right time so slick. But you've stood by yer
color, and we wont quarrel. Tell us, now, if it aint private,
what yer so chopfallen about?”
Dennis told his story, as grateful for this rough sympathy
as a thirsty traveller would be in finding a spring
though surrounded by thorns and rocks.
The round jolly face actually grew long and serious
through interest in the young man's tribulations.
After scratching a shaggy but practical head for a few
moments, Bill in the vernacular of his trade spoke as follows:
“Seems to me the case is just this: here you are a
young blooded colt, not broken to either saddle or thills—
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here you are whinnying around a market where they want
nothing but dray horses. People look shy at you—usually
do at a strange hoss. Few know good pints when they
see 'em. When they find you aint broke into nothin', they
want you to work for nothin'. I see how you can't do
this. And yet fodder is runnin' short, and you must do
somethin'.”
Bill having dealt in live-stock all his life, naturally
clothed his thoughts in language drawn from familiar objects,
and Dennis, miserable as he was, half smiled at the
close parallel run between him and a young, useless colt;
but he only said,
“I don't think there is a cart-horse in all Chicago that
feels more broken down and dispirited than I do to-night.”
“That may all be, too,” said Bill, “but you'd feel a little
oats mighty quick, and a cart-hoss wouldn't. But I
know the pints, whether it be a man or a hoss—you'd take
kindly to work of the right sort, and it would pay any one
to take you at your own terms, but you can't make 'em
see it. If I was in a situation to take you, I'd do it in a
minute. Hang it all. I can't do much for you, either. I
took a drop too much in Cleveland t'other night, and some
of the folks in the house looked over my pocket-book and
left me just enough to get home with.”
Dennis shook his head reproachfully and was about to
speak—
“I know what you're going to say,” said Bill, heading
off another temperance lecture. “I'll take a drink by and
bye, and think over what you've said, for I can't think
much until I get a little steam up. But now we must try
and see some way out of the fog for you.” And again in
absence of the wonted steam he scratched the shaggy
head vigorously.
“Seems to me the best thing for you is to do as I did
when I first broke the home pasture and started out on a
-- 055 --
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rampage. I just grabbed the fust job that came along,
good, bad or indifferent—always kept doing something.
You can look for a bird in a bush quite as well when
you've got one in the hand as when you haint. To be sure
I wasn't as squeamish as you are. I'd jumped at the offer
you had this afternoon; but I reckon I'd taken toll too
often to be very profitable. But in this way I always kept
agoin'—never got down underfoot so the stronger ones
could tread on me. When it comes to that, I want to die.
Now if you've got plenty of clear grit—little disposed to
show the white feather though, to-night, aint yer?”
Dennis flushed up, and was about to speak almost
angrily.
“There! there!” said his new friend. “I said yer
wasn't a cart-hoss, one touch of the spur and up goes tail
and ears, and then look out. Are yer ashamed to do any
kind of honest work? I mean kinder pious work that
hasn't any smack of the devil you're so afraid of, in it?”
“No! work is just what I want.”
“Would you black boots, now?”
Dennis winced, thought a moment, and then with a
manly flush said—
“Yes, before I would take a cent of charity from any
living soul.”
“Give us yer fore-foot again; you're the kind of critter
I like to invest in—for you'd improve on a feller's
hands. No fear about you; the only thing is to get you
in harness before a load that will pay to haul.”
Suddenly he got up, strode to the bar-room door, looked
out into the night, and came back again.
“I think I know of a way in which you can make two
or three dollars to-morrow.”
“How?” exclaimed Dennis, his whole face lighting up
with hope.
“Go to a hardware store, invest in a big wooden
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snow-shovel, and clean off sidewalks before stores. You can
pick up a good many quarters before night, like enough.”
“I will do it,” said Dennis, heartily, “and thank you
warmly for the suggestion, and for your kindly interest
generally,” and he looked up and felt himself another man.
“Gosh! but it takes mighty few oats to set you up!
But come, and let us have a little plain, substantial fodder.
I will drink nothing but coffee, to-night, out of compliment
to you.”
“Cheered, comforted, and hopeful, Dennis sat down
with his good Samaritan, and made a hearty supper, after
which they parted with a strong, friendly grip, and sincere
good wishes, Cronk, the drover, going on farther west,
and Dennis to the rest he so sorely needed.
CHAPTER VIII. YAHCOB BUNK.
Before retiring Dennis as usual took his Bible from
his trunk to read a chapter. He was now in a very different
mood from that of a few hours ago. The suggestion
of his bar-room acquaintance was a light upon his way.
And with one of Dennis's age and temperament, even a
small hope is potent. He was eager for the coming day in
order to try the experiment of wringing bread and opportunity
for further search out of the wintry snows.
But that which had done him the most good—more
than he realized—was the kindness he had received, rough
though it was; the sympathy and companionship of another
human being,—for if he had been cast away on a
desert island he could not have been more isolated than
in the great city, with its indifferent multitudes.
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Moreover the generous supper was not without its decided
influence; and with it he had drank a cup of good
coffee, that nectar of the gods whose subtile, delicate influence
is felt in body and brain, in every fibre of the nature
not deadened and blunted by stronger and coarser
stimulants. He who leaves out physical causes in accounting
for mental and moral states, will usually come
wide of the mark.
But while giving the influences above referred to their
due force, so far from ignoring, we would acknowledge
with emphasis the chief cause of man's ability to receive
and appreciate all the highest phases of truth and good,
namely, God's help asked for and given. Prayer was a
habit with Dennis. He asked God with childlike faith for
the bestowment of every Christian grace, and those who
knew him best saw that he had no reason to complain that
his prayers were unanswered.
But now at a time when he would most appreciate it,
God was about to reveal to him a truth that would be a rich
source of help and comfort through life, and a sudden
burst of sunshine upon his dark way at the present hour.
He was to be shown how he might look to heaven for help
and guidance in respect to his present and earthly interests,
as truly as in his spiritual life.
As he opened his Bible his eyes caught the words of
our Lord, “Launch out into the deep and let down your
nets for a draught.”
Then Peter's answer—“Master, we have toiled all the
night and have taken nothing: nevertheless, at Thy word
I will let down the net.”
The result —“They inclosed a great multitude of
fishes.”
With these words light broke in upon his mind. “If
our Lord,” he mused, “helped His first disciples catch
fish, why should He not help me to find a good place?”
-- 058 --
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Then unbelief suggested—“It was not for the sake of the
fish; they were only means to a higher end.”
But Dennis, who had plenty of good common sense, at
once answered this objection—“Neither do I want position
and money for low selfish purposes. My ends are the
best and purest, for I am seeking my own honest living and
the support of my mother and sisters—the very imperative
duties that God is now imposing on me. Would God reveal
a duty and no way of performing it?”
Then came the thought—“Have I asked Him to help
me? Have I not been seeking in my own wisdom, and
trusting in my own strength? And this too when my ignorance
of business, the dull season of the year, and every
thing was against me, when I specially needed help. Little
wonder that I have fared as I have.”
Turning the leaves of his Bible rapidly he began
searching for instances of God's interference in behalf of
the temporal interests of His servants—for passages where
earthly prosperity was promised or given. After an hour
he closed the Bible with a long breath of wonder, and
said to himself,
“Why, God seems to care as much for the well-being
and happiness of His children here, as He will when He
gets us all about Him in the blessed home above. I've
been blind for twenty-one years to one of the grandest
truths of this Book.”
Then as the thought grew upon him, he exclaimed joyously,
“Take heart, Dennis Fleet; God is on your side in
the struggle for an honest success in this life, as truly as
in your fight against sin and the devil.”
It was long before he slept that night, but a truth had
been revealed that rested and strengthened him more than
the heavy slumbers after the weary days that had preceded.
The dawn of the Winter morning was cold and faint,
-- 059 --
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when Dennis appeared in the bar-room the next day.
The jolly-faced Teuton was making the fire, stopping often
to blow his cold fingers, and wasting enough good breath
to have kindled a furnace. His rubicund visage, surrounded
by shaggy hair and beard of yellow, here appeared
in the dust and smoke he was making like the sun
rising in a fog.
“Hillo!” he said on seeing Dennis; “vat you up dis
early for? Don't vant anoder dinner yet, I hope?”
“I will take that in good time,” said Dennis; “and
will want a bigger one than that which so astonished you
at first.”
“O my eyes!” said the German; “den I go and tell
de cook to begin to get him right avay.”
Laughing good-naturedly Dennis went to the door and
looked out. On side-walk and street the snow lay six or
eight inches deep, untrodden, white and spotless, even in
the heart of the great city. “How differently this snow will
look by night,” thought he; “how soiled and black. Perhaps
very many come to this city in the morning of life
like this snow, pure and unstained; but after being here
awhile they become like this snow when it has been tossed
about and trodden under every careless foot. God grant
that however poor and unsuccessful I may remain, such
pollution may never be my fate.”
But feeling that he had no time for moralizing if he
would secure bread for the coming day of rest, he turned
and said to the factotum of the bar-room—
“How much will you give to have the snow cleared off
the side-walk in front of your house?”
“Zwei shillen.”
“Then I will earn my breakfast before I eat it, if you
will lend me a shovel.”
“I taut you vas a shentlemans,” said the German staring
at him.
-- 060 --
[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]
“So I am; just the shentlemans that will clean off your
sidewalk for `zwei shillen,' if you will let him.”
“You vant to do him for exercise?”
“No! for zwei shillings.”
“I taut you vas a shentlemans,” said the man, still
staring in stolid wonder at Dennis.
“Didn't you ever know of a gentleman who came from
Germany to this country and was glad to do anything for
an honest living?”
“Often and often I haf. You see von here,” said the
man with a grin.
“Well, I am just that kind of a gentleman. Now if
you will lend me a shovel I will clean off your side-walk
for two shillings, and be a great deal more thankful than
if you had given me the money for nothing.”
“Little fear of dat,” said the man with another grin.
“Vel you are de queerest Yankee in Chicago, you are; I
tink you are 'bout haf sherman. I tell you vat — here,
vat's your name?—if you clean off dat side-walk goot, you
shall haf breakfast and dinner, much as you eat, vidout
von cent to pay. I don't care if de cook is cooking all
day. I like your vat you call him—spunk.”
“It's a bargain,” said Dennis, “and if I can make a
few more like it to-day, I shall be rich.”
“You may vel say dat. I will go into de market and
see if dare be enough for me to keep my part of de bargain
goot.”
For half an hour Dennis worked away lustily, and then
called his task-master and said,
“Will you accept the job?”
Surveying with surprise the large space cleared, and
looking in vain for reason to find fault, he said,
“I kin say nothin' agin him. I hope you will eat your
dinner as quick. Now come into your breakfast.”
He pretended to be perfectly aghast at Dennis's
-- 061 --
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onslaught on the buckwheat cakes, and rolled up his eyes despairingly
as each new plate was emptied.
Having finished, Dennis tipped him a wink, and said,
“Wait till dinner time.”
“Ah! dare vill be von famine,” said the German in a
tone of anguish, wringing his hands.
Having procured the needful implement, Dennis started
out, and though there was considerable competition,
found plenty to do, and shovelled away with little cessation
till one o'clock. Then counting his gains, found that
he had paid for his shovel, secured breakfast and dinner,
and had a balance on hand of $2.50, and he had nearly
half a day yet before him. He felt rich—nay more than
that, he felt like a man who, sinking in a shoreless ocean,
suddenly catches a plank that bears him up, while shore
appears in the distance.
“This is what comes from asking God to help a fellow,”
said he to himself. “Strange, too, that He should answer
my prayer in part before I asked, by causing that queer
jumble of good and evil, Bill Cronk, to suggest to me this
way of turning an honest penny. I wish Bill was as good
a friend to himself as he is to others. I fear that he will
go to the dogs. Bless me! the gnawings of hunger are
bad enough, but what must be those of conscience? I think
I can astonish my German friend to-day as never before,”
and shouldering his shovel he walked back to dinner, feeling
like a prince bearing aloft the insignia of his power.
When he entered the bar and lunch-room, he saw that
something was wrong. The landlord met him instead of
his jolly, satirical friend.
Now the owner of the place was a wizen-faced, driedup
old anatomy, who seemed utterly exhaling away in tobacco
smoke, while his assistant was becoming spherical
generally under the expansive power of lager. It was his
custom to sit up and smoke most of the night, and
-- 062 --
[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]
therefore get down late in the morning. When he appeared,
his assistant told him of the bargain he had made with
Dennis, as a good joke. But old Hans hadn't any faculty
for jokes. Dollars and cents and his big meerschaum
made up the two elements of his life. The thought of
losing zwei shilings or zwei cents by Dennis, or any one
else, caused him anguish, and instead of laughing, his funloving
assistant was aghast at seeing him fall into a passion.
“You be von big fule. Vat for we keep mens here
who haf no money? You should cleared him off, instead
of making bargains for him to eat us out of de house.”
“We haf his trunk,” said Jacob, for that was his name.
“Nothin' in it,” growled Hans, and yet somewhat mollified
by this fact.
When Dennis appeared, he put the case without any
circumlocution—
“I make my livin' by keepin' dis house. I can no
make my livin' unless everybodies pay me. I haf reason
to tink dat you haf no money. Vat ish the truf? Cause
if you haf none, you can no longer stay here.”
“Have I not paid for everything I have had so far?”
said Dennis.
“Dat ish not de question? Haf you got any moneys?”
“What is your bill in advance up to Monday morning?”
“Zwie dollar and a quarter if you take breakfast.”
“Deduct breakfast and dinner to-day for clearing off
the sidewalk.”
“Dat ish too much; you did it in half hour.”
“Well, it would have taken you three. But a bargain
is a bargain, the world over. Did not you promise it?”—
to Jacob.
“Yah! and you shall haf him, too, if I be de loser.
Yahcob Bunk is not the man to go back on his wort.”
“Vel den,” said old Hans, “von dollar seventy-five to
Monday morning.”
-- 063 --
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
“There is the money; now let me have my dinner, for
I am in a hurry.”
At the sight of money Hans at once became the most
obsequious of hosts, and so would remain while it lasted.
But Dennis saw that his purchased courtesy would change
the moment it was gone, and he trembled at his narrow
escape from being thrust out into the Wintry streets, friendless,
penniless, to beg or starve—equally hard alternatives
to his mind.
“Come Yahcob, thou snail, give the shentlemans his
dinner,” said Hans.
Jacob, who had been looking on with heavy, stolid
face, now brightened up on seeing that all was right, and
gave Dennis a double portion of the steaming pot-pie, and
a huge mug of coffee. When Dennis had finished these
and crowned his repast with a big dumpling, Jacob came to
him with a face as long and serious as his harvest moon of
a visage could be made, and said—
“Dare is nothing more in Chicago, you haf cleaned it
out. We must vait till de evenin' train comes before we
haf supper.”
“That will be time enough for me,” said Dennis, laughing,
for he could laugh to-day at little things,—and started
off again with his shovel.
-- 064 -- p667-073
CHAPTER IX. LAND AT LAST.
[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]
During the latter part of a busy afternoon, Dennis
came to a spacious, elegant store before which the snow lay
untouched save as trodden by passers-by. Over the high
arched door-way were the words in gilt letters “Art building,”
and as far as a mere warehouse for beautiful things
could deserve this title, this place did, for it was crowded
with engravings, chromos, paintings, bronzes, statuary, and
every variety of ornament. With delighted eyes and lingering
steps he had passed slowly through this store a few
days previous in his search, but had received the usual cool
negative. He had gone reluctantly out into the cold street
again as Adam might have gone out of Paradise.
A large florid looking man with a light curling mustache,
now stood in the door-way. His appearance was
unmistakably that of a German of the highest and most
cultivated type. And yet when he spoke, his English was
so good that you only detected a foreign accent.
Strong vexation was stamped upon his face as he looked
at the snowy, untidy sidewalk.
“Mr. Schwartz,” he asked of one of his clerks, “was
Pat here this morning?”
“Yes sir.”
“Was he perfectly straight?”
“I cannot say that he was, sir.”
“He is off on a spree again. Send him to me the moment
he returns.”
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
“Shall I clear your sidewalk?” said Dennis, stepping
up and touching his hat respectfully.
“Yes,” said the gentleman scarcely looking at him,
“and when through come to the office for your money,”
and then he walked back into the store with a frowning
brow.
Though Dennis was now pretty thoroughly fatigued
with the hard day's work, he entered on this task with a
good will as the closing labor of the day, hoping from the
wide space to be cleared to receive proportionate recompense.
And yet his despatch was not so great as usual, for
in spite of himself his eyes were continually wandering
to the large show windows, from which smiled down upon
him Summer landscapes, lovely faces that seemed all the
more beautiful in contrast with the bleak and darkening
street.
He was rudely startled from one of the stolen glances
at a sweet, girlish face that seemed peering archly at him
from a corner, by the loud tones and strong brogue of
“Pat” returning thus late to his neglected duties.
“Bad luck to yez! what yez doin' here?”
“Clearing the sidewalk,” said Dennis, laconically.
“Give me that shovel, or I'll knock bloody blazes out
of yez.”
Dennis at once stood on the defensive, and raised his
tool threateningly. At the same time seeing a policeman,
he called out—
“Will you please cause this drunken fellow to move
on?”
The officer was about to comply, when the Irishman
with a snort like that of a mad bull, rushed to the door of
the out-building, wrenched it open, and leaving it so, tore
down the long store, crying
“Misther Ludolph! Misther Ludolph! here's a bloody
spalpane a doin' my work.”
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
He had scarcely got half way to the office before there
was a crash and a general commotion.
Pat, in his blind rage, and steps uncertain from the effects
of whiskey, had struck a valuable marble, and it lay
broken on the floor. This catastrophe sobered him, and
he stood looking at the destruction he had wrought in
dismay. His employer, the gentleman whom Dennis had
seen at the door, now appeared upon the scene in a towering
passion, and scrupled not to heap maledictions upon
the head of the unfortunate Hibernian.
“What do you mean by rushing through the store in
this mad style?” he demanded.
“There's an impudent fellow outside a doin' my work,”
said Pat.
“Why didn't you do it yourself, instead of going off
to the gin-mills this morning? Didn't I warn you? Didn't
I tell you your last spree should be the last in my employ?
Now, begone! you drunken idiot, and if you ever show
your face on these premises again, I'll have you arrested
and compel payment for this marble, and it will take every
cent you have got in the world, and more too.”
“Ah! Misther Ludolph, if you'll only give me one
more—”
“I tell you be off! or I will call the policeman at
once.”
“But Bridget and the childer will starve.”
“What's Bridget and the children to me? If you
wont take care of them, you can't expect other people to.
Begone!” said his employer, advancing threateningly and
stamping his foot.
Pat looked around in vain for help—the clerks were
but fainter echoes of their master.
Seeing his case to be hopeless, he turned about and
hurried away, his big red face distorted by many contending
emotions. Nor did he stop until he reached one of
-- 067 --
[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]
the fatal “gin-mills,” and soon drowned memory and trouble
in huge potations of the fiery element that was destroying
him, and bringing wretchedness to “Bridget and
the childer.”
Again Dennis had a lesson on drinking for the effects.
He rapidly completed his work and entered the store.
A clerk handed him fifty cents.
“May I see Mr. Ludolph a moment?” he asked, for
he had learned that this was the proprietor's name from
the scene he had witnessed through the open door.
“Yes,” replied the clerk, “he is in the office there; but
I guess you won't find him very smooth this evening,”
looking at the same time suggestively toward the broken
marble.
But Mr. Ludolph was not in as bad a humor as was
imagined. This thrifty Teuton had not lost much by the
mishap of the afternoon, for a month or two of wages was
due Pat, and this kept back would pay in the main for the
injury he had done. His whole soul being bent on the acquirement
of money, for reasons that will be explained
further on, his momentary passion soon passed away when
he found he had sustained no material injury. To Dennis's
knock he responded in his usual tone.
“Come in!” and Dennis stood in a warm, lighted, cozy
office, where the object of his quest sat writing rapidly,
with his back to the door. Dennis waited respectfully till
the facile pen glided through the sentence, and then Mr.
Ludolph looked up. Dennis's bearing and appearance
was so unmistakably that of a gentleman, that Mr. Ludolph,
not recognizing him as the person who had cleared
his sidewalk, rose courteously and said:
“Did you wish to see me?”
“Yes sir,” replied Dennis, “I understand that you dismissed
a person in your employ this afternoon. I would
respectfully apply for his place, if it is not promised.”
-- 068 --
[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]
The gentleman smiled and said—
“You are mistaken, I think. I discharged a drunken
Irishman, who had been porter and man-of-all-work about
the store, this afternoon; but I have no place vacant,
young sir, that you would care to fill.”
“If you think me competent to fill the position of porter
and your man-of-all-work, I would be very glad to obtain
it, that is if it will support me and those dependent
on me.”
The merchant muttered to himself, “I thought he was
a gentleman.”
Then, as this was a business matter of some importance,
he caused Dennis to stand full in the light, while he
withdrew somewhat in the shadow, and gave it his attention
with characteristic shrewdness and caution.
“You seem rather above the situation you ask for,” he
said.
“I am not above it in circumstances,” said Dennis,
and it certainly is better than shoveling snow all day.”
“Are you the man that just cleaned my sidewalk?”
“I am, sir.”
“You must be aware that your general appearance is
very different from that of the man discharged to-day, and
from those seeking the menial place in question. Can
you explain this fact satisfactorily?”
“I can readily explain it, and I hope satisfactorily.
At any rate I shall be perfectly open.” And Dennis told
him briefly, but plainly, just how he was situated.
As the keen man of the world watched with the closest
scrutiny the honest young face, he believed every word.
Accustomed to deal with all classes of men from childhood,
he had learned to read them as the open page of a
book.
He asked coolly, however, “Have you no recommendations?
-- 069 --
[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]
Dennis produced the ministerial letter, which Mr. Ludolph
glanced at with good-natured contempt.
“This is all right,” he said; “superstition is an excellent
thing for some minds. I managed Pat a year through
his priest, and then he got beyond the priest and me
too.”
This undisguised contempt of all that he held sacred,
and the classing of true faith with gross superstition,
pained Dennis; and his face showed it, though he said
nothing.
“There,” said the gentleman, “I did not mean to hurt
your feelings, but to the educated in our land, these
things seem very childish.”
“I would serve you none the worse,” said Dennis with
quiet dignity, “if I believed that the duty I owed to you I
owed also to God.”
Mr. Ludolph looked as if a new idea had struck him,
smiled, and said—
“Most people's religion, as far as my experience has
gone, is not of this practical kind. But I believe that I
can trust you, and your face and story are worth much
more to me than this letter. A scamp might possess that
as well as an honest youth like you. Now, as to terms—
I will give you forty dollars a month for the first two
months, and then, if you develop and take well to the
work, I will give you sixty.”
Dennis thought that this, with close economy, would
enable him to live and support his mother and sisters, and
he accepted the terms.
“Moreover, to show the advantage of telling a straightforward
story, you may sleep in the store—the building
will be safer for having some one it. I will pay you at
the end of every week as long as you suit, so that you can
commence sending something to your mother immediately.
You see that I take an interest in you,” said the
-- 070 --
[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]
shrewd man, “and expect you to take an interest in my
business, and work for me as for yourself.”
Simple, honest Dennis could not see that Mr. Ludolph
cared infinitely more for himself than all the world combined,
and made it his life-study to get the most out of it
with the least cost to himself. Under the words that seemed
so kind and considerate Dennis's heart swelled with the
strong and grateful purpose to spare himself in no way in
the service of such an employer. The wily man saw this,
and smiled to himself over the credulity of mankind.
“Have you enough to last till next Saturday night?”
he asked.
“I will make it last,” said Dennis, sturdily.
“That is right,” said Mr. Ludolph, “stand on your own
feet if you can. I never give any more help than will
barely enable a man to keep himself,” a maxim which not
only had the advantage of being sound, but of according
exactly with his disposition.
After a moment's thought, Mr. Ludolph spoke in a tone
so sharp, and manner so stern, that Dennis was startled:
“Mark me, young man, I wish a plain understanding
in one respect—you take Pat's place, and I expect you to
do Pat's work. I wish no trouble to arise from your being
above your business.”
“You will have none,” said Dennis, quietly and firmly.
“All right, then. Mr. Schwartz will show you about
closing up the store. Be here early Monday morning, and
remember that all depends upon yourself.”
In the depths of his grateful heart Dennis felt how
much the success of that day and every day of life depended
on God.
Mr. Ludolph put on his coat and gloves and went out
with Dennis into the store.
“Gentlemen,” said he to his clerks, “this young man,
Dennis Fleet by name, will take the place of Pat Murphy,
-- 071 -- p667-080
[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]
discharged to-day. Mr. Schwartz, will you show him what
it is necessary to do to-night? He will be here on Monday
morning at the usual time for opening the store, and
after that will sleep in the building.”
The clerks looked at him for a moment, as they might
at a new piece of furniture, or labor-saving machine, and
then coolly finished their duties, and followed their employer.
Mr. Schwartz showed him about closing up the
store, the furnace, etc., and Dennis saw that his place was
no sinecure. Still it was not work, but its lack that he
dreaded, and his movements were so eager and earnest
that a faint expression of surprise and curiosity tinged
the broad stolid face of Mr. Schwartz, but he only buttoned
his coat to the chin and muttered “new broom,”
and went his way homeward, leaving Dennis to go his.
CHAPTER X. THE NEW BROOM.
The following Sabbath was a bright Winter day without,
but bright Summer in Dennis's heart. He inquired
his way to a neighboring Church, and every word of
prayer, praise and truth fell on a glad, grateful spirit.
Worship was a joy, not a duty. Returning, he wrote a
long letter to his mother, telling her all he had passed
through, especially dwelling on the truth he had discovered
of God's wish to make this life happy and successful,
as well as the life beyond.
In closing, he wrote: “Here am I, Dennis Fleet, who
a few days ago thought the world scarcely large enough
for what I meant to do, standing contentedly and
-- 072 --
[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]
gratefully in Pat Murphy's shoes. I will not conceal from you,
speaking figuratively (the fates forbid that it should be
literally true), that I hope to outgrow them, and arrive at
something better before many months pass. In the mean
time I am indeed thankful for the means of winning honest
bread for us all. It is quite a come-down from the
classics and law to the position of porter and man-of-all
work in a picture and music store, but if God means me
to rise He can lead me upward from my lowly stand-point
as well as from the most favored that I could have chosen
for myself. I have learned that if I will trust Him and
do present duty thoroughly, He will not forget me.”
On Monday morning, half an hour before the specified
time, Dennis stood at the store. Impatiently he walked
up and down before what would become the scene of joys
and sorrows, such as he had never before experienced.
But we will not anticipate.
In due time Mr. Schwartz appeared. He gave Dennis
a cool nod, and said:
“Glad to see you so prompt”—then muttered again
to himself—“new broom.”
In Mr. Schwartz's slow plodding soul the fire of enthusiasm
had never burned. He was eminently conservative,
and looked with wary suspicion on anything that appeared
like earnestness. In the midst of a driving, bustling
Western city, he stuck in the mud of his German
phlegm, like a snag in the swift current of the Mississippi.
Yet Mr. Ludolph found him a most valuable assistant.
He kept things straight. Under his minute supervision
every thing had to be right Saturday night as well as Monday
morning, Dec. 31st as well as Jan. 1st. He was one
who through life would be satisfied with a subordinate position,
conscious of the lack of enterprise needful to push
his own way in the world. His painstaking, methodical
spirit was just the kind to pervade a large warehouse like
-- 073 --
[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]
that he had in charge, and prevent loss and confusion in
the multiplicity of objects it contained. Pat's careless
Irish ways had vexed his soul beyond words, and now
Dennis's eager manner suggested a hair-brained Yankee
youth who would raise a dust for a week and then be off
at something else. He was therefore cool and curt, seeking
by frostiness of manner to nip the budding enthusiasm
that annoyed him.
Dennis heeded him not, but bent every faculty to the
mastery of the duties required of him. He was to mop
out the store with damp cloths, so as to raise no dust, to
look after the furnace and graduate the heat throughout
the building, to receive boxes, to assist in packing and unpacking
pianos and other musical instruments that occupied
part of the upper floors, and to make himself generally
useful. So far from being an easy position, it was
one that required great strength and dispatch, and these
had been Pat's qualities save when drink got the better of
him. For one of his age, Dennis was very strong, and
his experience in helping his mother in household duties
had made him quick and dexterous, where most young men
would have been awkward and slow. After a day or two
Mr. Schwartz relaxed his grimness somewhat, for if Dennis
worked eagerly, he also worked well for a new beginner.
Still it would require several years of well doing to
satisfy old Schwartz that all was right. But keen Mr. Ludolph,
with his quick insight into character, watched this
“new broom” a few days, and then congratulated himself
on gaining another decided help toward the object nearest
his heart.
The other clerks were of German descent, and under
Mr. Schwartz's rigid system, each one filled his appropriate
niche, and performed carefully the duties assigned.
Even to Dennis's uncultivated eye there was a rigidity
and formality about the whole establishment not artistic.
-- 074 --
[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]
At first it was but a feeling—a vague impression that grew
upon him without his scarcely knowing why. He soon
discovered however that every thing was arranged squarely,
according to system, order, and not with a view of
placing in the best lights and shadows the beautiful things
to be sold. He saw that Mr. Ludolph was annoyed by
the same defect. One bright day, when every thing stood
out with glaring distinctness, he seemed provoked beyond
measure by this inartistic rigidity, and stormed through
the store at a great rate.
“This art-building and everybody and every thing in it
look as if they swallowed a ram-rod,” snarled he. Mr.
Schwartz, can't you teach the young men to throw a little
ease and grace into the arrangement of the articles under
their charge?”
Mr. Schwartz looked at him with a blank, impassive
face, and his employer felt that he might as well ask an
elephant to teach dancing.
Turning suddenly on a stolid youth, he exclaimed,
“By the gods! if you have not arranged all the statuettes
on your counter in straight lines, and half of them with
their backs towards the door at which our customers enter!
Here, gather round me while I give you some ideas of arrangement.”
They gathered around him, while with hands of skill
and taste he grouped every thing artistically. The effect
of a little transposition was marvellous, and Mr. Schwartz
acknowledged that they looked doubly pretty and inviting.
Dennis stood at a respectful distance, but was a close
observer. He was the only one who gained much benefit
from the lesson, because the only one capable of receiving
it. With quick, appreciative eye he saw the grouping
needful to produce the desired effect.
As Mr. Ludolph looked up he caught Dennis's intelligent
gaze.
-- 075 --
[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]
“That is right, Fleet,” he said; “you learn, too, if you
can, and when you are dusting around, see if you cannot
combine a little order and grace together.”
From that day forward the hand and taste of Dennis
Fleet began gradually, and almost imperceptibly at first,
to give a new aspect and create a new atmosphere in the
“Temple of Art.” But at first he was kept busy enough
at his humble routine duties. Every one felt and expressed
a little surprise at his getting into harness so
quickly, but the heavy atmosphere that Mr. Schwartz pervaded
was not conducive to conversation or emotions,
however faint. All went forward quietly and orderly, like
well oiled machinery. Customers received every attention,
and though many no doubt had the undefined feeling
that something was wrong in the arrangement of the store,
they all found an abundance of beautiful things suited to
the taste and purse of each, and so trade was good, even
though the holiday season was over.
As for Dennis, he was to a certain extent in Paradise.
Nature had given him a deep, earnest love of the beautiful,
and keen perception of it.
Though his days were busy indeed, he found time
gradually to study every pretty thing in the store. Though
much was mystery to him as yet, he felt himself over the
threshold of a beautiful world—the world of art. When
a boy in New England he had taken drawing-lessons, and
had shown remarkable aptness. While at college, also, he
had given some attention to drawing and coloring, but circumstances
had prevented him following the bent of his
taste, but now the passion awoke with ten-fold force, and
he had not been in his place a week, before he began to
make sketches of little things that pleased him. Some of
the pictures and bronzes became almost dear, and he
would view their sale with a feeling akin to regret. Early
in the morning, when refreshed and brightened by the
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night's rest, he would walk through the store as through
fairy-land, and forgetting that he was a humble servitor,
would feel as if all were his. But in fact was not his possession
truer than that of many whose palace walls glow
with every rich gem of art, and yet whose eyes are
blind and hearts dull to the beauty they have paid for?
But a few days after his arrival a little incident occurred
that was hard and practical enough, and might justly
cause him to feel that he occupied a humble place, not
only in the world of art, but the world in general. There
had been a day of rain, slush, and mud. One of the
younger clerks had been sent out on an errand, and came
in well splashed. Drawing off his boots, he threw them
to Dennis, saying—
“Here you, Fleet! black my boots as quick as you
can. I must go out again.”
Dennis reddened, and for a moment drew himself up
as if he had been struck. The young man saw it and
said in a loud, coarse tone that could be heard by several
customers—
“Vat! you above your biz? I thought it would be so.”
Dennis acted with decision. He meant to have the
matter settled at once. Picking up the muddy boots, he
marched straight into Mr. Ludolph's office. That gentleman
looked up, impatient at interruption, and saw his
man-of-all-work standing before him with the splashed
boots dangling in his hands.
“Well! what is it?” asked he sharply.
“Mr. Berder threw me those boots and told me to
black them. Is this a part of my duty here?” said Dennis,
in a firm, quiet tone.
“Curse it all,” said Mr. Ludolph, with much irritation;
“I thought there would be trouble with your uppishness.”
“There shall be no trouble whatever,” said Dennis;
“but I prefer to take my orders from you, and not from
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Mr. Berder. If you say this is expected, the disagreeable
task shall be done as well as I can do it.”
Mr. Ludolph looked sharply at the young man for a
moment and hesitated. In his heart he felt that he was
speaking to a gentleman, and that it was not the thing to
ask of him such menial work. But his irritation and desire
to crush out anything like insubordination, prevailed.
Still, rather than directly order it, he appealed to the custom
of the past, and stepping to the door of the office he
called—
“Mr. Schwartz, come here! Did Pat black the shoes
of the gentlemen of this store?”
“Yes sir.”
“You took Pat Murphy's place, did you not?”
“Yes sir,” said Dennis.
“It seems to me, then, that this settles the question;”
said Mr. Ludolph, coolly, turning to his writing, but he
furtively and carefully watched Dennis's course.
Determined to show that he was not above his business,
that he accepted the bitter with the sweet, Dennis
went up-stairs to his room, got blacking and brush, and
taking his station in a corner where Mr. Ludolph could
plainly see him through the glass doors of his office, he
polished away as vigorously as if that were his only calling.
Mr. Ludolph looked and smiled. His was a nature
that could be pleased with a small triumph like this. But
the other clerks, seeing Mr. Berder's success, and determining
to do their part, also, in taking Dennis “down a
peg,” as they expressed it, brought their boots, too, and
Mr. Berder came with his again in the afternoon. Dennis
cleaned and polished away in full view of Mr. Ludolph,
who began to realize with vexation that his man-of-all-work
would have little time for the duties of the store,
if he were installed general boot-black of the establishment.
But, after this, cold and snow kept the streets dry
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and clean for some time, and the matter passed on without
further notice. A pair of boots were seldom brought
to him, and when they were, they were cleaned without a
word. In the mean time, his ability and faithfulness in the
discharge of his regular duties, and in some slight degree
his taste and judgment, began to be recognized, and Mr.
Ludolph congratulated himself that in giving Dennis Pat
Murphy's shoes, he had made a decided change for the
better.
CHAPTER XI. TOO MUCH ALIKE.
One of the duties that Dennis enjoyed most was the
opening of new goods. With the curiosity and pleasure
of a child he would unpack the treasures of Art consigned
to his employer, and when a number of boxes were left at
the front door, he was eager to see the contents. During
his first three weeks at the store there had not been many
such arrivals of goods and pictures. They were working
off the old stock bought before the holidays. But now new
things were coming in. Chief of all, Mr. Ludolph was
daily expecting pictures imported directly from Europe.
One afternoon early in February a large flat box was
brought to the store. Mr. Ludolph examined its marks,
smiled, and told Dennis to open it with great care, cutting
every nail with a chisel. There was little need of cautioning
him. He would have bruised his right hand rather
than mar one line of beauty.
The “Art Building” contained two or three small show-rooms,
where the more valuable pictures could be exhibited
in better light. Into one of these the large box was
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carried, and most carefully opened. The two clerks who
were helping Dennis laughed at his eager interest, and
called him under their breath a “green 'un.” Mr. Schwartz
looked upon him as a mild sort of a lunatic. But Mr. Ludolph,
who stood near, to see if the picture was all safe
and right, watched him with some curiosity. His manner
was certainly very different from Pat Murphy's at such a
time, and his interest both amused and pleased him.
When at last the picture was lifted from the box and
placed on a large easel, all exclaimed at its beauty save
Dennis. On looking at him, they saw that his eyes had
filled with tears, and his lips were quivering so that he
could not have spoken.
“Is she a relation of yours?” asked Mr. Schwartz in a
matter-of-fact tone.
A loud laugh followed this sally from such an unusual
source. Dennis turned on his heel, left the room, and
busied himself with duties in a distant part of the store,
the rest of the day. It seemed to him that they were like
savages bartering away gold and pearls, whose value they
could not understand; much less could they realize his
possession of a nature of exquisite sensibility to beauty.
When all were gone he returned to the room, and sat
down before the picture in wrapt attention. It was indeed
a fine work of Art, finished in that painstaking manner
characteristic of the Germans.
The painting was a Winter scene in Germany. In the
far back ground rose wooded and snow-clad hills. Nearer
in the perspective was a bold bluff, surmounted by a
half ruined castle. Beneath them flowed a river now a
smooth glare of ice, and in the distance figures were
wheeling about upon skates. In the immediate foreground
were two persons. One was a lovely young girl, dressed
in black velvet trimmed with ermine. The basque fitted
closely to her person, revealing its graceful outlines, and
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was evidently adapted to the active sport in which she was
engaged. While the rich warm blood mantled her cheeks,
the snow was not whiter than her temples and brow. A
profusion of wavy hair flowed down her shoulders, scattered
threads of which glistened like gold in the slanting rays
of the sun. Her eyes (that were not of a pale china blue,
but of a deep violet rather) were turned half in scorn and
half in sympathy with the full, smiling mouth, upon the
figure of a young man kneeling at her feet, making awkward
attempts to fasten her skate to the trim little foot.
It was evident that the favor was too much for him, and
that his fluttering heart made trembling and unskilful
hands. But the expression of the maiden's face clearly
indicated that her heart was as cold towards him as the ice
on which he knelt.
The extreme beauty of the picture and its exquisite
finish fascinated Dennis, while the girl's face jarred upon
his feelings like a musical discord. After gazing fixedly
for a long time, he said—
“What possessed the man to paint such a lovely face
and make its expression only that of scorn, pride, and
heartless merriment?”
All the long night the face haunted and troubled him.
He saw it in his dreams. It had for him a strong interest
that he could not understand—that strange fascination
which a very beautiful thing that has been marred and
wronged has for some natures. So powerful was this impression
upon his sensitive nature, that he caught himself
saying, as of a living being—
“O that I could give to that face the expression God
meant it to have.”
And then he laughed at his own folly.
His wakefulness caused him to over-sleep the next
morning, and he was later than usual in getting through
the routine duties of the store. At length, about 9 o'clock,
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dusty and begrimed from mopping, feeding the furnace,
etc., he stood with duster and brush in hand before the
painting that had so disturbed his rest. He was in his
shirt sleeves, and in careful economy had a large coarse
apron of ticking girded about his person. His black dishevelled
locks looked like an inverted crow's nest, and
altogether he was unpresentable, appearing more like the
presiding divinity of a dust heap than of an “Art Building.”
After gazing a few moments on the scornful beautiful
face that might have obtained its haughty patrician lineaments
from the old barons of the ruined castle just above,
he seemed to grow conscious of this himself, and shrank
behind the picture half ashamed, as if she could see him.
While engaged a few moments in cleaning off some
stains and marks upon the frame, he did not hear a light
footstep in the room. Finishing his task, he stepped out
from behind the picture with the purpose of leaving the
apartment, when a vision met his gaze which startled him
to that degree that he dropped his brush and duster clattering
upon the floor, and stood transfixed with not only eyes
open wide but mouth also. There before him, in flesh and
blood it seemed, stood the lady of the picture—the same
dress, the same beautiful blonde face, and chief of all the
same expression. He was made conscious of his absurd
position by a suppressed titter from the clerks at the door,
and a broad laugh from Mr. Ludolph. The beautiful face
turned toward him for a moment, and he felt himself looked
over from head to foot. At first there was an expression
of vexation at the interruption, and then as if impressed by
the ludicrousness of his appearance, the old laughing, scornful
expression returned. Casting a quick, furtive glance
at the picture, which seemed to satisfy him, Dennis, with
hot cheeks, gathered up his tools and beat a hasty retreat.
As he passed out, Mr. Ludolph asked good-naturedly—
“Why, Fleet, what is the matter?”
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“Indeed, sir, I hardly know,” answered the bewildered
youth, “but it seems to me that I have lost my wits since
that picture came. For a moment I thought that the lady
on the canvas had stepped out upon the floor.”
“Now that you speak of it,” exclaimed Mr. Ludolph
advancing into the room, “there is a striking resemblance.”
“Nonsense! father,” Dennis heard the young lady say;
“you are too old to flatter. As for that hair-brained youth
of the dust-brush, he looked as if he might have the failing
of poor Pat, and not always be able to see straight.”
At this Dennis's cheeks grew hotter still, while a low
laugh from one or two of the clerks near showed that they
were enjoying his embarrassment.
Dennis hastened away to his room, and it was well that
he did not hear the conversation that followed.
“O no!” responded Mr. Ludolph, “that is not Dennis's
failing. He is a member of a church in `good and
regular standing.' He will be one of the `pillars' by and
bye.”
“You are always having a fling at superstition and the
superstitious,” said his daughter laughingly. “Is that the
reason you installed him in Pat's shoes?”
“Can you doubt it my dear?” replied her father in
mock solemnity. “Remember our experience with Deacon
Gudgeon.”
The girl crimsoned to her hair and gnawed her lip with
vexation, evidently recalling some very unpleasant episode
of the past.
“A truce to all that,” she said; “you will have no further
trouble on that score.”
There was keen scrutiny for a moment in her father's
face, and her answer gave him evident satisfaction. It
was clear that his remark had in it more than mere bad
inage. In fact Mr. Ludolph was too long headed and
wily to use many careless, pointless words.
-- 083 --
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“Well!” said she as if anxious to change the subject,
“I think your new factotum fails decidedly in good manners,
if nothing else. He stared most impudently at me
when he came out from behind the picture. I should have
reprimanded him myself if I had not been so full of laugh
at his ridiculous appearance.”
“That's the joke of it. It was as good as a play to see
him. I never saw a man more startled and confused. He
evidently thought for a moment, as he said, that the girl
in the painting had stepped out upon the floor, and that
you were she.”
“How absurd!” exclaimed his daughter.
“Yes, and now while I think of it, he glanced from you
to the picture to satisfy himself that his senses were not
deceiving him, before he started to come away.”
“I cannot see any special resemblance,” she replied,
at the same time inwardly pleased that she should be
thought like the beautiful creature on the canvas.
“But there is a strong resemblance,” persisted her father,
“especially in general effect. I will prove it to you.
There is old Schwartz; he is not troubled with imagination,
but sees things just as they are. He would look at
you, my dainty daughter, as if you were a bale of wool,
and judge as composedly and accurately.”
“I fear, my father,” replied she smilingly, “that you
have conspired with him to pull the entire bale over my
eyes. But let him come.”
By this time Dennis had returned, and commenced
dusting some pictures near the entrance, where he could
see and hear. He felt impelled by a curiosity that he could
not resist. Moreover he had a little natural vanity in wishing
to show that he was not such a fright, after all. It was
hard for him to remember that he stood in Pat Murphy's
shoes. What difference did it make to the lady whether
such as he was a fright or not?
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Mr. Schwartz entered, and at Mr. Ludolph's bidding
looked at the living and the painted girl. In his slow sententious
tones, one could not help feeling that he was telling
just how things appeared to him. The young lady
stood beside the painting and unconsciously assumed the
expression of her fair shadow. Indeed it seemed an expression
but too habitual to her face.
“Yes,” he said, “there is a decided resemblance—close
in dress—close in complexion—color of hair much the same—
eyes much alike—Miss Ludolph not quite so tall,” etc.
Then with an awkward attempt at a compliment, like an elephant
trying to execute a quickstep, he continued,
“If I may be permitted to be so bold as to speak—express
an opinion—I should beg leave to say that Miss
Ludolph favors herself—more favored—is better looking,”
he blurted out at last, backing out of the door at the same
time, with his brow bathed in perspiration from the throes
of this great and unwonted effort at gallantry.
“Bah!” said Dennis to himself, “the old mote left out
the very chief thing in tracing the likeness—the expression!
Look at her now as she listens to his awkward attempt at
compliment. The old goose! he might as well throw a
shovel of red paint at her. And she is looking at him with
the same scornful, laughing face that the girl in the picture
wears towards the bungling admirer at her feet. He is
right in one thing though, she is better looking.”
But the moment Mr. Schwartz's bulky figure vanished
from the door-way, Miss Ludolph caught the critical, intelligent
gaze of Dennis Fleet, and the expression of her face
changed instantly to a frown. But to do her justice, it was
more in vexation with herself than him. With innate delicacy
of feeling she saw that it looked like small vanity to
be standing there while comparisons like the above were
instituted. Her manner at once became cold, observant,
and thoroughly self-possessed. She stepped out into the
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store, and by a few, keen, critical glances, seemed to take
in its whole effect. Again disapprobation clouded her fair
brow, and she pronounced audibly but one word—“stiff.”
Then she passed into her father's private office.
CHAPTER XII. BLUE BLOOD.
Dennis's mind was a chaos of conflicting feelings. As
had the picture, so the beautiful girl, that it by strange coincidence
so strongly resembled, deeply interested him. It
could not be otherwise with one of his beauty-loving nature.
And yet the impression made by the face in the painting of
something wrong, discordant, was felt more decidedly in
respect to the living face.
But before he had time to realize what had just passed,
the lady and her father appeared at the door of the office
and he heard Mr. Ludolph say—
“I know you are right my dear. It's all wrong. The
arrangement of the store is as stiff and methodical as if we
were engaged in selling mathematical instruments. But
I have not time to attend to the matter, and there is not
one in the store that has the least idea of artistic combination,
unless it is Fleet. I have noticed some encouraging
symptoms in him.”
“What! he of the duster and mop? I fear our case is
desperate, then, if he is our best hope.”
Dennis's cheeks were burning again, but turning his
back he rubbed away harder than ever at a Greek god that
he was polishing. But they gave him no thought. Speaking
with sudden animation the young lady said,
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“Father, I am a great mind to try it myself,—that is, if
you are willing.”
“But, my daughter, I could not permit you to be engaged
in any such employment before our customers.”
“Certainly not! I would come early in the morning,
before art-customers are stirring. I really would enjoy
the task greatly, if I had any one to help me who could in
some faint degree comprehend the effects I wished to produce.
The long Spring mornings soon to come, would be
just the time for it. To what better use could I put my
taste and knowledge of art, than in helping you and furthering
our plan for life?”
Mr. Ludolph hesitated between his pride and strong
desire to gain the advantages which this offer would secure.
Finally he said,
“We will think about it; I am expecting a great many
new and beautiful things early in the Spring, and no doubt
it would be well then to re-arrange the store completely,
and break up the rigid system into which we have fallen.
In the mean time I appreciate your offer, and thank you
warmly.”
Dennis's heart leaped up within him at the thought of
instruction from such a teacher, and longed to offer his
services. But he rightly judged that they would be regarded
as an impertinence at that time. The successor
of Pat Murphy was not expected to know anything of art,
or have any appreciation of it. So he bent his head lower,
but gave Jupiter Olympus such a rubbing down as the god
had deserved long ago. In a moment more Miss Ludolph
passed him on her way out of the store, noticing him no
more than his dust-brush.
The development of this narrative now requires a
more full and definite statement in regard to Mr. Ludolph
and his daughter. He was the younger son of a noble
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but impoverished German family, and was intensely proud
of his patrician blood. His parents knowing that he
would have to make his own way in the world, had sent
him, while a mere boy, to this country, and placed him in
charge of an old friend and distant relative, who was engaged
in the picture-trade in New York. He had here
learned to speak English in his youth with the fluency and
accuracy of a native, but had never become Americanized,
so strongly had he inherited family pride and clung to the
traditions of his own land.
He showed great business ability in his chosen calling,
especially displaying remarkable judgment in the selection
of works of art. So unusual was his skill in this direction,
that when twenty-one he was sent abroad to purchase
pictures. For several years he travelled through
Europe. He became quite cosmopolitan in character,
and for a time enjoyed life abundantly. His very business
brought him in contact with artists and men of culture,
while his taste and love of beauty were daily gratified.
He had abundant means, and money could open many
doors of pleasure to one who, like him, was in vigorous
health and untroubled by a conscience. Moreover, he
was able to spend much time in his beloved Germany, and
while there the great ambition of his life entered his
heart. His elder brother, who was living in exclusive
pride and narrow economy on the ancient but diminished
ancestral estate, ever received him graciously. This brother
had married, but had not been blessed or cursed with
children, for the German baron, with his limited finances,
could never decide in what light to regard them. Too
poor to mingle with his equals, too proud to stoop to those
whom he regarded as inferiors, he had lived much
alone, and grown narrower and more bigoted in his family
pride day by day. Indeed, that he was Baron Ludolph,
was the one great fact of his life. He spent hours in
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conning over yellow, musty records of the ancient grandeur
of his house, and would gloat over heroic deeds of ancestors
he never thought of imitating. In brief, he was like
a small barnacle on an old and water-logged ship, that
once had made many a gallant and prosperous voyage
richly freighted, but now had drifted into shallow water
and was falling to decay. He made a suggestion, however,
to his younger brother, that wakened the ambition
of his stronger nature, and set him about what became his
controlling purpose, his life-work.
“Make a fortune in America,” said his brother, “and
come back and restore the ancient wealth and glory of
your family.”
The seed fell into receptive soil, and from that day the
art and pleasure-loving citizen of the world became an
earnest man with a purpose. But as he chose his purpose
mainly from selfish motives, it did not become an ennobling
one. He now gave double attention to business and
practical economy. He at once formed the project of
starting in business for himself, and of putting the large
profits resulting from his judicious selection of pictures
into his own pocket.
He made the most careful arrangements, and secured
agencies that he could trust in the purchase of pictures
after he should return to the United States.
While in Paris, on his way back, an event occurred that
had a most untoward influence on his plans and hopes.
He fell desperately in love with a beautiful French woman.
Like himself, she was poor, but of patrician blood, and was
very fascinating. She attracted him by her extreme beauty
and brilliancy. She was very shrewd, and could seem
anything she chose, being a perfect actress in the false,
hollow life of the world. In accordance with Parisian
ideas, she wanted a husband to pay her bills, to be a sort
of protector and base of general operations. Here was
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a man who promised well, fine looking, and if not rich,
capable of making large sums of money.
She insinuated herself into his confidence, and appeared
to share his enthusiasm for the darling project of
his life. He felt that with such a beautiful and sympathetic
woman to spur him on and share his success, earth
would be a Paradise indeed; and she assured him, in
many delicate and bewitching ways, that it would. In
brief, he married her; and then learned, in bitterness,
anger, and disgust, that she had totally deceived him. To
his passionate love she returned indifference; to his desire
for economy, unbounded extravagance, contracting
debts which he must pay to avoid disgrace. She showed
an utter unwillingness to leave the gayety of Paris, laughing
to his face at his plan of life, and assuring him that
she would never live in so stupid a place as Germany.
His love died hard. He made every appeal to her that
affection could. He tried entreaty, tenderness, coldness,
anger, but all in vain. Selfish to the core, loving him not,
utterly unscrupulous, she trod upon his quivering heart as
recklessly as the stones of the street. Soon he saw that,
in spite of his vigilance, he was in danger of being betrayed
in all respects. Then he grew hard and fierce.
The whole of his strong German nature was aroused. In
a tone and manner that startled and frightened her, he
said:
“We sail for New York in three days. Be ready. If
you prove unfaithful to me—if you seek to desert me, I
will kill you. I swear it—not by God, for I don't believe
in Him. If he existed, such creatures as you would not.
But I swear it by my family pride and name, which are
dearer to me than life, if you leave a stain upon them you
shall die. You need not seek to escape me. I would follow
you through the world. I would kill you on the crowded
street—anywhere, even though I died myself the next
moment. And now look well to your steps.”
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The glitter of his eye was as cold and remorseless as
the sheen of steel. She saw that he meant, and would do
just what he said.
This woman had one good point, at least it turned out
to be such in this case. She was a coward naturally, and
her bad life made her dread nothing so much as death.
Her former flippant indifference to his remonstrances now
changed into abject fear. He saw her weak side, learned
his power, and from that time forward kept her within
bounds by a judicious system of terrorism.
He took her to New York and commanded her to appear
the charming woman she could, if she chose. She
obeyed, and rather enjoyed the excitement and deceit.
His friends were delighted with her, but he received their
congratulations with a grim, quiet smile. At times, though,
when she was receiving them with all grace, beauty, and
sweetness, the thought of what she was, seemed only a
horrid dream. But he had merely to catch her eye with
its gleam of fear and hate, to know the truth.
He felt that he could not trust to the continuance of
her good behavior, and was anxious to get away among
strangers as soon as possible.
He therefore closed up his business relations in New
York. Though she had crippled him greatly by her extravagance,
he had been able to bring out a fair stock of
good pictures, and a large number of articles of virtu,
selected with his usual taste. The old firm finding that
they could not keep him, offered all the goods he wanted
on commission. So in a few weeks he started for Chicago,
the most promising city of the West, as he believed,
and established himself there in a modest way. Still
the chances were even against him, for he had involved
himself heavily, and drawn to the utmost on his credit in
starting. If he could not sell largely the first year, he
was a broken man. For months the balance wavered,
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and he lived with financial ruin on one side, and domestic
ruin on the other. But, with a heart of ice and nerves of
steel, he kept his hand on the helm.
His beautiful collection, though in an unpretentious
store, at last attracted attention, and after some little time
it became the thing in the fashionable world to go there,
and from that time forward his fortune was made.
When his wife became a mother, there was a faint hope
in Mr. Ludolph's heart that this event might awaken the
woman within her, if aught of the true woman existed.
He tried to treat her with more kindness, but found it
would not answer. She mistook it for weakness and giving
way on his part. From first to last she acted in the
most heartless manner, and treated the child with shameless
neglect. This banished from her husband even the
shadow of regard, and he cursed her to her face. Thence-forth
will and ambition controlled his life and hers, and
with an iron hand he held her in check. She saw that
she was in the power of a desperate man, who would sacrifice
her in a moment if she thwarted him.
Through cowardly fear she remained his reluctant but
abject slave, pricking him with the pins and needles of
petty annoyances, when she would have pierced him to
the heart had she dared. This monstrous state of affairs
could not last forever, and had not death terminated the
unnatural relation, some terrible catastrophe would no
doubt have occurred. Having contracted a Western fever,
she soon became delirious, and passed away in this
unconscious state, to the intense joy and relief of her
husband.
But the child lived, thrived, and developed into the
graceful girl whose beauty surpassed, as we have seen,
even the painter's ideal. Her father at first cared little
for the infant, but secured it every attention. But as it
developed into a pretty girl, with winning ways, and rich
-- 092 --
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promise, he gradually associated her with his hopes and
plans, till at last she became an essential part of his ambition.
His plan now was briefly this: He would entangle
himself with no alliances or intimate associations in America,
nor would he permit his daughter to do so. His only
object in staying here was the accumulation of a large fortune,
and to this for a few years he would bend every energy
of mind and body. As soon as he felt that he had
sufficient means to live in such style as befitted the ancient
and honorable name of his family, he would return to
Germany, buy all that he could of the ancestral estate
that from time to time had been parted with, and restore
his house to its former grandeur. He himself would then
seek a marriage connection that would strengthen his social
position, while his daughter also should make a brilliant
alliance with some member of the nobility. Mr.
Ludolph was a handsome, well-preserved man; he had
been most successful in business, and was now more rapidly
than ever accumulating that which is truly a power
with Europeans of blue blood, as with democratic Americans
who are satisfied to have their vital fluid of the ordinary
red color. Moreover, his daughter's beauty promised
to be such, that, when enhanced by every worldly advantage,
it might well command attention in the highest circles.
He sought with scrupulous care to give her just
the education that would enable her to shine as a star
among the high-born. Art, music, and knowledge of literature,
especially the German, were the main things to
which her attention was directed, and in her father, with
his richly stored mind, faultless taste, and cultured voice,
she had an instructor such as rarely falls to the lot of the
most favored.
-- 093 -- p667-102
CHAPTER XIII. DEACON GUDGEON'S SON.
[figure description] Page 093.[end figure description]
When his daughter was a young miss of fourteen, a
trouble occurred that might have sadly marred Mr. Ludolph's
finely spun web by which he sought to catch the
golden prizes of the future.
Christine, for that was her name, was then a merry
school girl, attending one of the best and most fashionable
institutes for young ladies in the city. On her way to and
fro she had been strongly attracted by a ruddy-faced youth
who seemed equally smitten by her charms.
She was then in the transition period, when neither
child nor woman: she had the wayward fancies of the
earlier state, without the self-control and knowledge of the
latter. At the same time the womanly nature awakening
within her like the first dawning of early Spring, made her
heart susceptible to the awkward attentions of her unknown
admirer, who as yet was shrouded in mystery, and
therefore delightful romance. One day when returning
home, he following as usual her distant and respectful
shadow, some rude little boys threw snowballs at her.
The unknown turned upon them like a lion, and as they
were all much smaller than himself, soon put them to
ignominious flight. He then hastened to her side and
asked if she were hurt. From that hour he became a hero,
a Bayard in her eyes, and her little feminine soul, that
must exalt and deify the creature of clay before it can
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truly love, surrendered at discretion. Qualities most attractive
to woman had been displayed—courage toward
the world, gallantry and tenderness toward herself. He
could be a protector. What more could her heart ask or
seek? She doted on the unknown. She would paint his
handsome face in such glowing colors as would make both
immortal; and in fact a round-faced youth with bloody
face and staring eyes in all stages of artistic mutilation
began to fill the hidden nooks of her portfolio. At times
the object of her constant thought would beam upon her
with one eye, she having been interrupted before she could
put in the other. In the same way other features would
be painfully lacking, but her loving fancy would fill them
out, and she would gaze devotedly on what others, not
possessed by her strong illusion, would regard as a fit subject
for a coroner's inquest.
But though he remained in romantic mystery and maintained
his incognito, she was not unknown to him. This
Chicago youth had forgotten his boyish innocence years
ago. He was shrewd, and had come of a shrewd tribe.
He was in fact the eldest son of Deacon Gudgeon, a well-to-do
fish-monger and green-grocer. But his father, ambitious
in his way as Mr. Ludolph in his, had meant him
for great things, and had kept him out of the stall, so that
Christine, who had often stopped with her father at the
Deacon's stand to order fish and oysters, had never seen
him there nor suspected the relation. The only daughter
of rich Mr. Ludolph was a grand “catch,” and father and
son rejoiced in secret, though with fear and trembling over
the state of affairs. It was of course deemed best that he
should remain unknown till Christine had committed herself
so far, or had become so attached to him, that she
could or would not draw back. If a secret, private marriage
could be brought about, they would avail themselves
of that, for however it might result, much could be wrung
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from Mr. Ludolph's pride, and some advantageous compromise
effected. While this mine was being dug under
his feet, Mr. Ludolph thought of his daughter as a little
school-girl, who had learned to conjugate “love,” as any
other verb, only from her grammar.
But the fever of her first passion went on with little interruption
till it reached the crisis of “sweet idolatry.”
For a few weeks after her rescue from the snow-battlers,
she could hardly have refused him anything. But the
wary youth over-reached himself in his own shrewdness.
His father's caution also held him back. They must not
frighten this rare bird by too precipitate action till fairly
within the toils.
Meantime Christine having loved blindly all her girlish
nature could, began to grow a little critical. Gradually it
dawned upon her that the hero ever present to her fancy
was somewhat different from the flesh and blood youth of
the street.
Certain coarse ways and ungrammatical expressions
jarred upon her refined and sensitive nature. His mystery
began to grow suspicious instead of romantic. In bitterness
of heart she reproached herself for thus seeing spots
on the sun of her existence, but so it was, and these feelings
soon tinged her manners with a slight coldness at their
stolen interviews to and from school. This alarmed the
conspirators, and they felt that the time had come for decisive
action.
The next afternoon she saw her unknown admirer walking
up the street to meet her. Unconsciously she compared
his swagger with the courtly bearing of her father,
and wondered at the difference. He was pomaded, perfumed,
and dressed to a greater degree than usual, and this
annoyed her. Moreover his face wore a most sentimental,
lugubrious aspect, and she with strange perversity felt like
laughing. But she tried to meet him with a smile, as usual.
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In a voice that he meant to be deeply affecting he said—
“Christine, I'm agoin' away—a far away from these
scenes of joy and love.”
To her horror, no regret but rather a sense of relief
filled her heart in view of his absence—her faithful heart
that she so often had promised would ever be true.
He went on to state that though he had fine prospects—
great prospects, still the world would ever be “a sandy
sarah, a howlen wilderness, an unimproved prairie, without
her. Would she not marry him?—they would enter Paradise
together?”
All this might have sounded very heavenly and inviting
three weeks ago, but she was fast becoming disenchanted
now. Her superior knowledge of geography
made “Sandy Sarah” too much for her, and when he
looked around to see the effect of his set speech, he found
her shaking with laughter. Then he reproached her, and
she laughed half hysterically all the more, for she was excited,
worried, and hardly knew what she did. Then he
threatened her—spoke vaguely of her having committed
herself—promised—and told her she had gone too far to
draw back, that she was in his power, etc. At this she
began to cry. Then he told her if she would only marry
him, it would be all right. But she cried all the more, and
felt she would rather die than marry him. Her excitement
and emotion attracted the attention of passers-by.
At last a gentleman stopped and asked what was the
matter.
“I want to go home,” said she.
“Where is your home?”
“No. — Wabash avenue.”
“Why, my child, you're going right away from home.”
At this she looked in quick alarm at her companion. The
unknown, perplexed, and anxious, felt that he must do
something or the game was lost, so he said stoutly—
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“She's my sister, I will see her home safe.”
The spell was now broken utterly. She had caught
him in a downright lie, and all confidence was at once
gone.
“He is not my brother,” she cried. “He is a bad boy,
and I won't do what he wants me to.”
The gentleman, who was a father and worthy citizen,
at once comprehended the case.
“Come with me, my child,” he said; “of course he is
not your brother—one could see that half a block off. As
for you, young man, leave, or I'll put you in charge of a
policeman.”
The unknown needed no second warning, but slunk
quickly around the corner.
Christine saw in great alarm that she was in a part of
the city utterly unknown to her, but the gentleman took her
hand, and kindly reassuring her, soon brought her to familiar
ground, but did not leave her till she ran up the
steps of her father's house. He then gave a low whistle
of surprise, and said to himself,
“If Ludolph does not look after his daughter as well
as his business, he will rue it. Though our acquaintance
is slight, I think I ought to tell him,” and a few days after
he did, but the facts came to his knowledge sooner.
The next day Christine was too sick and worried to go
out. She was also afraid to go, for the vague threats she
had heard were all the more dreadful because vague and
mysterious.
Her father asked anxiously what was the matter, and
she said “a headache,”—she might justly have added a
heartache; for the change from her ideal world of love and
happiness was great and cruel, and one that as yet she
could not understand. She despised herself, feared her
father, and dreaded her former lover more than all. Every
thing seemed chaotic and full of danger. A guilty
-- 098 -- p667-107
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fear of exposure and some kind of punishment, haunted
her, and what astonished and perplexed her most, was
that her former love had changed to utter loathing.
CHAPTER XIV. THE RESULT OF FIRST LOVE.
The day following, in order to escape suspicion, Christine
went to school. She saw the unknown hovering about
in the distance, but dropping her veil she took a street-car
and escaped him. In the afternoon she joined herself to
a party of girls, instead of coming home alone, as had
been her custom. Again she saw him, but gave no sign
of recognition. Two days having passed safely, she began
to breathe more freely.
That evening, as she and her father sat in their luxurious
sitting-room, she was startled by a sharp ring at the
door. The father noticed her alarm and wondered at it
for a moment. But when the girl announced “Deacon
Gudgeon and son on business,” all anxiety passed from
her face. What had she to do with Deacon Gudgeon and
son?
“I suppose he wants his money,” said Mr. Ludolph;
“ask him if he has brought his bill.”
The girl soon returned with a long bill, (for Mr. Ludolph
was a good liver), but every article was charged at
only half price.
“What does this mean?” exclaimed Mr. Ludolph.
“Old Gudgeon is not the man to take off fifty per cent.
from a bill for nothing,” and he went down to solve the
mystery.
There was a cool, wary glitter in the Deacon's eye, but
-- 099 --
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
outwardly he was all smiles and graciousness, and wanted
to shake hands, but Mr. Ludolph conveniently did not see
this. Everybody in the market called him “Deacon,” but
Mr. Ludolph, in his punctilious pride, would not allow
himself even this slight familiarity toward one of the fishmonger's
class, and he called him simply Mr. Gudgeon,
and his manner to such was ever as cool and yet as smiling
and bright as the glitter of an icicle.
“Mr. Gudgeon,” he said, in an easy yet distant courtesy,
“there seems some mistake about this bill. I am
charged but half the usual price for the provisions I have
had.”
Mr. Gudgeon grinned, shuffled, and intimated in an
obscure, bungling way, that, under the present “circumstances,”
he would not expect to charge Mr. Ludolph as
other customers.
“Indeed, sir, said Mr. Ludolph coldly, regarding his
strangely acting guest as if he had lost his wits, “I know
of no circumstances that should prevent me from paying
you a fair price for what I buy. I am abundantly able.”
“No doubt, no doubt, abundantly able,” said the Deacon
with emphasis, as if relishing the fact. “Well, well,
sir, pay me what you like. It's all in the family—he! he!
(with a constrained laugh)—as people say, you know.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Mr. Ludolph sternly.
“P'raps she hasn't told you.”
“Has your father lost his reason lately?” asked Mr.
Ludolph in a perplexed tone of the son, who was shuffling
about looking very uneasy and abashed, now that he was
in the rich man's house he had so longed to enter.
Deacon Gudgeon saw that he could play the game of
hide-and-seek no longer—that he must come out boldly.
But now, that he was in the presence of the proud man, and
finished gentleman, standing strong and secure in the
sanctity of his own home—the home that he was seeking
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[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]
to invade by the vilest trickery, and unblushing effrontery,
even his brazen face showed some confusion, but he made
a bold plunge into the midst of things, resolving to reach
the crisis at once.
“I'v not lost my reason, Mr. Ludolph,” he said. “Indeed,
I come here to talk reason, to have a just understandin'.
You see before you a man and a father. I have
a deep and nataral interest in my offspring (with a wave
of his hand toward the shuffling youth who stood a little
in the back-ground, with his hands in his pockets, making
most uneasy efforts to appear at ease. The “offspring”
was undoubtedly a “chip of the old block.”) It is quite
nataral that young folks, when they git growed up, should
leave father and mother and hum, and cleave to another.
It's also quite nataral that parents would like to know who
that other is. The s'lection of a partner for life is a solemn
thing, and parents can't always approve of the s'lection
their offspring makes. My son” (with another stately
wave toward the offspring) “has made his s'lection, and
his love is recippercated. I can't say that I have any objection
to his choice—in fact I quite admire his taste.
Permit me to inform you that your daughter has promised
to marry my son.”
During the oration from the Deacon, Mr. Ludolph had
turned all sorts of colors; but he soon jumped to the
conclusion that it was a barefaced effort at black-mailing.
He remembered that when the door-bell rang Christine
had shown confusion, but when the Deacon and his son
were announced, only indifference; so he said—
“You accursed fool, my daughter never saw your son.”
“Call her,” said the Deacon, coolly.
With a heart full of anger and disgust, Mr. Ludolph
called up the stairs in a loud, harsh voice—
“Christine, come here a moment.”
Trembling, and full of misgivings, Christine obeyed.
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But the moment she saw the unknown she had so idolized,
she covered her face with her hands and tried to escape.
But her father seized her sternly and almost roughly
by the arm, and asked in a tone he had never used to her
before—
“Christine, what does all this mean?”
“You see, you see,” squeaked the Deacon exultingly.
“Silence!” said Mr. Ludolph in a voice of thunder.
“Let the girl speak,”—and thoughts of her mother sickened
his heart. “Is she to be the same?” he queried,
“and has she commenced so early?”
“Christine, do you know this boy?” emphasizing the
word.
“Yes,” put in the Deacon, “don't yer know this young
man?” emphasizing his term.
“Yes,” said Christine faintly.
“Did you ever promise to marry this boy?” said her
father.
“No; he wanted me to marry him day before yesterday,
and I wouldn't.”
Her father groaned, and she saw that his face was
ashen pale.
“Where did you meet him?” he asked hoarsely.
“On my way home from school.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“It is about three months since I first saw him, but I
never knew who he was till to-night.”
Her father again groaned. “Deceit! deceit?”
This stung Christine to the quick, and she cried passionately—
“I never told a lie, but he did,” pointing to her quondam
lover, who stood with trembling knees, and a face that
he tried vainly to keep bold. “I know I have acted like
a fool,” she continued, “and I have suffered enough in
consequence. But I was young and inexperienced, and
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did not know what I was doing. It all seems like a silly,
horrid dream, but now that it is done I won't lie about it.”
And she told the whole story without any concealment.
Her father watched her with a scrutiny that pierced her
very soul. He then cross-questioned her more searchingly
than the keenest lawyer, for more than life—his ambition
and honor were at stake. With his thorough knowledge
of character and the world, he saw that he had obtained
from her the whole truth, and at the same time he clearly
detected the scheme of the Gudgeons. As he turned to
them, the Deacon was fairly startled, so terrible was his
expression. They saw that in Mr. Ludolph they had
caught a tartar.
“There is the door,” he said in the deep suppressed
voice of passion.
The young man with a frightened look, started, but
the Deacon stood his ground.
“Look ahere, Mr. Ludolph, not so fast. My son's
blighted 'fections require rapparition. You can't expect
this matter to blow over,” he added more plainly, “without
some good reason.”
“How much do you mean by a good reason?” said
Mr. Ludolph warily.
“You're a rich man; you couldn't afford a scandal like
this to come out; I mean a good round sum.”
“I perceive you mean business, Mr. Gudgeon,” said
Mr. Ludolph; “let us proceed in a business-like way,”
and he stepped to the door and called two of his servants,
an intelligent German man and an English woman.
When they appeared Mr. Ludolph continued in an affable
matter-of-fact tone. “Now, Mr. Gudgeon, let us settle
this little affair between us, as I have other things on hand
this evening that require my attention. Just name the
sum before these witnesses that will satisfy your claim, and
we can soon end this transaction.”
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“The Deacon's eyes glittered avariciously, and he believed
he was having everything his own way. But he
hesitated, not daring to name the sum he longed to.
“Come,” said Mr. Ludolph impatiently, “do not be
afraid to speak out.”
“Well,” said the Deacon, brassily, “I'll settle with yer
for ten thousand dollars.” At the same time he was evidently
frightened at the sum he had named.
“All right,” said Mr. Ludolph coolly, and he stepped
to a small secretary and wrote the following: “On the payment
of ten thousand dollars from Mr. Ludolph I will give
him a receipt in full for my claim against him. Is that
satisfactory?” asked he.
“O cartainly, cartainly,” said the exultant Deacon;
“but you'd hardly expect a man and father to do it for
less, in view of such carcumstances as—”
“No words,” said Mr. Ludolph firmly.
“O, I see, I understand; we'll settle quietly,” said the
Deacon with a significant wink.
“That is the better way,” said Mr. Ludolph coolly.
“Just please sign that paper, so that I can be sure that
there will be no further trouble.”
The Deacon at once scrawled his name. Mr. Ludolph
had his servants witness the signature, then dismissed the
woman.
He then sat down at his secretary again, wrote a few
lines, and said to his man,—
“Here, Brandt, take this note to police station No. —,
and give it to officer Brown.”
“What do you mean?” asked the Deacon in sudden
alarm.
“I mean to lodge you and your son in jail,” said Mr.
Ludolph coolly. “You have both taken part in a conspiracy
to blackmail. You have given me written and legal
proof.”
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[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]
The Deacon turned pale, and his son began to whine
and snuffle. Christine had tried to escape from a scene
that was painful aad sickening beyond words, but her
father sternly commanded her to remain. He meant that
she should receive an impression that would last.
“You cannot afford to have this come out,” snarled
the Deacon; “it will make your daughter the town talk.”
“I can stand it if you can,” said Mr. Ludolph quietly.
“O father,” pleaded Christine, “give him anything
rather than subject me to this mortification.”
“You have subjected yourself to it,” said her father.
“Romantic, gushing girls that bestow their affections in
the streets on fishmonger's sons, must expect the natural
consequences.
His tone was so cold and remorseless that all saw that
it was useless to oppose his iron will. The Deacon, who
was a large, powerful man, felt a strong impulse in his
desperation, to try force in order to recover from Mr. Ludolph
the proof of his guilt, but his wary adversary coolly
drew a revolver and said.
“That will not answer, Mr. Gudgeon.”
Christine was almost ready to faint, and the teeth of
her former hero were fairly chattering with fright. But the
Deacon now came out in his worst light. He belonged
to the reptile class of humanity that can crawl anywhere
to do anything that selfishness prompts. He had sneaked
into a Christian church, and pulled over his black life the
sacred garb of religion. By arts and wire-pulling he came
to be elected an officer, and then he made his deaconship
as prominent in the market as his sign over the fish-stall.
But he appreciated Christian faith, and was as true to it
as Judas Iscariot. But now fearing the loss of his ecclesiastical
honors, and also hoping to move Mr. Ludolph,
he whined,
“As a man and a father devoted to his offspring, I
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[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]
may have gone too far in this matter. But when you come
to know that I am a member of the church, in fact one of
the pillars, I know that you wont bring a cause of reproach
and stumbling.”
“Mark that, Christine,” said Mr. Ludolph; “your
would-be father-in-law is a pillar in the church. It must
be a queer institution that requires such pillars to uphold
it,” he added with a sneering laugh.
“O please let us off this time, and we wont trouble you
no more,” pleaded father and son in doleful chorus.
Mr. Ludolph thought a moment. If he prosecuted the
Deacon and his son, they having suffered all they could,
would become bitter enemies, bent on revenge. If he let
them go, but held the paper in terrorem over them, they
would have the strongest motive possible to keep still and
let him alone. He therefore said,
“Not because you are a `pillar,' nor because you do
not richly deserve punishment, do I let you off, but because
I have no time to willingly waste on men of your stripe.
Sportsmen do not shoot vermin unless the must to get rid
of them. But I warn you plainly that if either you or your
son trouble me or my daughter again, I will have you
arrested, and punished to the extent of the law, if it take
all and more than the preposterous sum you named. Now
begone.”
The Deacon and his son slunk off like whipped curs.
Mr. Ludolph then turned to his daughter, and said
icily.
“This time I have saved you from disgrace and shame.
The next time you are guilty of such a folly, you shall
abide the consequences. Go to your room, think over
this scene, and look down into this pit of all uncleanness
into which you so nearly fell.”
With every fibre in her body tingling with shame and
self-disgust, Christine crept away to the welcome solitude
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of her own room. She put out the light so that she might
not even see her own face in the mirror.
Mr. Ludolph told the detective when he came that on
farther investigation he had concluded not to ask the
arrest of a certain party, and gave the man ten dollars for
his trouble, and so the matter ended. From that time
forth the Gudgeons sailed as wide of Mr. Ludolph as
timorous mariners of the maëlstrom.
But Christine had received a lesson she could never
forget. Every feature in the humbling scene seemed
burned into her very soul as with caustic.
For some weeks after the events above described Mr.
Ludolph treated his daughter with cold distrust. Christine
saw that his confidence in her was gone. She was
very unhappy. She fairly turned sick when she thought
of the past. The words love and romance, were nauseating.
She had lived in the world of romance and mystery;
she had loved all that her girlish nature could, and how
had it ended? However wrongly and unjustly, she
had, by the inevitable laws of association, connected
these words with the fishmonger and son; and within a
week after her miserable experience she became as utter an
unbeliever in human love and happiness flowing from it,
as her father had taught her to be in God and the joy of
believing. Though seemingly a fair young girl, her father
had made her worse than a pagan. She believed in nothing
save art and her father's wisdom. He seemed to embody
the culture and worldly philosophy that now became,
in her judgment, the only things worth living for. To
gain his confidence became her great desire. But this
had received a severe shock. Mr. Ludolph lost about all
faith in everything save money and his own will. Religion
was to him a gross superstition, with which he associated
Pat Murphy's priest and Deacon Gudgeon—woman's
virtue and truth, poetic fictions.
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He watched Christine narrowly, and said just enough
to draw out the workings of her mind. He then decided
to tell his plan for life, and give her strong additional
motives for doing his will. The picture he portrayed of
the future, dazzled her proud, ambitious spirit, and opened
to her fancy what then seemed the only path of happiness.
She entered into his projects with honest enthusiasm, and
bound herself by the most solemn promises to aid in
carrying them out. But in bitterness he remembered one
who had promised with seeming enthusiasm before, and
distrusted and watched his daughter with lynx-eyed vigilance.
But gradually he began to believe in her somewhat, as
he saw her looking foward with increasing eagerness to
the heaven of German fashionable life, wherein she, rich,
admired, allied by marriage to some powerful noble family,
should shine a queen in the world of art.
“I have joined her selfishness to mine,” he said, rubbing
his hands in self-gratulation. “I have blended our ambitions
and sources of hope and enjoyment, and that is
better than all her promises.”
At the time that Dennis saw first the face that was so
beautiful and yet so married by pride and selfishness, Christine
was about eighteen, and yet as mature in some respects
as a woman of thirty. She had the perfect self-possession
that familiarity with the best society gives. Mr. Ludolph
was too shrewd to seek safety in seclusion. He went with
his daughter into the highest circles of the city, and Christine
had crowds of admirers and many offers. All this she
enjoyed, but took coolly as her right, as a Greek goddess
might the incense that rose in her temple. She was too
proud and refined to flirt in the ordinary sense of the
word, and no one could complain that she gave much encouragment.
But this was all the more stimulating to the
Chicago youth, and each one believed with confidence in
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[figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]
his peculiar attractions, that he might succeed where all
others had failed. They were unaware that they had a
rival in some as yet unknown German nobleman. At last
it passed into a proverb that the beautiful and brilliant
girl who was so free and courtly in society, was as cold
and unsusceptible as one of her father's statues.
Thus it would seem that when circumstances brought
the threads of these two lives near each other, that of
Dennis and Christine, the most impassable barriers rose
between them, and that the threads could never be woven
together, nor the lives blended.
She was the daughter of the wealthy, aristocratic Mr.
Ludolph. He was her father's porter. Next to the love
of art, pride and worldly ambition were her strongest
characteristics. She was an unbeliever in God and religion,
not from conviction, but from training. She knew
very little about either, and what light she had came to
her through false mediums, murky and discolored.
She did not even believe in that which in many young
hearts is religion's shadow, love and romance. Her father
did not take a more worldly and practical view of life,
than she.
In marked contrast we have seen the character of
Dennis Fleet, drawing its inspiration from such different
sources.
Could two human beings be more widely separated—
separated in that which divides more surely than continents
and seas?
There was but one point of contact—their mutual love
of art.
But if Dennis could have seen her warped, deformed
moral nature, as clearly as her beautiful face and form, he
would have shrunk from her almost in loathing. But while
recognizing defects, he shared the common delusion, that
the lovely outward form and face must enshrine much that
-- 109 -- p667-118
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was noble and ready to blossom into good, if the right motives
could be presented.
As for Christine, she had one chance for life, one
chance for heaven. She was young. Her nature had not
so hardened and crystallized in evil as to be beyond new
and happier influences.
CHAPTER XV. VERY COLD.
When Dennis entered Mr. Ludolph's store, Christine
was absent on a visit to New York. and on her return, resumed
her old routine. At this time she and her father
were occupying a suite of rooms at a fashionable hotel.
Her school-days were over, Mr. Ludolph preferring to
complete her education himself, in accordance with his
peculiar views and tastes. She was just passing into her
nineteenth year, and looked out upon the world from the
vantage points of health, beauty, wealth, accomplishments
of the highest order, and the best social standing. Assurance
of a long and brilliant career possessed her mind,
while pride and beauty were like a coronet upon her brow.
She was the world's ideal of a queen.
And yet she was not truly happy. There was ever a
vague sense of unrest and dissatisfaction at heart. She
saw that her father was proud and ambitious in regard to
her, but instinctively felt that he neither loved nor trusted
her to any great extent. She seemed living in a palace of
ice and at times felt that she was turning into ice herself;
but her very humanity and womanhood, deadened and
warped though they were, cried out against the cold of a life
without God or love. In the depths of her soul she felt
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that something was wrong, but what, she could not understand.
It seemed that she had everything that heart could
wish, and that she ought to be satisfied.
She at last concluded that her restlessness was the
prompting of a lofty ambition, and if she chose she could
win world-wide celebrity as an artist. This, with the whole
force of her strong nature, she had determined to do, and
for over two years had worked with an energy akin to enthusiasm.
She had resolved that painting should be the
solid structure of her success, and music its ornament.
Nor were her dreams altogether chimerical, for she had
remarkable talent in her chosen field of effort, and had been
taught to use the brush and pencil from a child. She could
imitate with skill and taste, and express with great accuracy
the musical thought of the composer. But she could not
invent and create new effects, and this had already begun
to trouble her. Bnt she worked hard and patiently, determined
to succeed. So great had been her application,
that her father saw the need of rest and change, and therefore
her visit to New York.
She had now returned strengthened, and eager for her
former studies, and resumed them with tenfold zest.
The plan of re-arranging the store on artistic principles,
daily grew in favor with her. It was just the exercise of
taste she delighted in, and she hoped some day to indulge
it on palace walls that would be her own. Her father's
pride caused him to hesitate for some time, but she said—
“Why, Chicago is not our home; we shall soon be
thousands of miles away. You know how little we really
care for the opinions of people here: it is only our own
pride and opinion that we need consult. I see nothing
lowering or unfeminine in the work. I shall scarcely touch
a thing myself, merely direct; for surely among all in your
employ there must be one or two pairs of hands not so utterly
awkward but that they can follow plain instructions.
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My taste shall do it all. We are both early risers, and the
whole change can be made before the store is opened.
Moreover,” she added (with an expression indicating that
she would have little difficulty in ruling her future German
castle, and its lord also), “this is an affair of our own.
Those you employ ought to understand by this time that it
is neither wise nor safe to talk our business outside.”
After a moment's thought she concluded—
“I really think that the proper arrangement of everything
in the store as to light, display, and effect, so that
people of taste will be pleased when they enter, would add
thousands of dollars to your sales, and this rigid system
of old Schwartz's, which annoys us both beyond endurance,
will be broken up.
Won over by arguments that accorded with his inclinations,
Mr. Ludolph gave his daughter permission to
carry out the plan in her own way.
She usually accompanied her father to the store in the
morning. He, after a brief glance around, would go to
his private office and attend to correspondence. She would
do whatever her mood prompted. Sometimes she would
sit down for a half hour before one picture; again she
would examine most critically a statue, or a statuette.
Whenever new music was received, she looked it over and
carried off such pieces as pleased her fancy.
She evidently was a privileged character, and no one
save her father exercised the slightest control over her
movements. She treated all the clerks, save old Schwartz,
as if they were animated machines; and by a quiet order,
as if she had touched a spring, would set them in motion
to do her bidding. The young men in the store were all
of German descent, and rather heavy and undemonstrative.
Mr. Schwartz's system of order and repression had
pretty thoroughly quenched them. They were educated to
the niches they filled, and seemed to have no thought
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beyond; therefore they were all unruffled at Miss Ludolph's
air of absolute sovereignty. Mr. Schwartz was as
obsequious as the rest, but as second to her father in
power, was permitted some slight familiarity. In fact this
heavy, stolid prime minister both amused and annoyed
her, and she treated him much as a child might an elephant—
at times giving him the sugar plum of a compliment,
and oftener pricking him with the pin of some
caustic remark. To him she was the perfection of
womankind—her reserved, dispassionate manner, her
steady, unwearied prosecution of a purpose, being just
the qualities that he most honored; and he worshipped
her reverently at a distance as an old astrologer might
some particularly bright fixed star. No whisking comets
or changing satellites for old Schwartz.
As for Dennis, she treated him as she probably had
Pat Murphy, and for several days had no occasion to notice
him at all. In fact he kept out of her way, choosing
at first to observe rather than be observed. She became
an artistic study to him, for her every movement was
grace itself with one exception; there was no softness
or gentleness in her manner. Her face fascinated him
by its beauty, though its expression troubled him. It
was so unlike his mother's, so unlike what he felt a woman's
ought to be. But her eager interest in that which
was becoming so dear to him—art, would have covered a
multitude of sins in his eyes, and with a heart abounding
in faith and hope, not yet diminished by hard experience,
he believed that the undeveloped angel existed within her.
But he remembered her frown when she first noticed him
looking at her; the shrewd Yankee youth saw that her
pride would not brook even a curious glance. But while
he kept at a most respectful distance he felt that there
was no such a wide gulf between them as she imagined.
By birth and education he was as truly entitled to her
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acquaintance as the young men who sometimes came into
the store with her and whom she met in society. Position
and wealth were alone wanting, and in spite of his hard
experience and lowly work he felt that there must be some
way for him, as for others, to win these.
He longed for the society of ladies, as every right-feeling
young man does, and to one of his nature the
grace and beauty of woman was peculiarly attractive. If
before she came, the lovely faces of the pictures had filled
the place with a sort of witchery, and created about him
an atmosphere in which his artist-soul was awakening into
life and growth, how much more would it be true of this
living vision of beauty that glided in and out every day.
“She does not notice me,” he at first said to himself,
any more than do these lovely shadows upon the
canvas. But what need I care? I can study both them
and her, and thus educate my eye, and I hope my hand,
to imitate and perhaps surpass their perfections, in time.”
But this cool philosophic mood did not last very long.
It might answer very well in regard to the pictures on the
walls, but there was a magnetism about this living breathing
woman that soon caused him to long for the privilege
of being near her and speaking to her of that subject
that interested them both so deeply. Though he had
never seen any of her paintings to know them, he soon
saw that she was no novice in art, and looked at everything
with the eye of a connoisseur. In reverie he had
many a spirited conversation with her, and trusted that
some day his dreams would become real. He had the
romantic hope that if she should discover his taste and
strong love of art she might at first bestow upon him a
patronizing interest which would gradually grow into
respect and acknowledgeed equality.
-- 114 -- p667-123
CHAPTER XVI. SHE SPEAKS TO HIM.
[figure description] Page 114.[end figure description]
After the plan for the rearrangement of the store had
been determined upon, Miss Ludolph commenced studying
its topography. She went regularly through the building
examining closely every part and space, sometimes
sketching a few outlines in a little gilt book. It would
seem that she was seeking by her taste to make the show
rooms pictures in themselves, wherein each part should
blend harmoniously, and create one beautiful effect. Dennis
saw what was coming. The carrying out the plan he
had heard discussed, and he wished with intense longing
that he might be her assistant. But she would as soon have
thought of sending for Pat Murphy. She intended to
select one of the older clerks to aid her. Still Dennis
hoped that by some strange and happy turn of fortune,
part of this work might fall to him.
Every spare moment of early morning and evening he
spent in sketching and studying, but he sadly felt the need
of instruction and money to buy materials. He was merely
groping his way as best he might, and he felt that Miss
Ludolph could teach him so much if she would only condescend
to the task. He was willing to be a very humble
learner at first. If in some way he could only make known
his willingness to pick up the crumbs of knowledge that
she might be willing out of kindness to scatter in his way,
he might expect something from ordinary good nature.
But a week or two passed without his receiving so
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much as a glance from those cold blue eyes that rested so
critically on all that passed before them; and on an unlucky
day in March all hope of any help from her, vanished.
Under the influence of Spring the streets were again
becoming muddy and wet, and his duty as boot-black increased
daily. He had arranged to perform this menial
task in a remote corner of the store, as much out of sight
as possible. The duty had become still more disagreeable
since the young lady haunted the place, for he feared she
would learn to associate him only with the dust and blackening
brush.
Just behind where he usually stood, a good picture had
been hung, under Mr. Schwartz's system, simply because
it accurately fitted the space. It was in wretched light,
and could never be seen or appreciated there. Miss Ludolph
in her investigations and plannings discovered this
at a time most unfortunate for poor Dennis. Whilst polishing
away one morning on the huge jumble of leather
that inclosed Mr. Schwartz's broad understanding, he suddenly
became conscious that she was approaching. It
seemed that she was looking directly at him, and was
about to speak. His heart thumped like a trip-hammer,
his cheeks burned, and blur came over his eyes, for he was
diffident in ladies' presence. Therefore he stood before
her the picture of confusion, with the big boot poised in
one hand, and the polishing brush in the other. With the
instincts of a gentleman, however, he made an awkward
bow, feeling, though, that under the circumstances, his
politeness could only appear ridiculous. And he was right.
It was evident from the young lady's face, that her keen
perception of the ridiculous was thoroughly aroused. But
for the sake of her own dignity (she cared not a jot for
him), she bit her lip to control her desire to laugh in his
face, and said rather sharply—
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“Will you stand out of my way?”
She had spoken to him.
He was so mortified and confused that in his effort to
obey, he partially fell over a bronze sheep, designed to
ornament some pastoral scene, and the heel of Mr.
Schwartz's heavy boot came down with a thump that made
everything ring. There was a titter from some of the
clerks. Mr. Ludoph, who was following his daughter, exclaimed,
“What's the matter, Fleet? You seem rather unsteady,
this morning, for a church member.”
For a moment he had the general appearance usually
ascribed to his unlucky stumbling-block. But by a strong
effort he recovered himself. Deigning no reply, he set his
teeth, compressed his lips, picked up the boot, and polished
away as before, trying to look and feel regardless of
all the world. In fact he looked as proud as she ever had.
But for the time not noticing him, she said to her father—
“Here is a specimen. Look where this picture is hung.
In boot-black corner I should term it. It would not sell
here in a thousand years, for what little light there is would
be obscured much of the time by somebody's big boots
and the artist in charge. It has evidently been placed
here in view of one principle alone—dimension; its length
and breadth according with the space in the corner. You
will see what a change I will bring about in a month or
two, after my plans are matured,” and then strolled to another
part of the store. But before leaving, Miss Ludolph
happened to glance at Dennis's face, and was much struck
by its expression. Surely Pat Murphy never would or
could look like that. For the first time the thought entered
her mind that Dennis might be of a different clay and
character from Pat. But the next moment his expression
of pride and offended dignity in such close juxtaposition to
the big boot he was twirling almost savagely around, again
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appealed to her sense of the ludicrous, and she turned
away with a broad smile. Dennis, looking up, saw the
smile and guessed the cause; and when, a moment after,
Mr. Schwartz appeared, asking in his loud, blunt way,
“My boots ready?”
He felt like flinging both at his head, and leaving the
store forever. Handing them to him without a word, he
hastened up-stairs, for he felt that he must be alone.
At first his impulse was strong to rebel, to assert that
by birth and education he was a gentleman, and must be
treated as such, or he would go elsewhere. But as the
tumult in his mind calmed, the case became as clear to him
as a sum in addition. He had voluntarily taken Pat Murphy's
place, and why should he complain at Pat's treatment.
He had pledged his word that there should be no
trouble from his being above his business, and he resolved
to keep his word till Providence gave him better work to
do. Then he remembered that the hands of his Divine
Lord and Master had done as humble work as his, and
was ashamed of his pride. He bathed his hot face in
cool water, breathed a brief prayer for strength and patience,
and went back to his tasks strong and calm.
-- 118 -- p667-127
CHAPTER XVII. PROMOTED.
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Late in the afternoon of the same day (which was Saturday),
as Mr. Ludolph was passing out of the store on
his way home, he noticed the table that he had arranged
artistically some little time before, as a lesson to his clerks.
Gradually it had fallen back into its old straight lines and
rigid appearance. He seemed greatly annoyed.
“What is the use of re-arranging the store,” he muttered.
“They will have it all back again on the general
principle of a ramrod, in a little while. But we have put
our hands to this work, and it shall be carried through
even if I discharge half of these wooden-heads.”
Then calling the clerk in charge, he said—
“Look here, Mr. Berder, I grouped the articles on this
counter for you once, did I not?”
“Yes sir!”
“Let me find them Monday morning just as I arranged
them on that occasion.”
The young man looked as blank and dismayed as if he
had been ordered to swallow them all before Monday
morning.
He went to work and jumbled them up as if that was
grouping them, and then asked one or two of the other
clerks what they thought of it. They shook their heads,
and said it looked worse than before.
“I vill study over him all day to-morrow, and den vill
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[figure description] Page 119.[end figure description]
come early Monday and fix him,” and the perplexed youth
took himself off.
Dennis felt almost sure that he could arrange it as Mr.
Ludolph had, or with something of the same effect, but
did not like to offer his services, not knowing how they
would be received, for Mr. Berder had taken a special delight
in snubbing him.
After the duties of the store were over, Dennis wrote
to his mother a warm, bright, filial letter, portraying the
scene of the day in its comic light, making all manner of
fun of himself, that he might hide the fact that he had suffered.
But he did not hide it, as a return letter proved,
for it was full of sympathy and indignation that her son
should be so treated, but also full of praise for his Christian
manliness and patience.
“And now, my son,” she wrote, “let me tell you of at
least two results of your steady, faithful performance of
your present humble duties. The money you send so regularly
is more than sufficient for our simple wants. We
have every comfort, and I am laying something by for sickness
and trouble, for both are pretty sure to come before
long, in this world. In the second place you have given
me that which is far better than money—comfort and
strength. I feel more and more that we can lean upon
you as our earthly support, and not find you a `broken
reed.' While so many sons are breaking their mother's
hearts, you are filling mine with hope and joy. I am no
prophetess, my son, but from the sure word of God I predict
for you much happiness and prosperity for thus cheering
and providing for your widowed mother. Mark my
words. God has tried you and not found you wanting.
He will soon give you better work to do—work more in
keeping with your character and ability.”
This prediction was fulfilled before Dennis received
the letter containing it, and it happened on this wise.
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Early Monday morning Mr. Berder appeared and attempted
the hopeless task of grouping the articles on his
table, in accordance with Mr. Ludolph's orders. After an
hour's work he exclaimed in despair,—
“I cannot do him to save my life.”
Dennis at a distance, with a half amused, half pitying
face, had watched Mr. Berder's wonderful combinations,
and when Rip Van Winkle was placed between two togaed
Roman Senators, and Ichabod Crane arranged as if making
love to a Greek Goddess, he came near laughing outright.
But when Mr. Berder spoke, he approached and
said kindly and respectfully—
“Will you let me try to help you?”
“Yes,” said Mr. Berder, “you cannot make things
vorse.”
Acting upon this ungracious permission, Dennis folded
his arms and studied the table for five minutes.
“Come,” said Mr. Berder, “standing dare and looking
so vise as an owl, von't help matters. Mr. Ludolph will
be here soon.”
“I am not losing time,” said Dennis, and a moment
proved he was not, for having formed a general plan for
its arrangement, he went rapidly to work, and in a quarter
of an hour, could challenge Mr. Ludolph or any other
critic to find serious fault.
“There! I could do better if I had more time, but I
must go to my sweeping and dusting, or Mr. Schwartz
will be down on me, and he is pretty heavy, you know. I
never saw such a man,—he can see a grain of dust half
across the store.”
Mr. Berder had looked at Dennis's quick skillful motions
in blank amazement, and then broke out into unwonted
panegyric for him,
“I say, Vleet, dat's capital! Where you learn him?”
Then in a paroxysm of generosity he added,
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[figure description] Page 121.[end figure description]
“Dar's a quarter for you.”
“No I thank you,” said Dennis, “I did not do it for
money.”
“Vat did the fool do it for, den, I'd like to know,”
muttered Mr. Berder, the philosophy of his life resuming
its former control. “Saved a quarter, anyhow, and vat's
more, know vare to go next time de old man comes down
on me.”
A little after nine Mr. and Miss Ludolph came in, and
paused at the table. Dennis, unnoticed, stood behind
Benjamin Franklin and Joan of Arc, placed lovingly together
on another counter, face to face, as if in mutual
admiration, and from his hiding place watched the scene
before him with intense anxiety. One thought only filled
his mind—would they approve or condemn his taste, for
he had arranged the table on a plan of his own. His
heart leaped up within him when Mr. Ludolph said—
“Why, Berder, this is excellent. To be sure you have
taken your own method, and followed your own taste, but
I find no fault with that, when you produce an effect like
this.”
“I declare, father, chimed in Miss Ludolph, “this table
pleases me greatly. It is a little oasis in this great
desert of a store. Mr. Berder, I compliment you on your
taste. You shall help me re-arrange, artistically, every
thing in the building.”
Dennis in his agitation, came near precipitating Benjamin
Franklin into the arms of Joan of Arc, a position
scarcely in keeping with either character.
“Yes, Christine, that is true,” continued Mr. Ludolph,
“Mr. Berder will be just the one to help you, and I am
glad you have found one competent. By all the furies!
just compare this table with the one next to it, where the
Past, Present, and Future have not the slighest regard for
each other, and satyrs and angels, philosophers and
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[figure description] Page 122.[end figure description]
bandits are mixed up about as closely as in real life. Here,
Berder, try your hand at this counter also; and you, young
men, gather round and see what a difference, when art
instead of mathematics rules the world of Art. If this
thing goes on, we shall have the golden age back again in
the store.”
Mr. Berder, though somewhat confused, had received
all his compliments with bows and smiles. But Dennis,
the moment the thrill of joy was over that he had pleased
Mr. and Miss Ludolph's fastidious taste, felt himself reddening
with honest indignation that Mr. Berder should
carry off all his laurels before his face. But he resolved
to say nothing, knowing that time would right him. When
Mr. Ludolph asked the young men to step forward, he
came with the others.
“That's right, Fleet,” said Mr. Ludolph again, “you
can get a useful hint, too, like enough.”
“Nonsense, father,” said Miss Ludolph, in a tone not
so low but that Dennis heard it, “why spoil a good sweeper
and duster by putting uppish notions in his head. He
keeps the store cleaner than any man you ever had, and I
don't soil my dresses as I used to.”
Dennis's color heightened a little, and his lips grew
firmer together, but he gave no other sign that he heard
this limitation of his hope and ambition. But it cut him
rather deep. The best he could ever do, then, in her view,
was to keep her dresses from being soiled.
In the meantime Mr. Berder had shown great embarrassment
at Mr. Ludolph's unexpected request. After a
few moments of awkward hesitation he stammered out
that he could do it better alone. The suspicion of keen
Mr. Ludolph was at once aroused, and he persisted—
“O come, Mr. Berder, we don't expect you to do you
best in a moment, but a person of your taste can certainly
make a great change for the better in the table before you.”
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In sheer desperation the entrapped youth attempted
the task, but he had not bungled five minutes before Mr.
Ludolph said sharply.
“Mr. Berder, you did not arrange this table.”
“Vell,” whined Mr. Berder, “I didn't say dat I did.”
“You caused us to believe that you did,” said Mr. Ludolph,
his brow growing dark. “Now, one question, and
I wish the truth: Who did arrange this table?”
“Vleet, dare, helped me,” gasped Mr. Berder.
“Helped you? Mr. Fleet, step forward, if you please,
for I intend to have the truth of this matter. How much
help did Mr. Berder give you in arranging this table?”
“None, sir,” said Dennis, looking straight into Mr.
Ludolph's eyes.
All looked with great surprise at Dennis, especially
Miss Ludolph, who regarded him most curiously. How
different he appears from Pat Murphy, she again thought.
“Some one has told a lie, now,” said Mr. Ludolph
sternly. “Mr. Fleet, I shall put you to the same test that
Berder failed in. Arrange that counter sufficiently well
to prove that it was your hands that arranged this.”
Dennis stepped forward promptly, but with a pale face
and compressed lips. Feeling that both honor and success
were at stake, he grouped and combined every thing
as before, as far as the articles would permit, having no
time to originate a new plan. As he worked, the clerks
gazed in open astonishment, Mr. Ludolph looked significantly
at his daugnter, while she watched him with something
of the same wonder which we have when one of the
lower animals show human sagacity and skill.
Mr. Ludolph was Napoleonic in other respects than his
ambition and selfishness. He was shrewd enough to
“promote on the field for meritorious services.” Therefore,
as Dennis's task approached completion, he said—
“That will do, Mr. Fleet, you can finish the work at
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[figure description] Page 124.[end figure description]
your leisure. Mr. Berder, you are discharged from this
day for deception. I would have borne with your incompetency
if you had been truthful. But I never trust any
one who has deceived me once,” he said, so sternly that
even Christine's cheek paled. “Mr. Schwartz will settle
with you, and let me never see or hear from you again.
Mr. Fleet, I promote you to Mr. Berder's counter and
pay.”
Thus this man of the world, without a thought of pity,
mercy, or kindly feeling in either case, gave one of his
clerks a new impetus towards the devil, and another an
important lift up to better things, and then went his
way, congratulating himself that all things had worked
together for his good, that morning, though where he would
find another Dennis Fleet to fill Pat's place, now vacant
again, he did not know.
But Miss Ludolph looked at Dennis somewhat kindly,
and with a little honest admiration in her face. He
was so different from what she had supposed him to be as
a matter of course, and had just done in a quiet manly
way a thing most pleasing to her, so she said with a smile
that seemed perfectly heavenly to him,—
“You are above blacking boots, sir,” and then thinking
that a cut at his discomfited rival would gratify him,
she turned to Mr. Berder and said, “And you, sir, it
seems, are fit for nothing else.”
She would have known her mistake if she had heard
Dennis's soliloquy when left to himself, “How could she
hit him when he was down.”
-- 125 -- p667-134
CHAPTER XVIII. JUST IN TIME.
[figure description] Page 125.[end figure description]
At the close of the day on which Dennis received his
promotion, and his horizon was widened so unexpectedly,
Mr. Ludolph in passing out, noticed him engaged as usual
on one of Pat Murphy's old tasks. He stopped and
spoke kindly,—
“Well, Fleet, where am I going to find a man to fill
your place made vacant to-day?”
“Would you be willing to listen to a suggestion from
me?”
“Certainly.”
“If a young boy was employed to black boots, run errands,
and attend to minor matters, I think that by
industry I might for a while fill both positions. In a short
time the furnace will require no further attention. I am
a very early riser, and think that by a little good management,
I can keep the store in order and still be on hand
to attend to my counter when customers are about.”
Mr. Ludolph was much pleased with the proposition,
and said promptly,
“You may try it Fleet, and I will pay you accordingly.
Do you know of a boy who will answer?”
“I think I do, sir. There is a German lad in my mission
class that has interested me very much. His father
is really a superior artist, but is throwing himself away
with drink, and his mother is engaged in an almost hopeless
effort to support the family. They have seen much
better days, and their life seems very hard in contrast with
the past.”
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[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]
“Can we trust such a boy? Their very necessities
may lead to theft.”
“They are not of the thieving sort, sir. I am satisfied
that they would all starve rather than touch a penny that
did not belong to them.”
“Very well, then, let him come and see me; but I will
hold you responsible for him.”
Mr. Ludolph being in a good humor was disposed to
banter Dennis, so he said—
“Do you find time to be a missionary, also? Are you
not in danger of becoming a “jack at all trades?”
“I am not entitled to the first character, and hope to
shun the latter. I merely teach a dozen boys in a mission
school on Sundays.”
“When you ought to be taking a good long nap, or
off on the lake for fresh air and a change.”
“I should be dishonest if I spent my Sabbaths in that
way.”
“How so?”
“I should give the lie to my profession and belief. I
must drop the name of Christian when I live for myself.”
“And if you should drop it, do you think you would
be much the loser?”
“Yes sir,” said Dennis with quiet emphasis.
“You are expecting great reward in some sort of a
paradise, for your mission work, etc.?”
“Nothing done for God is forgotten or unrewarded.”
“Believing that, it seems to me that you are looking
after self-interest as much as the rest of us,” said his employer
with a shrewd smile.
Looking straight into Mr. Ludolph's eyes, Dennis said
earnestly—
“Without boasting, I think that I can say that I try to
serve you faithfully. If you could see my heart, I am
sure you would find gratitude for your kindness, part of
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my motive, as well as my wages. In the same manner,
while I do not lose sight of the rich rewards God promises
and daily gives for the little I can do for Him, I am certain
that I can do much out of simple gratitude and love,
and ask no reward.
“Ignorance is certainly bliss in your case, young
man. Stick to your harmless superstition as long as you
can.”
And he walked away muttering “Delusion, delusion!
I have not said a word or done a thing for him in which I
had not in view my interests only, and yet the poor young
fool sees in the main disinterested kindness. Little
trouble have the wily priests in imposing on such victims,
and so they get their hard earned wages and set them
propagating the delusion in mission schools, when mind
and body need change and rest. Suppose there is a supreme
being in the universe, what a monstrous absurdity
to imagine that he would trouble himself to reward this
Yankee youth for teaching a dozen ragamuffins in a tenement
house mission school.”
Thus Mr. Ludolph's soliloquy proved that his own pride
and selfishness had destroyed the faculty by which he
could see God. The blind are not more oblivious to
color, than he to those divine qualities which are designed
to win and enchain the heart. A man may sadly mutilate
his own soul.
At a dinner-table where coarse abundance was conspicuously
absent, and a few delicate dishes of the
choicest viands made the bill of fare, Mr. Ludolph and
his daughter discussed the events of the day.
“I am glad,” said the latter, “that he is willing to fill
Pat's place, for he keeps everything so clean. A dusty
slovenly store is my abomination. Then it shows that he
has no silly, uppish notions so common to these Americans.
(Though born here, Miss Ludolph never thought
herself otherwise than a German lady of rank.) But I
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do not wish to see him blacking boots again. Yet he is
an odd genius. How comically he looked bowing to me
with one of Mr. Schwartz's big boot describing a graceful
curve on a level with his head. Let old Schwartz black his
own boots. He ought to as a punishment for carrying
around so much leather. This Fleet must have seen
better days, for he is as different from Pat Murphy as
bronze from cast iron. He is like all Yankees, however,
sharp after the dollar, though he seems more willing to
work for it than most of them.”
“I'll wager you a pair of gloves,” said her father,
“that they get a good percentage of it down at the mission
school. He is just the subject for a cunning priest,
because he sincerely believes in their foolery. He belongs
to a tribe now nearly extinct, I imagine—the martyrs,
who in old-fashioned times, died for all sorts of
delusions.”
“How time mellows and changes everything. There
is something heroic and worthy of art in the ancient martyrdoms,
while nothing is more repulsive than modern
fanaticism. It is a shame, though, that this young man,
with mother and sisters to support, should be robbed of
his hard earnings as was Pat Murphy by his priest, and I
will try to open his eyes some day.”
“I predict for you no success.”
“Why so?—he seems intelligent.”
“I have not studied character all my life in vain. He
would regard you, my fair daughter, as the devil tempting
him in the form of an angel of light.”
“He had better not be so plain spoken as yourself.”
“O, no need of Fleet's speaking; his face is like the
open page of a book.”
“Indeed! a face like a sign-board is a most unfortunate
one, I should think.”
“Most fortunate for us. I wish I could read every
one as I can Fleet.”
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“You trust no one, I believe, father.”
“I believe what I see and know.”
“I wish I had your power of seeing and knowing. But
how did he get his artistic knowledge and taste.”
“That I have not inquired into fully, as yet. I think
he has an unusual native aptness for these things, and
gains hints and instruction where others would see nothing.
And as you say, in the better days past he may have
had some advantages.”
“Well, said she, “if my greyhound, Wolf here should
go to the piano and execute an opera, I should not have
been more astonished than I was this morning.”
And then their conversation glided off on other topics.
After dessert, Mr. Ludolph lighted a cigar and sat
down to the evening paper, while his daughter went to
the piano and evoked from it true after-dinner music—
light, brilliant, mirth-inspiring. Then both adjourned to
their private billiard-room.
The scene of our story now changes from Mr. Ludolph's
luxurious apartments in one of the most fashionable
hotels in the city to a forlorn attic in De Kovan
street. It is the scene of a struggle as desperate, as
heroic, against as tremendous odds as was ever carried on
in the days of the Crusades. But as the foremost figure
in this long, weary conflict, was not an armed and panoplied
knight, but merely a poor German woman, only God
and the angels took much interest in it. Still upon this
evening she was almost vanquished. She seemed to have
but one vantage point left on earth. For a wonder, her
husband was comparatively sober, and sat brooding
with head in his hands over the stove where a fire was
slowly dying out. The last coal they had was fast turning
to ashes. From a cradle came a low, wailing cry. It was
that of hunger. On an old chest in a dusky corner sat a
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boy about thirteen. Though all else was in shadow, his
large eyes shone with unnatural brightness, and followed
his mother's feeble efforts at the wash-tub with that expression
of premature sadness so pathetic in childhood. Under
a rickety deal table three other and smaller children
were devouring some crusts of bread in a ravenous way
like half-famished young animals. In a few moments they
came out and clamored for more, around—not their father;
no intuitive turning to him for support—but the poor over-tasked
mother. The boy came out of his corner and tried
to draw them off and interest them in something else, but
they were like a pack of hungry little wolves. The boy's
face was almost as sharp and famine-pinched as his mother's,
but he seemed to have lost all thought of himself in
his sorrowful regard for her. As the younger children
clamored and dragged upon her, the point of endurance
was passed, and the poor woman gave way. With a despairing
cry she sank upon a chair and covered her face
with her apron.
“O mine Gott, O mine Gott,” she cried, “I can do not
von more stroke if ve all die.”
In a moment her son had his arms around her neck,
and said—
“O moder, don't cry, don't cry. Mr. Fleet said, God
would surely help us in time of trouble if we would only
ask Him.”
“I've ask Him, and ask Him, but de help don't come.
I can do no more,” and a tempest of despairing sobs
shook her gaunt frame.
“The boy seemed to have got past tears, and just fixed
his large eyes, full of reproach and sorrow, on his father.
The man rose and turned his bloodshot eyes slowly
around the room. The whole scene, with its meaning,
seemed to dawn upon him. His mind was not so clouded
by the fumes of liquor but that he could comprehend the
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supreme misery of the situation. He heard his children
crying—fairly howling for bread. He saw the wife he had
sworn to love and honor, where she had fallen in her unequal
conflict, brave, but overpowered. He remembered
the wealthy burgher's blooming, courted daughter, that he
had lured away to marry him, a poor artist. He remembered
how in spite of her father's commands and mother's
tears, she had left home and luxury to follow him throughout
the world because of her faith in him, and love for
him—how under her inspiration he had risen to great
promise as an artist till fame and fortune became almost
a certainty, and then under the debasing influence of his
terrible appetite, he had dragged her down and down, till
now, prematurely old, broken in health, broken in heart, he
saw her fall helplessly before the hard drudgery that she
no longer had strength to perform. With a sickening horror
he remembered that he had taken even the pittance
she had wrung from that washtub, not to feed his children,
but his accursed appetite for drink. Even his purple,
bloated face grew livid as all the past rushed upon him,
and despair laid an icy hand upon his heart.
A desperate purpose formed itself within his mind.
Turning to the wall where hung a noble picture, a
lovely landscape, whose rich coloring, warm sunlight, and
rural peace, formed a sharp, strange contrast with the
meagre, famine-stricken apartment, he was about to lift
it down from its fastening when his hand was arrested by
a word—
“Father!”
He turned, and saw his son looking at him with his
great eyes full of horror and alarm, as if he were committing
a murder.
“I tell you I must, and I vill,” said he savagely.
His wife looked up, sprang to his side, and with her
hands upon his arm, said,
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“No, Berthold, you must not, you shall not sell dat
picture.”
He silently pointed to his children crying for bread.
“Take de dress off my back to sell, but not dat picture.
Ve may as well die before him goes, for ve certainly
vill after. Dat is de only ting left of de happy past.
Dat, in Gott's hands, is my only hope for de future. Dat
picture tells you vat you vas, vat you might be still if you
would only let drink alone. Many's de weary day, many's
de long night, I've prayed dat dat picture vould vin you
back to your former self, ven tears and suffering vere in
vain. Leave him, and some day he vill tell you so plain
vat you are, and vat you can be, dat you break de horrid
spell dat chains you, and your artist-soul come again.
Leave him, our only hope, and sole bar against despair
and death. I vill go and beg a tousand times before dat
picture's sold; for if he goes, your artist-soul no more
come back, and you're lost, and ve all are lost.”
The man hesitated. His good angel was pleading with
him, but in vain.
Stamping his foot with rage and despair, he shouted
hoarsely, “It is too late, I am lost now.”
And he tore the picture from its fastening. His wife
sank back against the wall with a groan as if her very soul
was departing.
But before his rash steps could leave the desolation he
had made, he was confronted by the tall form of Dennis
Fleet.
The man stared at him for a moment as if he had been
an apparition, and then said in a hard tone,—
“Let me pass!”
Dennis had knocked for some time, but such had been
the excitement within, no one had regarded. He had,
therefore, heard the wife's appeal and its answer, and from
what he knew of the family from his mission scholar, the
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boy Ernst, comprehended the situation in the main. When,
therefore, matters reached the crisis, he opened the door
and met the infatuated man as he was about to throw
away the last relic of his former self and happier life.
With great tact he appeared as if he knew nothing, and
quietly taking a chair he sat down with his back against
the door, thus barring egress. In a pleasant, affable tone,
he said,—
“Mr. Bruder, I came to see you on a little business
to-night; as I was in something of a hurry, and no one
appearing to hear my knock, I took the liberty of coming
in.”
The hungry little ones looked at him with their round
eyes of children's curiosity, and for a time ceased their
clamors. The wife sank into a chair and bowed her head
in her hands with the indifference of despair. Hope had
gone. A gleam of joy lighted up Ernst's pale face at the
sight of his beloved teacher, and he stepped over to his
mother and commenced whispering in her ear, but she
heeded him not. The man's face wore a sullen, dangerous,
yet irresolute expression. It was evident that he
half believed that Dennis was knowingly trying to thwart
him, and such was his mad frenzy he was ready for any
desperate deed.
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CHAPTER XIX. RESCUED.
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In a tone of suppressed excitement, which he tried in
vain to render steady, Mr. Bruder said—
“You haf he advantage of me, sir. I know not your
name. Vat is more, I am not fit for bissiness dis night—
indeed, I haf important bissiness elsewhere. You must
excuse me,” he added sternly, advancing toward the door
with the picture.
“Pardon me, Mr. Bruder,” said Dennis politely. “I
throw myself entirely on your courtesy, and must ask as a
very great favor that you will not take away that picture
till I see it, for that, in part, is just what I came for. I
am in the picture trade myself, and think that I am a tolerably
fair judge of paintings. I heard accidentally you
had a fine one, and from the glimpse I catch of it, I think
I have not been misinformed. If it is for sale, perhaps I
can do as well by you as any one else. I am employed in
Mr. Ludolph's great store, the “Art Building.” You
probably know all about the place.”
“Yes, I know him,” said the man, calming down somewhat.
“And now sir,” said Dennis, with a gentle winning
courtesy impossible to resist, “will you do me the favor
of showing me your picture?”
He treated poor Bruder as a gentleman, and he having
really been one, instinctively inclined toward returning
like courtesy. Therefore he said—
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“O certainly, since yon vish to see him. I suppose I
might as well sell him to you as any von else.”
Mr. Bruder was a man of violent impulses, and his
mad excitement was fast leaving him under Dennis's cool
business-like manner. To gain time was now the great
desideratum.
The picture having been replaced upon the wall, Mr.
Bruder took the lamp and held it so as throw as good a
light as possible.
Dennis folded his arms calmly and commenced its
study. He had meant to act a part, to pretend deep interest
and desire for long critical study, that he might secure
more time, but in a few moments he became honestly
absorbed in the beautiful and exqusitely finished landscape.
The poor man watched him keenly. Old associations
and feelings, seemingly long dead, awoke. As he saw
Dennis manifest every mark of true and growing appreciation,
he perceived that his picture was being studied by
a connoisseur. Then his artist-nature began to quicken
into life again. His eyes glowed, and danced rapidly
from Dennis to the painting, back and forth, following up
the judgment on each and every part, which he saw written
in the young man's face. As he looked and watched,
something like hope and exultation began to light up his
sullen, heavy features—thought and feeling to spiritualize
and ennoble what but a little before had been so coarse
and repulsive.
Ernst was looking at Dennis in wrapt awe, as if he
were a messenger from heaven.
The poor wife, who had listened in a dull apathy to the
conversation, raised her head in sudden and intelligent
interest when the picture was replaced on the wall. It
would seem that her every hope was bound up in that.
As she saw Dennis and her husband standing before it, as
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she saw the face of the latter begin to change somewhat
toward his old former self, her whole soul came into her
great blue eyes, and she watched as if more than life were
at stake.
If that meagre apartment with its inmates, their contrasts
of character, their expressive faces, could have then
been portrayed, it would have made a picture with power
to move the coldest heart.
At last Dennis drew a long breath, turned and gave his
hand to the man, saying with hearty emphasis,
“Mr. Bruder, you are an artist.”
The poor man lifted his face to heaven with the same
expression of joy and gratitude that had rested on it long,
long years ago, when his first real work of art had received
similar praise.
His wife saw and remembered it, and with an ecstatic
cry that thrilled Dennis's soul, exclaimed:
“Ah, mine Gott be praised, mine Gott be praised, his
artist-soul come back.”
And she threw herself on her husband's neck, and
clung to him with hysteric energy. The man melted down
completely, and bowing his head upon his wife's shoulders,
his whole frame shook with sobs.
“I will be back in half an hour,” said Dennis, hastily,
brushing tears from his own eyes. “Come with me, Ernst.”
At the foot of the stairs Dennis said:
“Take this money, Ernst, and buy bread, butter, tea,
milk, and coal, also a nice large steak, for I am going to
take supper with you to-night. I will stay here and watch,
for your father must not be permitted to go out.”
“O Gott bless you, Gott bless you,” said the boy, and
he hurried away to do his errand.
Dennis walked up and down before the door on guard.
Ernst soon returned, and carried the welcome food up-stairs.
After a little time he stole down again and said,
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“Father's quiet and queer like. Mother has given
the children a good supper and put them to bed. Better
come now.”
“In a few moments more; you go back and sit down
quietly and say nothing.”
After a little Dennis went up and knocked at the door.
Mrs. Bruder opened it, and held out her hand. Her
quivering lips refused to speak, but her eyes filled with
grateful tears. The children were tucked away in bed.
Ernst crouched by the fire eating some bread and butter,
for he was cold and half-famished. Mr. Bruder sat in the
dusky corner with his head in his hands, the picture of
dejection and sorrow. But as Dennis entered, he rose
and came forward. He tried to speak, but for a moment
could not. At last he said, hoarsely,
“Mr. Fleet, (for dat is your name, my boy tells me),
you haf done me and mine a great kindness. No matter
vat the result is, I tank you as I never tanked any living
being. I believe Gott sent you, but I fear too late. You
see before you a miserable wreck. For months and years
I have been a brute, a devil. Dat picture dare show you
vat I vas, vat I might haf been. You see vat I am,” he
added, with an expression of intense loathing and self-disgust.
“I see him all to-night as if written in letters of
fire, and if dare is a worse hell than de von I feel within
my soul, Gott only knows how I am to endure him.”
“Mr. Bruder, you say I have done you a favor.”
“Gott knows you haf.”
“I want you to do me one in return. I want you to
let me be your friend, said Dennis, holding out his hand.
The man trembled, hesitated; at last he said, brokenly—
“I am not fit—to touch—your hand.”
“Mr. Bruder,” said Dennis, gently, “I hope that I am
a Christian.”
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“Still more, den, am I am unfit ever to be in your presence.”
“What! am I greater than my Master? Did not Christ
take the hand of every poor struggling man on earth that
would let Him? Come, Mr. Bruder, if you have any real
gratitude for the little I have done to show my interest in
you and yours, grant me my request.”
“Do you really mean him?” he gasped. “Do you
really want to be drunken old Berthold Bruder's friend?”
“God is my witness, I do,” said Dennis, still holding
out his hand.
The poor fellow drew a few short, heavy breaths, and
then grasped Dennis's hand, and clung to it as a drowning
man might.
“Oh!” said he, after a few moments of deep emotion,
“I feel that I have a plank under me now.”
“God grant that you may soon feel that you are on the
Rock Christ Jesus,” said Dennis, solemnly.
Fearing the reaction of too great and prolonged emotion,
Dennis now did every thing in his power to calm
and quiet his new found friends. He told them that he
boarded at a restaurant, and asked him if he might take
supper with them.
“Him is yours already,” said Mr. Bruder.
“No it isn't,” said Dennis, “not after I have given it
to you. But I want to talk to you about several matters,
for I think you can be of great service to me.”
And he told them of his experience during the day;
how he had been promoted, and that he wanted Ernst to
come and aid him in his duties. Then he touched on the
matter nearest his heart—his own wish to be an artist, his
need of instruction, and how by his increase of pay he
had now the means of taking lessons, and still be able to
support his mother and sisters.
“And now, Mr. Bruder, I feel that I have been very
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fortunate in making your acquaintance. You have the
touch and tone that I would be overjoyed to acquire.
Will you give me lessons?”
“Yes, morning, noon, and night, vithout von cent of
pay.'
“That will not do. I'll not take one on those terms.”
“I vill do vatever you vant me to,” said the man, simply.
“I vish I could be led and vatched over as a little
child.”
Dennis saw his pathetic self-distrust, and it touched
him deeply.
“As your friend,” he said with emphasis, I will not advise
you to do anything that I would not do myself.”
So they arranged that Ernst should come to the store
in the morning, and Dennis three nights in the week for
lessons.
All made a hearty supper save Mr. Bruder. He had
reached that desperate stage when his diseased stomach
craved drink only. But a strong cup of tea, and some
bread that he washed down with it, heartened him a little,
and it was evident that he felt better. The light of a faint
hope was dawning in his face.
Dennis knew something of the physical as well as
moral struggle before the poor man, and that after all it
was exceedingly problematical whether he could be saved.
Before he left he told Mrs. Bruder to make him some
very strong coffee in the morning, and to let him drink it
through the day. As for Bruder, he had resolved to die
rather than touch another drop of liquor again.
But how many poor victims of appetite have been
haunted to the grave by such resolves—shattered and
gone almost as soon as made.
After a long, earnest talk, in which much of the past
was revealed on both sides, Dennis drew a small Testament
from his pocket and said,
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Mr. Bruder, I wish to direct your thoughts to a better
Friend than I am or can be. Will you let me read you
something about Him?”
“Yes, and tank you. But choose something strong—
suited to me.”
Dennis did read something strong—the story of the
Demoniac of Gadara, and left him “sitting at the feet of
Jesus clothed and in his right mind.”
“Mr. Bruder, permit me as your friend to say that I
think that is the only safe place for you. Your better self,
your true manhood has been overpowered by the demon
of intemperance. I do not undervalue human will and
purpose, but I think you need a divine, all-powerful Deliverer.”
“I know you are right,” said Mr. Bruder. “I haf resolved
ober and ober again, only to do vorse, and sink
deeper at de next temptation, till at last I gave up trying.
Unless I am sustained by some strength greater dan mine,
I haf no hope. I feel dat your human sympathy and
kindness vill be a great help to me, and somehow I take
him as an earnest dat Gott vill be kind to me too.”
“O! Mr. Fleet,” he continued, as Dennis rose to go,
“how much I owe to you. I vas in hell on earth ven you
came. I vould haf been in hell beneath before morning.
I proposed, from the proceeds of dat picture, to indulge
in von more delirium, and den seek to quench all in de
vaters of de lake.”
Dennis shuddered, but said,
“And I believe that God purposes that you should
have a good life here, and a happy life in heaven. Cowork
with Him.”
“If He will help me, I'll try,” said the man, humbly.
“Goot night, and Gott bless you,” and he almost crushed
Dennis' hand.
As he turned to Mrs. Bruder, he was much struck by
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her appearance: she was very pale, and a wonderful light
shone from her eyes. She took his hand in both of hers,
and looked at him for a moment with an expression he
could never forget, and then slowly pointed heavenward
without a word.
Dennis hastened away, much overcome by his own
feelings. But the silent, deserted streets seemed luminous,
such was the joy of his heart.
CHAPTER XX. MISS LUDOLPH MAKES A DISCOVERY.
Several hours were measured off from a neighboring
steeple before Dennis's excited mind was sufficiently calm
to permit sleep, and even then he often started up from
some fantastic dream, in which the Bruders and Mr. and
Miss Ludolph acted many strange parts. At last he
seemed to hear exquisite music. As the song rose and
fell, it thrilled him with delight. Suddenly it appeared to
break into a thousand pieces, and fall scattering on the
ground like a broken string of pearls, and this musical
crash, as it were, awoke him. The sun was shining brightly
into the room, and all the air still seemed vibrating with
music. He started up and realized that he had greatly
over-slept. Much vexed he commenced dressing in haste,
when he was startled by a brilliant prelude on the piano,
and a voice of wonderful power and sweetness struck into
an air that he had never heard before. Soon the whole
building was resonant with music, and Dennis stood spell-bound
till the strange, rich sounds died away, as before,
in a few notes from the instrument that had seemed in his
dream, like the song breaking into glittering fragments.
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“It must be Miss Ludolph,” thought Dennis. “And
can she sing like that? What an angel true faith would
make of her! O how could I over-sleep so!” And he
dressed in breathless haste. In going down to the second
floor, he found a piano open and new music upon it,
which Miss Ludolph had evidently been trying,—but she
was not there. Yet a delicate peculiar perfume which the
young lady always used, pervaded the place, even as her
song had seemed to pulsate through the air after it had
ceased. She could not be far off. Stepping to a picture
show-room over the front door, Dennis found her sitting
quietly before a large painting, sketching one of the figures
in it.
“I learned from Papa that you were a very early riser,”
said she looking up for a moment, and then resuming her
work. “I fear there is some mistake about it. If we are
ever to get through rearranging the store, you will have to
curtail your morning naps.”
“I most sincerely beg your pardon. I never over-slept
so before. But I was out late last night, and passed
through a most painful scene, that so disturbed me that I
could not sleep till nearly morning, and I find to my great
vexation that I have over-slept. I promise you it shall
not happen again.”
“I am not sure of that, if you are out late in Chicago,
and passing through painful scenes. I should say that
this city was a peculiarly bad place for a young man to be
out late in.”
“It was an experience wholly unexpected to me, and
I hope it may never occur again. It was a scene of trouble
that I had no hand in making, but which even humanity
would not permit me to leave at once.”
“Not a scene of measles or small-pox, I hope. I am
told that your mission people are indulging in these things
most of the time. You have not been exposed to any
contagious disease?”
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“I assure you I have not.”
“Very well; be ready to assist me to-morrow morning,
for we have no slight task before us, and I wish to complete
it as soon as possible. I shall be here at half-past
six, and do not promise to sing you awake every morning.
Were you not a little startled to hear such unwonted
sounds echoing through the prosaic old store?”
“I was indeed. At first I could not believe that it
was a human voice.”
“That is rather an equivocal compliment.”
“I did not mean to speak in compliment at all, but to
say in all sincerity that I have seldom heard such heavenly
music.”
“Perhaps you have never heard very much of any
kind, or else your imagination overshadows your other
faculties. In fact I think it does, for did you not at first
regard me as a painted lady who had stepped from the
canvas to the floor?”
“I confess that I was greatly confused and startled.”
“In what respect did you see such a close resemblance?”
Dennis hesitated.
“Are you not able to tell?” asked she.
“Yes,” said Dennis with heightened color, “but I do
not like to say.”
“But I wish you to say,” said she with a slightly imperious
tone.
“Well then, since you wish me to speak frankly, it was
your expression. As you stood by the picture you unconsciously
assumed the look and manner of the painted
girl. And all the evening and morning I had been
troubling over the picture and wondering how an artist
could paint so lovely a face, and make it express only
scorn and pride. It seemed to me that such a face ought
to have been put to nobler uses.”
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Miss Ludolph bit her lip and looked a little annoyed,
but turning to Dennis she said with some curiosity,
“You are not a bit like Pat Murphy. How did you
come to take his place?”
“I am poor, and will gratefully do any honest work
rather than beg or starve.”
“I wish all the poor were of the same mind, but from
the way they drag on us who have something to give, I
think the rule works usually the other way. Very well, that
will answer; since you have asked Papa to let you continue
to do Pat's duties, you had better be about them,
though it is not so late as you think,” and she turned to
her sketching in such a way as to quietly dismiss him.
She evidently regarded him with some interest and curiosity
as an unique specimen of the genus homo, and
looking upon him as a humble dependent, was inclined to
speak to him quite freely and draw him out for her amusement.
On going down stairs he saw that Mr. Ludolph was
writing in his office. He was an early riser, and sometimes
entering the side door by a pass key before the
store was opened, would secure an extra hour for business.
He shook his head at Dennis, but said nothing.
By movements wonderfully quick and dextrous Dennis
went through his wonted tasks, and at eight o'clock, the
usual hour, the store was ready for opening.
Mr. Ludolph often caught glimpses of him as he darted
to and fro, his cheeks glowing, and every act suggesting
superabundant life.
He sighed, and said—
“After all that young fellow is to be envied. He is
getting more out of existence than most of us. He enjoys
everything, and does even hard work with a zest that
makes it play. There will be no keeping him down, for
he seems possessed by the concentrated vim of this
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driving Yankee nation. Then he has a world of delusions beside
that seem grand realities. Well, it is a sad thing to
grow old and wise.”
Indeed it is, in Mr. Ludolph's style.
When Dennis opened the front door, there was Ernst
cowering in the March winds, and fairly trembling in the
flutter of his hopes and fears. Dennis gave him a hearty
grasp of the hand and drew him in, saying—
“Don't be afraid, I'll take care of you.”
The boy's heart clung to him as the vine tendril clasps
the oak, and upheld by Dennis' strength, he entered what
was to him wonder-land indeed.
Mr. Ludolph looked him over as he and his daughter
passed out on their return to breakfast, and said—
“He will answer if he is strong enough.”
He saw nothing in that child's face to fear.
Dennis assured him with a significant glance, which
Mr. Ludolph understood as referring to better fare, that
“he would grow strong fast now.”
Miss Ludolph was at once interested in the boy's pale
face and large, spiritual eyes; and she resolved to sketch
them before the good living had destroyed the artistic effect.
Under kindly instruction, the boy took readily to his
duties, and promised soon to become very helpful. At
noon Dennis took him out to lunch, and the poor, half-starved
lad feasted as he had not for many a long day.
The afternoon mail brought Dennis his mother's letter,
and he wondered that her prediction should be fulfilled
even before it reached him, and thus again his faith was
braced, and his confidence in God increased. He smiled
and said to himself,
“Mother lives so near the heavenly land that she
seems to get the news thence before any one else.”
During the day a lady who was talking to Mr. Ludolph
turned and said to Dennis—
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“How prettily you have arranged this table. Let me
see; I think I will take that little group of bronzes. They
make a very nice effect together.”
Dennis with his heart swelling that he had arrived at
the dignity of salesman, did them up quickly and deftly,
and handed them to her with much politeness, which evidently
pleased the lady.
Mr. Ludolph looked on as if all was a matter of course
while she was present, but afterwards said,
“You are on the right track, Fleet. You now see the
practical result of a little thought and grace in arrangement.
In matters of art, people will pay almost as much
for these as for the things themselves. The lady would not
have bought those bronzes under Berder's system. When
things are grouped rightly, people see just what they want,
and buy the effect as well as the articles.”
And with this judicious praise, Mr. Ludolph passed
on, better pleased with himself even than Dennis.
But as old Bill Cronk had intimated, such a peck of
oats was almost too much for Dennis, and he felt that he
was in danger of becoming too highly elated.
After closing the store, he wrote a brief but graphic
letter to his mother, describing his promotion, and expressing
much sympathy for poor Berder. Regarding himself on
the crest-wave of prosperity, he felt a strong commiseration
for every degree and condition of troubled humanity,
and even could sigh over unlucky Berder's deserved tribulations.
About eight o'clock he started to see his new friends
in De Kovan street, and take his lesson in painting. They
welcomed him warmly, for they evidently looked upon him
as the rope that was drawing them out of the engulfing
waves to land.
The children were very different from the clamorous
little wolves of the night before. No longer hungry, they
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were happy in the corner, with some rude playthings, talking
and cooing together like a flock of young birds. Ernst
was washing up the tea-things, while his mother tended
the baby, recalling to Dennis, with a rush of tender memories,
his own mother and his boyhood tasks. Mr. Bruder
still sat in the dusky corner. The day had been a
bitter, hard one for him. Having nothing to do in the
present, he had lived the miserable past over and over
again. At times his strength almost gave way, but his
wife would say,
“Be patient! your friend Mr. Fleet will be in soon.”
From a few hints of what had passed, Dennis saw the
trouble at once. Mr. Bruder must have occupation. After
a few kindly generalities, they two got together, as congenial
spirits, before the rescued picture; and soon both
were absorbed in the mysteries of the divine art.
As the wife looked at the kindling, interested face of
her husband, she murmured to herself over and over
again like the sweet refrain of a song—
“His artist-soul haf come back; it truly haf.”
The lesson that night could be no more than a talk on
general principles and rules. But Mr. Bruder soon found
that he had an apt scholar, and Dennis' enthusiasm kindled
his own flagging zeal, and the artist-soul awakening within
him as his wife believed, longed to express itself as of old
in glowing colors.
Moreover his ambition was renewed in this promising
pupil. Naturally generous, and understanding his noble
profession, he felt his poor benumbed heart stir and glow
at the thought of aiding this eager aspirant to become what
he had hoped to be. He might live again in the richer
and better guided genius of his scholar.
“I will send you by Ernst in the morning some sketching
paper, materials, and canvas, and you can prepare
some studies for me. I will let him bring some drawings
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and colorings that I have made of late in odd moments,
and you can see about how advanced I am, and what
faults I have fallen into while groping my own way. And
I am going to send you some canvas, too, and I am pretty
sure that if you paint a picture, Mr. Ludolph will buy it.”
The man's face brightened visibly at this.
“Will you let your friend make a suggestion?” continued
Dennis.
“You can command me,” said Mr. Bruder with emphasis.
“No; friends never do that; but I would like to suggest
that at first you take some little simple subject, that
you can soon finish up, and leave efforts that require more
time for the future. That picture there shows what you
can do, and you need to work now more from the commercial
standpoint than the artist's.”
After a moment's thought, the man said,
“You are right. As I look around dis room, and see
our needs, I see dat you are right. Do' I meant to attempt
something difficult to show Mr. Ludolph vat I could do.”
“That will all come in good time; and now, my friend,
good-night.”
The next day was far more tolerable for poor Bruder,
because occupied, and he found it much easier to resist
the clamors of appetite.
Dennis's sketches interested him greatly, for though
they showed the natural defects of one who had received
little instruction, there was both power and originality in
their execution.
“He, too, can be an artist, if he vill,” was his emphatic
comment after looking them over.
He prepared one study, to be continued under his own
eye, and another for Dennis to work at alone.
Afterwards he sat down to something for himself. He
thought a few moments, and then outlined rapidly as his
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subject, the figure of a man dashing a wine glass to the
ground.
As he worked, his wife smiled encouragement to him
as of old, and often looked upward in thankfulness to
heaven.
CHAPTER XXI. WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH HIM?
The sun was just tinging the eastern horizon with light
when Dennis sprang from his bed on the following morning.
He vowed that Miss Ludolph should never have
cause to complain of him again; for, great as was the
luxury of being wakened by such exquisite music, it was
one that he could not afford.
It must be confessed that he gave a little more care
than usual that morning to his toilet. But his resources
were very limited; still, as nature had done so much for
him, he could not complain. By half past six his duties
in the store were accomplished, and brushed and furnished
up as far as possible, he stood outside the door
awaiting his fair task-mistress. Sometimes he wondered
at the strange fascination she exercised over him, but generally
ended by ascribing it to her beauty and love of art.
A little after the time appointed she appeared with her
father, and seemed pleased at Dennis' readiness for work.
“I shall not have to sing you awake this morning,”
she said, “and I am glad, for I am in a mood for business.”
She was attired in a close-fitting walking-dress that set
off her graceful person finely. It was evident that her
energetic nature would permit no statuesque repose while
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Dennis worked, but that she had come prepared for active
measures.
She had inherited a good constitution, which under her
father's direction, had been strengthened and confirmed
by due regard to hygienic rules. Therefore she had
reached the stage of early womanhood abounding in
vitality and capable of great endurance. Active, graceful
motion was as natural to her, as for a swallow to be
on the wing. The moment she dropped her book, pallet,
or pencil, she was on her feet, her healthful nature seeming
like a mountain brook, that checked for a time in its flow,
soon overleaps its bounds and speeds on swifter than
ever. But the strange part of this super-abundant activity
was, that she never seemed to do anything in an abrupt
way, as from mere impulse. Every act glided into another
as smoothly and gracefully as the undulations of a serpent.
Her lithe willowy figure, neither slight nor stout,
was peculiarly adapted to her style of movement. She
delighted in the game of billiards, for the quick movements
and varied attitudes permitted, and the precision
required, were all suited to her taste; and she had gained
such marvellous skill that even her father, with his practised
hand, was scarcely her match.
As she tripped lightly on before up the long winding
stairs to the show-room over the front door where their
labors were to commence, she appeared to Dennis the
very embodiment of grace and beauty. And yet she
seemed so cold and self-centered, so devoid of warm
human interest in the great world of love, joy, and suffering,
that she repelled while she fascinated.
“If the blood should come into the cheeks of one of
her father's statues, and the white marble eyes turn to
violet blue, and the snowy hair to wavy gold, and it should
spring from its pedestal into just such life, it would be
more like her than any woman I ever saw,” thought
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Dennis as he stood for a moment or two waiting to do her
bidding.
Her plans had been pretty thoroughly matured and
she acted with decision. Pointing to the side opposite
the door at which they had entered, and which would
naturally strike the eye of the visitor first, she said, “I
wish all the pictures taken down from that side and placed
around the room so that I can see them.”
She commenced as an absolute dictator, intending to
give no hint of her plans and purposes except as conveyed
by clear terse orders. But these had so intelligent
and appreciative an interpreter in Dennis, that gradually
her attention was drawn to him as well as to his work.
He had his step-ladder ready, and with a celerity decidedly
pleasing, soon placed the pictures safely on the
floor, so that she could still see them and judge of their
character. Though his quick dextrous manner and careful
handling of the pictures were gratifying, it must be
confessed that his supple form, the graceful and varied
attitudes he unconsciously assumed in his work, pleased
her more, and she secretly began to study him as an
artistic subject, as he had studied her.
In her complacency she said—
“So far, very well, Mr. Fleet. I congratulate myself
that I have you to assist me, instead of that awkward
cheat of a Berder.”
“And I assure you, Miss Ludolph, that I have longed
intensely for this privilege ever since I knew your purpose.”
“You may have cause to repent, like many another
whose wishes have been gratified, for your privilege will
involve a great deal of hard work.”
“The more the better,” said Dennis warmly.
“How so? I should think you had more to do now
than you would care about.”
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“Work is no burden to one of my years and strength,
provided it is suited to one's tastes. Moreover, I confess
that I hope to derive great advantages from this labor.”
“In what way?” she asked with a slight frown, imagining
him thinking of extra pay.
“Because unconsciously you will give me instruction,
and I hope that you are not unwilling that I should gain
such hints and suggestions as I can from the display of
your taste that I must witness.”
“Not at all,” said she laughing, “I see that you are
ambitious to learn your business and rise in the store.”
“I am ambitious to gain a knowledge of one of the
noblest callings.”
“What is that?”
“Art.”
“What!” said she with a half-scornful smile, “are
you a disciple of art?”
“Yes; why not?”
“Well, I do not wish to hurt your feelings, but to tell
you the honest truth, it seems but the other day that you
were Pat Murphy.”
“But am I a Pat Murphy?” he asked with gentle dignity.
“No, Mr. Fleet. I will do you the justice to say that
I think you very much above your station.”
“I am sufficiently a democrat, Miss Ludolph, to believe
that a man can be a man in any honest work.”
“And I, Mr. Fleet, am not in the least degree a democrat.”
Which fact she proceeded to prove by ordering him
about for the next hour like the most absolute little despot
that ever queened it over a servile province in the dark
ages. But it was rather difficult to keep up this style of
dictatorship with Dennis. He seemed so intelligent and
polite that she often had it on her tongue to ask his
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opinion on certain points. Toward the last she did so, and
the opinion he gave, she admitted to herself, was judicious;
but for a purpose of her own she disregarded it, and
took a different way.
Dennis at once saw through her plan of arrangements.
In the centre of that side of the room which he had
cleared, she caused him to hang one of the largest and
finest pictures, which, under Mr. Swartz's management had
been placed in a corner. Around the central painting all
the others were to be grouped, according to color, subject,
and merit. At the same time each wall was to have a
character of its own. Such a task as this would require
no little thought, study and comparison; and Miss Ludolph
was one to see delicate points of difference, which
most observers would not notice. It was her purpose to
make the room bloom out naturally like a great flower.
This careful selection of pictures was necessarily slow,
and Dennis rejoiced that their mutual work would not
soon be over.
To her surprise she often saw his eyes instinctively
turning to the same picture that she was about to select,
and perceived that he had divined her plan without a word
of explanation, and that his taste was constantly according
with hers in producing the desired effects. Though
all this filled her with astonishment, she revealed no sign
of it to him. At eight she said—
“That will do for to-day; we have made a good beginning,
better indeed than I had hoped. But how is it, Mr.
Fleet, since you are such an uncompromising democrat,
you permit a young lady to order you about in this style?”
Dennis smiled and said—
“It seems perfectly natural for you to speak in this
way, and it does not appear offensive as it might in another.
Moreover I have voluntarily taken this position,
and am honor-bound to accept all it involves.”
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“But which was the controlling motive of your mind?”
“Well, a few seem born to command, and it is a pleasure
to obey,” said Dennis, paying a strong but honest
compliment to the natural little autocrat.
“Indeed, Mr. Fleet, do church members flatter?” said
she, secretly much pleased.
“I did not mean to flatter,” said he flushing. “They
who have power should use it like the All-powerful—
gently, considerately.”
It was her turn to flush now, and she said,
“O, I perceive, the compliment was the sugar-coating
of the little homily to follow.”
“I have no such diplomacy as you credit me with,”
said Dennis, looking straight into her eyes with honest
frankness. “I merely spoke my passing thought.”
“But he has fine eyes,” said she to herself, and then
she said to him,
“Very well, I certainly will give you credit for being
very different from poor old Pat. Be ready again to-morrow
at the same hour,” and with a smile somewhat
kindly she vanished.
Somehow to Dennis she seemed to take the light out
of the room with her. The pictures suddenly looked
tame and ordinary, and everything commonplace. Here
was an effect not exactly artistic, which he could not understand.
He sighed, he scarcely knew why.
But the day's duties came with a rush, and soon he
was utterly absorbed in them.
That evening Dennis was much cheered by Mr. Bruder's
comments on his sketches.
“Considering de advantages you haf had, and de little
time you can give, dey are very goot. You haf fallen
into de natural faults of dose who work alone, but ve can
soon cure dese. Now here is some vork on coloring dat
I vont you to do under my eye, and dat study on outlining
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you can take home. Moreover, I can give you some lessons
in outlining from my own picture.” And Mr. Bruder
showed him what he had done.
Dennis saw in the clear vigorous profile the artist's
thought, and congratulated himself that his teacher was a
master in his profession.
For two hours they worked and talked, and Dennis felt
that every such lesson would be a long step forward.
Poor Bruder looked more and more like himself every
day, but God only knew how he had to struggle.
“I don't know how him vill end,” he said. “I pray
nearly every minute, but sometimes I feel dat I must
drink even do' I die dat moment.”
It was disease as well as appetite that he was fighting,
for appetite indulged beyond a certain point becomes disease.
His wife's face was different also—the sharp look of
misery fading out of it. Dennis noticed the changes, and
thought to himself while walking home,
“After all, the highest art is the bringing out on the
living face all we can of God's lost image. How beautiful
the changes in these two poor people's faces, and the
best part of it is, that they are the reflex of changes going
on in the soul, the imperishable part.”
Then in quick and natural transition, his mind reverted
to Christine Ludolph, and the thought of her face, which
God had fashioned so fairly, but which was already sadly
marred by sin, becoming fixed and rigid in pride and selfishness,
was as painful as if, according to an old legend,
her lithe, active form should gradually turn to stone. But
if the reverse could ever be true, if the beautifying Christian
graces could dwell within her soul and light up her
face, as lamps some rare and quaint transparency, there
would then be a loveliness that would realize the artist's
fondest ideal.
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Musing thus, what wonder that he vowed then and
there, under the starlight, to pray and work for her till
the new life should illumine her heart. Little dreamed
Christine as she slept that night, that the first link of a
chain that might bind her to heaven, had been forged.
The dawn was late and lowering, the following morning.
Great masses of clouds swept across the sky, and
soon the rain was falling in gusty torrents. Dennis rose
and hastened through his duties as before, and was ready
at the hour appointed, but had little hope of seeing Miss
Ludolph that morning. Still he opened the door and
looked up the street. To his surprise he saw her coming,
attended by her father's valet. Only part of her glowing
face was visible, for she was encased from head to foot in
a light and delicate suit of rubber.
Dennis opened the door, and she stepped quickly in,
scattering spray on every side like a sea-nymph. Dennis
looked at her with open-eyed admiration and surprise,
which both amused and pleased her.
“True enough,” she thought, “his face is like a sign
board.”
She seemed to him as she threw off her wet coverings,
like an exquisite flower, that, the breeze lifting after a
storm, scatters the burdensome rain drops on every side,
and stands up more beautiful and blooming than ever.
“You were not expecting me, I imagine,” she said.
Well I must admit I scarcely did, and yet I could not
help looking for you.”
“Isn't that a distinction without a difference?” she
asked with a pleasant smile, for she was pleased at not
finding the store closed and dark.
“I am very glad you have come,” he replied, flushing
slightly with pleasure, “for it would have been a long,
dreary morning if you had not.”
Dennis thought he referred to the lack of occupation
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He did not know, nor did she notice that he meant the
lack of herself.
“Well,” said she, “I am glad you like the work, for
you are destined to enough of it.”
CHAPTER XXII. IS HE A GENTLEMAN?
The days and weeks that followed were to Dennis such
as only come once in a lifetime, and not in every lifetime
either. A true, pure love was growing up within his heart—
growing as the little child developes in strength and
pleasurable life, and yet unconsciously to itself. It seemed
as if some strong magician's wand had touched the world
or him. Everything was transfigured, and no wonder-land
was more full of interest than that in which he existed.
His life was a waking dream, in which nothing was distinct
or definite, but all things abounded in hope and happy
suggestion. He compared them afterwards to a tropical
island of the Pacific, a blissful fragment of life by itself,
utterly distinct from the hard struggling years that preceded,
and the painful awakening that followed.
Even the place of his daily toil was pervaded by a
beautiful presence. For many days he and Christine
worked together, and at last her eyes had rested on, and
her fingers touched nearly everything in the store, and
therefore all was associated with her. Throughout their
labors his quick sympathy and appreciation, made him almost
hands and feet to her, and she regarded him as a
miracle of helpfulness—one of those humble, useful creatures
who was born to wait upon and interpret the wishes
of the rich and great. His admiring glances disturbed
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[figure description] Page 158.[end figure description]
her not, nor raised any suspicion in her mind—she had
been accustomed to these for years, and took them as a
matter of course.
She treated the young men whom she met in society
with a courtly ease and freedom, but her smiles and repartee
ever seemed like brilliant moonlight that had no
warmth; and while no restraint appeared, she still kept all
at a distance. There was a marked difference in her intercourse
with Dennis.
Regarding him as too humble to ever presume upon
her frankness, she daily spoke more freely, and more truly
acted out herself before him. She was happy and in her element
among the beautiful works of art they were arranging,
and in this atmosphere her womanly nature, chilled
and dwarfed though it was, would often manifest itself in
ways as sweet as unexpected. Under no other circumstances
could she have appeared as well. She as often
spoke to herself in racy comment on what was before her,
as to Dennis, and ever and anon would make some pleasant
remark to him, as she might throw a dainty morsel to
her greyhound, Wolf, as he looked wistfully at her while
she dined. At the same time it must be confessed that
she had a growing respect for him, as she daily saw some
new proof of intelligence and taste but both education
and disposition inclined her instinctively to the old feudal
idea that even genius, if poor, must wait a humble servitor
on wealth and rank, and where a New England girl would
have been saying to herself “This gifted, educated man is
my equal, and whether I want to or not, I ought to treat
him as such,” she was not troubled at all. To her, he was
her father's clerk and man-of-all-work, a most useful, trusted
and agreeable servant, and as such she was kind to
him, as the little Autocrat was to every one that pleased
her. She was a benign queen to obedient subjects, but
woe unto them if otherwise.
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To Dennis, however, though he realized it not, she was
becoming as the very apple of his eye. He was learning
to regard her with a deeper interest because of the very
defects that he plainly recognized. While on the one hand
he had the enthusiastic love of admiration, on the other
he felt the tenderer and greater love of pity. He tried to
account for his feelings toward her by the usual sophistries
of unconscious lovers. It was friendship; it was artistic
interest in her beauty; it was the absorbing unselfish
regard of a Christian for one providentially and specially
commended to him to lead out of darkness into light.
How could he help thinking of one for whom he prayed
night and morning and every hour in the day? It was all
this, but he was soon to learn that it was a great deal more.
And so the days of work and companionship passed; the
spell worked on with increasing and bewildering power,
and the crisis could not be delayed much longer.
One morning, the latter part of April, she seemed more
gracious than usual. Their labors were drawing to a close,
and as he had proved so tasteful and efficient in the store,
she concluded that he might be equally useful in other
ways and places. She could command him at the store, but
not in respect to a task that she had in view; so she adopted
a little feminine artifice as old as the time that Eve handed
Adam the apple, and looked at him in such a way that he
could not refuse.
Blind honest Dennis of course saw nothing of this little
strategy of which he was destined to be the happy willing
victim, and his love expanded and bloomed under the
genial light of her presence and kindness like the flowers
of the convolvulus in a bright dawn of June. She brought
her general graciousness to a definite and blissful climax
by saying when about to leave—
“Well, Mr. Fleet, you have done better than usual to-day,
and I certainly must give you credit for possessing
more taste than any young man of my acquaintance.”
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Dennis's heart gave as great a bound as if the laurel
crown of all the Olympic games had been placed upon his
brow.
“I am now going to ask a favor,” she continued.
“You may command me, Miss Ludolph,” interrupted
Dennis.
“No, not in this case,” she replied, “Whatever you
do will be regarded as a personal favor to me. At the same
time it will afford you scope for such display of your taste
as will secure many compliments.”
“If I am able to satisfy you I shall be more than compensated,”
said Dennis with a bow.
She smiled and thought to herself, “That isn't bad for
Pat Murphy's successor,” and explained as follows:
Some young ladies and gentlemen have decided upon
giving a rare and elegant entertainment, consisting of music,
tableaux, and statuary. Now in regard to the two latter
parts, we need above all things some person of taste
like yourself, whose critical eye and dexterous hand will
ensure every thing to be just right. You will be a sort of
general stage manager and superintendent, you know. I
feel sure you will be all the more willing to enter upon this
work when you know that the proceeds are to go towards
the Church of the Holy Virgin. This is going to be a
very select affair, and the tickets are five dollars each.
“Is it a Protestant church?” asked Dennis in some
trepidation.
“O certainly,” she answered with a peculiar smile, “an
Episcopal church.”
“It seems a strange name for a Protestant church,”
said Dennis. “It is enough for me that you wish it; at
the same time it certainly is a pleasure to contribute what
little I can towards any Christian organization.”
“Come, Mr. Fleet, you are narrow,” she said with a
controversial twinkle in her eye. “Why not towards a
Catholic church?”
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“I fear that all people with decided religious opinions
are sometimes regarded as narrow,” he answered with a
smile.
“That is an inadequate answer to my question,” she
said, “but I will not find fault since you have so good-naturedly
acceded to my request. Come to No. — Wabash
avenue at three this afternoon. Papa gives you a leave of
absence.”
She vanished, and figuratively the sun went down to
Dennis, and he was in twilight till he should see her again.
He looked forward to the afternoon with almost feverish
eagerness, for several reasons. It would be his first introduction
to “good society,” for as such the unsophisticated
youth regarded his invitation. He had the natural longing
of a young, healthful nature for companionship of those
of his own age and culture, and his life in the great city
had often been very lonely. He expected to be treated
as an equal as a matter of course, at the artistic entertainment
in which he was to participate. In his business relations
at the store he had taken a subordinate position
and made up his mind to the logical consequences. But
now that he was invited to a private house, and would appear
there possessing all the qualities of a gentleman, he
surely would be treated as one.
“Is not this Chicago, where nearly all its citizens were
poor a few years ago?” he thought; “and surely if what
Miss Ludolph says is true, I have advantages in my taste
over most poor young men.”
Moreover it was his ideal of an entertainment, where
art and music should take the place of the coarser pleasures
of eating, drinking, and dancing.
Chief of all, Christine would be there, and even he in
his blindness became a little uneasy and self-conscious as
he realized how this thought towered above the others.
She had given him a list of the things he was to bring
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with him in the afternoon, and he occupied every spare
moment in getting them ready. At quarter past two he
summoned the carman of the store and they loaded up
the miscellaneous cargo needed for the coming mysteries,
and by three, all were before the large elegant mansion to
which he had been directed. Dennis rang the bell and
was shown by a servant into the front parlor, where he
found Miss Ludolph, Miss Brown, a tall, haughty brunette
and the young lady of the house, Miss Winthrop, a bright,
sunny faced blonde, and two or three other young ladies
of no special coloring in character, being indebted mainly
to their toilets for their attractions.
Dennis bowed to Miss Ludolph, and then turned toward
the other ladies as if expecting as a matter of course
to be introduced. No introduction came, but his expectant
manner was so obvious, that Miss Ludolph colored,
looked annoyed, and the young ladies tittered outright.
Advancing a step or two she said coldly, “Mr. Fleet,
you may help Mapes carry the things into the back parlor,
and then we will direct you as to the arrangement.”
Dennis crimsoned painfully. At first he was too confused
to think, and merely obeyed mechanically. Then
came the impulse to say boldly that this kind of thing might
answer at the store, but not here, and he nearly carried it
out: but soon followed the sober second thought that such
action would bring a blight over all his prospects, and involve
the loss of his position at the store. Such giving
way to passion would injure only himself. They would
laugh, and merely suffer a momentary annoyance; to him
and his the result would be most disastrous. Why should
he let those who cared not a jot for him cause such sad
injury?
By the time he had carried his first armful into the
back parlor, he had resolved for his mother and sisters'
sakes that he would go through the following scenes as
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well as he could, and then turn his back on society till he
could enter it a recognized gentleman; and with compressed
lips and flashing eye he mentally vowed that that
day should soon come.
As he was unpacking his materials he could not help
hearing the conversation in the front parlor.
“Did you ever see such presumption?” exclaimed
Miss Brown. “He evidently expected to be introduced,
and that we should rise and courtesy all around.”
“He must have seen better days, for he certainly appeared
like a gentleman,” said Miss Winthrop.
“I should hardly give that title to a man who swept a
store out every morning,” replied Miss Brown.
“No indeed!” chorused the three colorless young
ladies.
“I know nothing about this young man,” said Miss
Winthrop ruffling her plumage somewhat for an argument,
of which she was fond, “but as a case in hand, suppose
a highly educated and refined man for some reason swept
a store out every morning—what would you call him?”
And she looked around as if she had given a poser.
The colorless young ladies looked blank—their natural
expression.
“Nonsense,” said the positive Miss Brown, “such
men don't sweep stores. He may have passed current in
some country village, but that is not our set.”
“But the case is certainly supposable,” retorted Miss
Winthrop, more intent upon her argument than Dennis.
“Come, what does the Countess say?” she asked, turning
to Christine, for that was the familiar name by which she
went among her young companions.
“The case is not supposable, but actual,” she answered,
so distinctly that it seemed that she meant Dennis to hear.
“As far as I have any means of judging he is a refined,
educated man, and I have learned from papa that his
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motive in sweeping the store is the support of his mother
and sisters—certainly a very worthy one. To your question,
Susie, I answer unhesitatingly that in accordance with
your American principles and professions he is a gentleman,
and you ought to treat him as such. But you Americans
are sometimes wonderfully inconsistent, and there is
often a marvellously wide margin between your boasted
equality and the reality. Now in Europe these questions
have been settled for ages, and birth and rank define a
person's position accurately.”
“I neither boast nor believe in equality,” said Miss
Brown with a toss of her head. (Her father was a mighty
brewer, but he and his were in character and antecedents
something like the froth on their own beer. All they had
and were had but recently come out of the hops.)
Miss Winthrop was a little embarrassed at finding her
supposable case a real one, for it might involve some practical
action on her part. Many an ardent advocate of the
people in theory practically give them the cold shoulder,
and are content to stay on the summit of Mt. Olympus.
She was a girl of good impulses and strong convictions of
abstract right, but never had either the courage or much
opportunity to carry them out. She was of the old Boston
family of Winthrops, and therefore could meet Miss Ludolph
on her own ground in the way of pedigree.
But however Dennis fared she felt that she must look
after her argument, and having conquered theoretically as
far as America was concerned, determined to carry war
into Europe, so she said—
“Are you not mistaken in saying that birth and rank
only settle position abroad? Some of the most honored
names there, are or were untitled.”
“O certainly, but they were persons of great genius,
and genius is the highest patent of nobility. But I leave
you republicans to settle this question to suit yourselves.
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I am going to look after the preparations for this evening,
as I have set my heart on a success that shall ring through
the city.”
But they all flocked after her into the back parlor, now
doubly interesting as it contained an object of curiosity
in Dennis Fleet—a veritable gentleman who swept a store.
CHAPTER XXIII. CHRISTINE'S IDEA OF CHRISTIANS.
The large apartment where the amateur performers
expected to win their laurels was now filled with all the
paraphernalia needed to produce musical, artistic, and
stage effects. Much had been gathered before Dennis's
arrival, and his cart-load added all that was necessary.
Everything seemed in inextricable confusion.
“The idea of having anything here to-night,” exclaimed
Miss Winthrop. “It will take us a week to get things arranged.”
“The thing is hopeless,” said the blank young ladies.
Even Christine looked somewhat dismayed, but she
said, “Remember we have till half past eight.”
“I will call two or three of the servants,” said Miss
Brown.
“I beg of you do not, at least not yet,” exclaimed
Christine. “What will their clumsy hands do in work
like this, but mar everything? I have great faith in Mr.
Fleet's abilities,” she continued, turning toward Dennis
with an enchanting smile, and resuming the tactics of the
morning. Though the smile went to Dennis's heart like
a fiery arrow, his pride, thoroughly aroused, made him cold
and self-possessed. He naturally assumed the manner
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which only the true gentleman can when offended, who,
though wronged, chooses not to show his feelings save by
a grave, quiet dignity. In view of their action and manner,
he consciously felt himself their superior, and this
impression like an atmosphere was felt by them also; and
as they looked upon his tall, erect form, manly bearing,
his large dark eyes, in which still lurked the fire of an honest
indignation, they felt the impossibility of ordering him
about as they might Mapes the carman. They regarded
him for a moment in awkward silence, not knowing what
to do or say. Even haughty Christine was embarrassed,
for the stronger spirit was present and thoroughly aroused,
and it overpowered the weaker natures. Christine had
never seen Dennis look like that, and did not know that
he could. He was so different from the eager, humble
servitor that heretofore had interpreted her very wishes,
even before spoken. Moreover, the success of their entertainment
now depended upon him, and she felt that he
was in a mood that required delicate treatment, and that
she could not order him around in Pat Murphy's role, to
which she had practically assigned him. And yet if she
had known him, she might, for he had made up his mind
to go through even the most menial service with proud humility,
and then be careful not to be so caught again; and
when Dennis had resolved upon a thing, that settled the
question so far as he was concerned. Seeing Christine's
hesitation and embarrassment, he stepped forward and
said—
“Miss Ludolph, if you will indicate your wishes I will
carry them out as rapidly as possible. I can soon bring
order out of this confusion; and you must have some plan
of arrangement.”
She gave him a quick, grateful glance, that thawed
more of his ice than he cared to have melt so quickly.
“Of course we have,” said she. “This is but the
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nervous hesitation before the shock of a battle that has all
been planned on paper. Here is our programme.”
“All battles do not go forward in the field as planned
on paper, if my feeble memory serves me,” said Miss Winthrop
maliciously.
“I grant you that,” said Christine quietly, “and you
need not tax your memory so greatly to prove it.”
She was now very kind and gracious to Dennis, believing
that to be the best policy. It usually is, but she received
no special proof of it from him; he listened alike
to request, suggestion, and compliment. There was nothing
sullen or morose in his appearance, nothing resentful
or rude. He heard all she said with the utmost respect,
and carried out her wishes with that dexterous, graceful
promptness for which he had few equals. At the same
time his manner was that of one who thoroughly respected
himself—that of a refined and cultured person, who, having
become committed to a disagreeable part, performed
it only with the protest of dignified silence.
As his first step, he cleared a space for action, and arranged
every thing to be in view when needed. The rapidity
with which order emerged from confusion, was
marvellous to the young ladies.
Then he took their programme, studied it a few moments,
and compared it with the pictures and photographs
of the scenes they wished to imitate. He then arranged
for these one after another, placing every thing needed
within reach, and where it could readily be seen,
making the combinations beforehand as far as possible.
As he worked so intelligently and skilfully, requiring so
few explanations, the young ladies exchanged significant
glances, and strolled into the front parlor They must
express an opinion.
“I declare, Christine,” said Miss Winthrop, “it is a
shame that you did not introduce him, for he is a gentleman.
He works like a captive prince.”
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“How romantic!” gushed the colorless young ladies.
“Nonsense!” said Miss Brown, “I hate to see any one
in his position so stuck up.”
As soon as she had seen Dennis fairly at work just like
her mother's servants, or her father's men, she felt that he
ought to be treated as such—riches and not usefulness
being Miss Brown's patents of nobility; and she resolved
if possible to lower his ridiculous pride, as she regarded
it. Miss Brown, though a very handsome, stylish girl of
a certain type, was yet a better judge of her father's beer
than of many other things, and no more understood Dennis's
feelings than she did Sanscrit.
Christine said nothing, but admitted to herself with a
secret wonder, that Dennis inspired her with a respect, a
sort of fear, that no other man had, save her father.
There was something in his manner that afternoon, though
altogether respectful, that made her feel that he was not
to be trifled with. This impression was decidedly heightened
when, a few moments later, Miss Brown, pursuant
of her resolution to lower Dennis's pride, ordered him in
an offensive manner to do something for her that had no
connection with the entertainment. At first he acted as
if he had not heard her, but his rising color showed that
he had. In spite of warning glances from Christine and
Miss Winthrop, she repeated her request in a loud, imperious
tone.
Dennis drew himself up to his full height, and turning
his dark flashing eyes full upon her, said firmly and quietly—
“I am ever ready to offer any service that a gentleman
can to a lady, but surely I am not your footman.”
“Your pride is ridiculous, sir. You are to help, and
will be paid for it. This is my house, and I expect
persons of your position, while in it, to do as they are
bidden.”
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“Since such are the rules and principles of your house,
permit me at once to leave you in full possession,” and he
was about to retire with manner as cold as Mr. Ludolph
himself could have assumed, and as haughty, when a light
hand fell upon his arm. Looking down he met the deep
blue eyes of Christine Ludolph lifted pleadingly to his.
“Mr. Fleet, you need not do what is asked. It is not
right to require it. In fact we all owe you an apology.”
Then, in a low, quick tone, she added, “Will you not stay
as a favor to me?”
She felt his arm tremble under her hand, there was a
moment's hesitation, then he replied in the same manner.
“Miss Ludolph, you can command me on this occasion”
(there was no promise for the future), and then he
turned to his work as if resolved to see and know nothing
but it, till the ordeal ended. In spite of herself Christine
blushed, but taking Miss Brown by the arm she led her
aside and gave her a vigorous lecture.
“Are you mad, Miss Brown,” she said. “Do you not
remember that nearly a thousand dollars' worth of tickets
are sold, and that the people will be here by half past
eight, and at nine we must appear. Even after what he
has done, if you should drive him away, the thing would
be a failure, and we would be the ridiculous town-talk for
a year.”
“But I hate—”
“No matter what you hate,—treat him as you please
to-morrow. We need him now.” And so the petted, wilful
girl, spoiled by money and flattery, was kept under restraint.
A great deal of preparation was required for the last
two pieces on the programme, and the young ladies grouped
themselves gracefully not far off while Dennis worked.
Christine explained from time to time as the natural
leader of the party. Still an awkward silence followed
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the scene above described. On the philosophical principle,
I suppose, that nature abhors a vacuum, this silence
could not long endure, and one of the colorless young ladies
asked a question that led to more than she intended,
and, indeed, more than she understood.
“Christine, what do you do with yourself Sundays?
Your pew is not occupied once in an age.”
“I usually paint most of the day, and ride out with
papa in the afternoon when it is pleasant.”
“Why you are a perfect little heathen,” they all exclaimed
in chorus.
“Yes, I suppose I am worse than a Pagan,” she said,
“for I not only do not believe in your superstitions, but
have none of my own.”
“What do you believe in then?” asked Miss Winthrop.
“Art, music, fame, power.”
She announced her creed so coolly and decidedly that
Dennis lifted a startled face to hers. She saw his grieved,
astonished expression, and it amused her very much.
Henceforth she spoke as much for his benefit as theirs.
“If you would be equally honest,” she continued, “you
would find that your creeds also are very different from the
one in the prayer-book.”
“And what would mine be, pray?” asked one of the
colorless young ladies.
“I will sum it up in one sentence. Miss Jones, keep
in the fashion.”
“I think that you are very unjust. I'm sure I go to
church regularly, and attend a great many services in Lent
and on Saints' days. I've been confirmed, and all that.”
“Yes, it is the thing to do in your set. Now, here is
Miss Winthrop, a Presbyterian, who manifests quite another
religious phase.”
“Pray what is mine?” asked that lady, laughing.
“O you want hair-splitting in regard to the high
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doctrines—clear, brilliant arguments, cutting like sharp, merciless
steel into the beliefs of other denominations. Then,
after your ism has been glorified for an hour, on Sunday
morning, and all other isms pierced and lashed, you descend
from your intellectual heights, eat a good dinner,
take a nap, and live like the rest of us till the next Sabbath,
when (if it is a fine day) you climb some other theological
peak, far beyond the limits of perpetual snow,
and there take another bird's-eye view of something that
might be found very different if you were nearer to it.”
“And what is my phase?” asked Miss Brown.
“O you are an out-and-out sinner, and do just what
you please, in spite of priest or prayer-book,” said Christine
with a laugh in which all the ladies joined.
“Well,” said Miss Brown, “I do not think that I am
worse than the rest of you.”
“Not in the least,” replied Christine. “We all have
some form of religion, or none at all, as it accords with
our peculiar tastes.”
“And you mean to say that having a religion or not,
is a mere matter of taste, asked Miss Winthrop.
“Yes, I should say it was, and practically that it is.
You ladies, and about all that I have met, seem to choose
a style of religion suited to your tastes; and the tastes of
many incline them to have no religion at all.”
“Why, Miss Ludolph,” exclaimed Miss Winthrop, her
cheeks glowing with honest dissent and zeal for the truth.
“Our religion is taken from the Bible. Do you not believe
in the Bible?”
“No! not in the sense that you ask the question; nor
you either, my charming Miss Winthrop.”
“Indeed I do, every word of it,” said the orthodox
young lady, hotly.
“Let me test you. Miss Brown, have you such a book
in the house? O yes, here is an elegantly-bound copy
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but looking as if never opened. And now, Miss Winthrop,
this city is full of all sorts of horrid people, living
in alleys, and tenement houses several layers deep; they
are poor, half naked, hungry, and sometimes starving:
many are in prison, and more ought to be; many are
strangers, more utterly alone and lonely in our crowded
streets than on a desert island: they are suffering from
varieties of disgusting disease, and having a hard time
generally. How many hungry people have you fed? How
many strangers (I do not mean distinguished ones from
abroad), have you taken in and comforted? How many
of the naked have you clothed? And how long is your
list of the sick and imprisoned that you have visited, my
luxurious little lady?”
A real pallor overspread Miss Winthrop's sunny face,
for she saw what was coming, but she answered honestly—
“I have done practically nothing of all this;” then
she added, “papa and mamma are not willing that I
should visit such places and people. I have asked that I
might, but they always discourage me, and tell of the
awful experiences of those who do.”
“Then they don't believe the Bible, either,” said Christine.
“For if they did they would insist on your doing it;
and if you believed you would do all this in spite of them,
for see what is written here. The very Being that you
worship and dedicate your churches to, will say, because
not doing this, `Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting
fire, prepared for the devil and his angels.' And
this is but one of many similar passages. Now all this is
a monstrous fable to me. The idea of any such experience
awaiting my light-hearted little Sybarite here!”
Miss Winthrop had buried her face in her hands, and
was trembling from head to foot. The words of God
never seemed so real and true before, as now while uttered
by an unbeliever.
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“I don't believe there is any such place or things,”
said Miss Brown bluntly.
“There spake my mature and thoughtless friend who
is not to be imposed upon,” said Christine with a touch of
irony in her tone.
Dennis had listened in sad wonder. Such words of
cynical unbelief were in dark, terrible contrast with the
fair young face. He saw the mind and training of her
father in all she said, but he bitterly condemned the
worldly, inconsistent life of multitudes in the church who
do more to confirm unbelievers than all their sophistries.
But as she went on seemingly having the argument all
her own way, his whole soul burned to meet and refute
her fatal views. For her own sake and the others, as well
as for the dishonored name of his Lord, he must in some
way turn the tide. Though regarded as a humble servitor,
having no right to take part in the conversation, he determined
that his hands must lift up the standard of truth
if no others would or could. To his joy he found that
the programme would soon give him the coveted opportunity.
Christine went on with a voice as smooth and musical
as the flow of a stream over a glacier.
“I have read the Bible several times, and that is more
than all of you can say, I think. It is a wonderful book,
and has been the inspiration of some of our best art.
There are parts that I enjoy reading very much for their
sublimity and peculiarity. But who pretends to live as
this old and partially obsolete book teaches? Take my
father for instance. All the gentlemen in the church that
I know of, can do, and are accustomed to do, just what
he does, and some I think do much worse; and yet he is
an infidel as you would term him. And as to the ladies,
not the Bible, but fashion rules them with a rod of iron.
I have cut free from it all, and art shall be my religion and
the inspiration of my life.”
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As Christine talked on, the twilight deepened, and
Dennis worked with increasing eagerness.
“After all,” she continued, “it is only history repeating
itself. The educated mind to-day stands in the same
relation to Christianity that the cultured mind of Greece
and Rome stood to the older mythology in the second
century. The form of religion was kept up, but its belief
and power were fast dying out. The cities abounded in
gorgeous temples, and were thronged with worshippers,
but they sacrificed at the dictates of fashion, custom, and
law, not of faith. So our cities are adorned with splendid
churches, and fashion and the tastes of the congregation
decide as to the form of service. They differ
widely from each other, and all differ from the Bible.
The ancients gave no more respect to what was regarded
the will of their imaginary deities than do modern Christians
to the precepts of the Bible. People went to the
ceremonies, got through with them, and then did what
they pleased; and so they do now.
“Take for instance one of your commonest doctrines,
that of prayer: the majority have no practical belief in
it. My father has taken me, and out of curiosity I have
attended several prayer meetings. The merest fraction
of the congregation are present at the best of times, and if
the night is stormy, the number out is painfully small. Yet
all profess to believe that the Lord of heaven and earth
will be present, and that it is His will that they should be.
Your Bible teaches that the Being who controls completely
the destiny of every person, will be in the midst of those
gathered in His name, to hear and answer the petitions.
If this is true, then no earthly ruler was ever so
neglected and insulted, so generally ignored as this very
Deity to whom you ascribe unlimited power, and from
whom you say you receive life and everything. An eastern
despot would take off the heads of those who
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treated him in such style, and a republican politician would
scoff at the idea of giving office to such lukewarm followers.
Why here in Christian Chicago the will of God is no
more heeded by the majority than that of the Emperor
of China, and the Bible might as well be the Koran.
Looking at these facts from my impartial standpoint, I am
driven to one of two alternatives: either you regard your
God as so kind and good, so merciful, that you can trespass
on His forbearance to any extent, and treat Him
with a neglect and indifference that none would manifest
toward the pettiest earthly potentate, and still all be well;
or else you have no real practical belief in your religion.
Though not very charitably inclined, I cannot think quite
so meanly of human nature as to take the former view, so
I am driven to the latter. For surely no man who wished
to live and prosper, no woman who loved her husband
and children, could so coolly and continually disregard
the Deity in whom they profess to believe with the old
Greek Poet, they “live, move, and have their being.”
The twilight deepened, and Christine continued, her
words portraying the decline of faith according, ominously
with the increasing gloom.
“Why, in order to see the truth of what I am saying,
look at the emblem of your faith—the Cross. All its historical
associations are those of self-denial, and suffering
for others. The Founder of your faith endured death
upon it. He was a great good man like Socrates, though
no doubt a mistaken enthusiast. But what He meant, He
said plainly and clearly, as for instance, `Whosoever doth
not bear his cross and come after Me, cannot be My disciple.
' I admit that in the past He had a wonderful following.
In the ages of martyrdom multitudes left all and
endured all that He did for His sake. But so there have
been other great leaders with equally devoted followers.
But in this practical age religious enthusiasm has but
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little chance. What crosses do the members of the Church
of the Holy Virgin take up? and what are borne by your
great rich Church, Miss Winthrop? The shrewd people
of this day manage better, and put their crosses on top of
the church. I suppose they reason that the stone tower
can carry it for the whole congregation on the principle
of a labor-saving machine. But honestly your modern
disciples are no more like their Master than one of the
pale, slim, white-kidded gentlemen who will be here to-night,
is like Richard Cœur de Leon as he led a charge
against the Moslems. Your cross is dwindling to a mere
pretty ornament—an emblem of a past that is fast fading
from men's memories. It will never have the power to
inspire the heart again, as when the Crusaders—”
At that moment their eyes were blinded by a sudden,
dazzling light. There was a general and startled exclamation,
and then, awe-struck and silent, they gazed as if
spell-bound upon a luminous cross blazing before them.
CHAPTER XXIV. EQUAL TO AN EMERGENCY.
The fiery cross that so awed Christine and her little
group of auditors, was to be the closing scene of the
evening entertainment. It was of metal, and by a skilful
adjustment of jets was made to appear as if all aflame.
While the others were intent on Christine's words, and she
in the interest of her theme had quite forgotten him, Dennis
made all his arrangements, and at the critical point
narrated in the preceding chapter, he turned on the gas
with the most startling effect. It seemed a living, vivid
refutation of Christine's words, and even she turned pale.
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After a moment, for the emblem to make its full impression,
Dennis stepped out before them all, his face lighted
up by the luminous cross. They admitted that no Crusader
could look more earnest and brave than he.
“Miss Ludolph,” he said in firm yet respectful tones,
“I should evermore be unworthy of your respect and confidence,
what is more, I should be false to myself, false to
my faith, should I remain silent in view of what I have
been compelled to hear. That sacred emblem has not
spent its meaning, or its power. Millions to-day would die
for the sake of Him who suffered on it. Many even of
those weak, inconsistent ones that you have so justly condemned,
would part with life rather than the faint hope
that centres there,” pointing to the radiant symbol.
“You are rude, sir,” said Christine, her face pale, but
her eyes flashing in turn.
“No, he is right! he is right!” exclaimed Miss Winthrop,
springing up with tears in her eyes. “Undeserving
as I am of the name of Christian, I would die, I know I
would die, before I would give up my poor little hope,—
though I confess you make me fear that it is a false one.
But its the best I have, and I mean it shall be better. I
think a good touch of persecution that would bring people
out,would do the Church more good than anything else.”
“Pardon me, Miss Ludolph,” continued Dennis; “but
I appeal to your sense of justice. Could I be a true man
and be silent, believing what I do? Could I hear the name
of my Best Friend thus spoken of, and say not one word
in His behalf?
“But I spoke most highly of the Christ of the Bible.”
“You spoke of Him as a great, good, but mistaken
man, an enthusiast. To me He is the mighty God, my
Divine Saviour, to whom I owe infinitely more than life.
You know that I mean no disrespect to you,” he added
with gentle but manly courtesy. “I regret more deeply
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than words can express that you honestly think as you do.
But if I as honestly believe the Bible, am I not acting as
you said a true follower ought? For I assure you it is a
heavier cross than you can ever know, to speak thus unbidden
where I am regarded only as a serving-man. But
would I not be false and cowardly, if I held my peace?
And if you afterwards should know that I claimed the
name of Christian, would you not despise me as you remembered
this scene?”
Christine bit her lip and hesitated, but her sense of
justice prevailed, and she said—
“I not only pardon you, but commend your course in
view of your evident sincerity.”
Dennis replied by a low bow.
At this moment there was a loud ring at the door.
“There come the gentlemen,” exclaimed Miss Brown.
“I am so glad. O dear, what a long, uncomfortable
preachment we have had; now for some fun.”
The colorless young ladies had stared first at Christine,
and then at the cross. in blank amazement.
At the word “gentlemen” they were all on the alert and
ready for real life; but Miss Winthrop left the room for a
short time.
A handsome, lively youth entered, scattering bows and
compliments on every side with the off-hand ease of an accomplished
society man. He paid no heed to Dennis, evidently
regarding him as the showman.
“Well, ladies, you have done your part,” he said, “your
arrangements seem complete.”
“Yes, Mr. Mellen; but where is Mr. Archer, our tenor?”
asked Christine. “We have only three-quarters of an hour
for music rehearsal, before we must retire to dress for our
parts.”
“Bad news for you, Miss Ludolph,” said Mr. Mellen,
coming to her side; “Archer is sick and can't come.”
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“Can't come?” they all exclaimed in dismayed chorus.
“What is the matter?” asked Miss Winthrop anxiously,
coming in at that moment.
“Matter enough,” said Miss Brown poutingly, “that
horrid Archer has gone and got sick. I do believe he did
it on purpose. He did not know his parts near as well as
he ought, and he has taken this way to get out of it.”
“But he promised me he would study them all the morning,”
said Christine. “O I am so sorry. What shall we
do? Our entertainment seems fated to be a failure,” and
she spoke in a tone of deep disappointment.
“I assure you I feel the deepest sympathy for you,”
said Mr. Mellen, looking tenderly at Christine, “but I did
my best. I tried to drag Archer here out of his sick-bed,
and then I ran around among some other good singers
that I know, but none would venture. They said the music
was difficult, and would require much practice, and that
now is impossible.”
“O isn't it too bad,” mourned Miss Winthrop. “The
programme is all printed, and the people will be so disappointed.
We can't have that splendid duet that you and
Mr. Archer were to sing together, Christine. I have a
score of friends who were coming to hear that alone.”
“O as for that matter, half our music is spoiled,” said
Christine dejectedly. “Well this is the last time I attempt
anything of the kind. How in the world we are going to
get out of this scrape, I do not know. The tickets are so
high, and so much has been said, that the people are expecting
a great deal, and there is every prospect of a most
lame and impotent conclusion.”
A general gloom settled upon the faces of all. At this
moment Dennis stepped forward hesitatingly and said to
Christine—
“Have you the music that Mr. Archer was to sing?”
“Certainly! do you suppose it was of the kind that
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he could make up out of his head?” said Miss Brown
pertly.
“Will you let me see it? If you are willing, perhaps I
can assist you in this matter.”
All turned toward him with a look of great surprise.
“What do you think of that from the man who sweeps
Mr. Ludolph's store?” asked Miss Brown in a loud whisper.
“I think the fellow is as presuming as he is ignorant,”
said Mr. Mellen so plainly that all heard him.
“It is not presuming, sir, to offer a kindness where it
is needed,” said Dennis with dignity, “and my ignorance
is not yet proved. The presumption is all on your part.”
Mr. Mcllen flushed and was about to answer angrily,
when Miss Winthrop said hastily but in a kindly tone—
“But really Mr. Fleet, much of our music is new and
very difficult.”
“But it is written, is it not?” asked Dennis with a
smile.
Christine looked at him in silent wonder. What would
he not do next? But she was sorry that he had spoken,
for she foresaw only mortification for him.
“O give him the music by all means,” said Miss Brown,
expecting to enjoy his blundering attempts to sing what was
far beyond him. “There, I will play the accompaniment.
It's not the tune of Old Hundred that you are to sing now,
young man, remember.”
Dennis glanced over the music, and she commenced
playing a loud, difficult piece.
He turned to Miss Ludolph and said,
“I fear you have given me the wrong music. Miss
Brown is playing something not written here.”
They exchanged significant glances, and Miss Winthrop
said—
“Play the right music, Miss Brown.”
She struck into the music that Dennis held, but played
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it so out of time, that no one could sing it. Dennis laid
down his sheets on the piano and said quietly, though with
flushed face,
“I did not mean to be obtrusive. You all seem greatly
disappointed at Mr. Archer's absence and the results, and
I thought that in view of the emergency it would not be
presumption to offer my services. But it seems that I am
mistaken.”
“No, it is not presumption,” said Miss Winthrop. “It
was true kindness and courtesy, which has been ill requited.
But you see, to be frank, Mr. Fleet, we all fear
that you do not realize what you are undertaking.”
“Must I of necessity be an ignoramus because, as
Miss Brown says, I sweep a store?”
“Let me play the accompaniment,” said Christine,
with the decided manner of her own that few resisted,
and she went correctly through the difficult and brilliant
passage. Dennis followed his part with both eye and ear,
and then said—
“Perhaps I had better sing my part alone first, and
then you can correct any mistakes.”
There was a flutter of expectation, a wink from Mr.
Mellen, and an audible titter from Miss Brown.
“Certainly,” said Miss Ludolph, who thought to herself
“If he will make a fool of himself, he may,” and
she played the brief prelude.
Then prompt upon the proper note, true to time and
note, Dennis's rich, powerful tenor voice startled, and then
entranced them all. He sang the entire passage through,
with only such mistakes as resulted from his nervousness
and embarrassment.
At the close, all exclaimed in admiration save Miss
Brown, who bit her lip in ill-concealed vexation, but she
said with a half sneer—
“Really, Mr. What-is-your-name, you are almost equal
to Blind Tom.”
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“You do Blind Tom great injustice,” said Dennis. “I
read my music.”
“But how did you learn to read music in that style?”
asked Christine.
“Of course it took me years to do so. But no one
could join our musical club at college who could not read
anything placed before him.”
“It must have been small and select, then.”
“It was.”
“How often had you sung that piece before?” asked
Miss Brown.
“I never saw it before,” answered Dennis.
“Why it is just out,” said Christine.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen, our troubles are over
at last,” said Miss Winthrop. “Mr. Fleet seems a good
genius—equal to any emergency. If he can sing that
difficult passage, he can sing anything else we have. We
had better run over our parts, and then to our toilets.”
One of the colorless young ladies played the accompaniments,
her music making a sort of neutral tint, against
which their rich and varied voices came out with better
effect. They sang rapidly through the programme. Dennis
sustaining his parts correctly, and with taste. He
could read any music placed before him like the open
page of a book, and years of practice enabled him to sing
true, and with confidence. As he sang one thing after
another with perfect ease, their wonder grew, and when
in the final duet with Christine, they both came out
strongly, their splendid, thoroughly-trained voices blending
in perfect harmony, they were rewarded with a spontaneous
burst of applause, in which even Miss Brown was
compelled to join.
Christine said nothing, but gave Dennis a quick, grateful
glance, which amply repaid him for the martyrdom
she had led him into that afternoon.
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He acknowledged the plaudits of the others with a
slight, cool bow, but her thanks with a warm flush of pleasure,
and then turned to complete his arrangements as if
nothing had happened. There was not the slightest show
of exultation, or of a purpose to demand equality in view
of what had happened. His old manner returned, and he
acted as if they all were strangers to him. They exchanged
significant, wondering glances, and after a brief
consultation, retired to the dining-room, where coffee and
sandwiches were waiting. Miss Winthrop and Christine
sincerely hoped that Miss Brown would invite Dennis out,
but she did not, and as it was her house, as she had said,
they could not interfere. Dennis heard the clatter of knives
and forks, and saw that he was again slighted; but he did
not care now. Indeed in the light of the sacred emblem
before which he had stood, he had learned to have a genuine
pity for them all.
He remembered how the rich and great of the world
had treated his Master.
Then too Christine's kind, grateful glance seemed to
fall upon him like a warm ray of sunlight.
After they were through and about to dress for their
parts, Miss Brown put her head within the door and said
shortly—
“You will find some lunch in the dining-room.”
“Dennis paid no heed to her, but he heard Miss Winthrop
say,—
“Really, Miss Brown, that is too bad after what he
has done and shown himself to be, I wonder that he does
not leave the house.”
“He will not do that till all is over,” said Christine.
“Then he may as soon as he chooses,” said Miss
Brown. She was a girl of violent prejudices, and from
her very nature would instinctively dislike such a person
as Dennis Fleet.
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“Well,” said Miss Winthrop, “he is a gentleman, and
he gave the strongest proof of it when he quietly and modestly
withdrew after achieving a success that would have
turned any one's head, and which ought to have secured
him full recognition.”
“I told you he was a gentleman,” said Christine briefly,
“and I consider myself a judge,” and then their voices
passed out of hearing.
Dennis having arranged everything so that he could
place his hands right upon it, found that he had half an
hour to spare. He said to himself, “Miss Ludolph is
wrong. I shall leave the house a short time; I am a most
unromantic individual, for no matter what, or how, I feel,
I will get hungry. But I am sure Miss Brown's coffee and
sandwiches would choke me. I have already swallowed
too much from her to care for any more, so here's for a
restaurant.”
Miss Winthrop hastened through her toilet in order
that she might come down and speak to Dennis while he
was alone. She wished to thank him for his course and
his vindication of the truth, and assure him that she both
respected and would treat him as a true gentleman. She
went into the back parlor, but he was not there; then she
passed to the dining-room, but found only servants clearing
away and preparing for the grand supper of the evening.
In quick alarm she asked,
“Where is Mr. Fleet?”
“Is it the man in the back parlor, mum? He's just
after goin' out.”
“O girls,” exclaimed Miss Winthrop, rushing up stairs,
“Mr. Fleet has gone.”
And there was general consternation.
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CHAPTER XXV. THE REVELATION.
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The toilets of the young ladies were nearly completed,
but without waiting to put another touch, all hastened to
the place where they had left Dennis. One of the colorless
young ladies appeared upon the scene with a shawl
around her bare shoulders, and a great deal of color on
one cheek, and none on the other as yet, but this slight
discrepancy was unnoted in the dire calamity they feared.
Many were the exclamations and lamentations.
“Why, the people will be here in fifteen minutes,” said
Miss Winthrop in a nervous tremor.
“Did he leave no word?” asked Miss Brown of the
servants.
“No word, mum,” was the dismal echo.
“What shall we do?” they said, looking at each other
with blank faces; but none could answer.
“I do hate such proud, stuck-up people. There is no
managing or depending on them,” said Miss Brown spitefully.
Miss Winthrop bit her lips to keep from saying to her
hostess what would be more true than polite. There was
a flash of anger in Christine's dark blue eyes, and she said
coldly,
“I imagine that you have finished the business this
time, Miss Brown. But I confess that I am greatly surprised,
for he said I could depend upon him for to-night.”
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“So you can,” said Dennis, coming in behind them.
“I am sorry you have had this needless alarm. But the
fact is, I am a plain, ordinary mortal, and live in a very
material way.”
“There was plenty of lunch in the dining-room,” said
Miss Brown tartly. “You need not have gone out and
made all this trouble.”
“Pardon me for slighting your hospitality,” said Dennis
with emphasis on the word, “but I am very fastidious
as to the seasoning of my food.”
“Again significant glances were exchanged, and there
was a suppressed titter at Miss Brown's expense. She
darted a blank look at Dennis, and left the room.
“I can assure you, ladies,” added he, “that all is ready.
I can lay my hand on whatever is needed in a moment;
you need give yourselves no further anxiety.”
There was a general stampede for the dressing rooms,
but Miss Winthrop lingered. When Dennis was alone
she went up to him and frankly gave her hand, saying,
“Mr. Fleet, I wish to thank you for your course to-day.
Between Miss Ludolph's unwitting sermon, and your brave
and unexpected vindication of our faith, I hope to become
more deserving of the name of Christian. You are a gentleman,
sir, in the truest and best sense of the word, and
as such it will ever be a pleasure to welcome you at my
father's house,” and she gave him her card.
A flush of grateful surprise and pleasure mantled Dennis's
face, but before he could speak she was gone.
The audience were now thronging in. By half past
eight the performers were all in the back parlor, and there
was a brilliant array of actors and actresses in varied and
fanciful costume, many coming to the house dressed for
their part. There were gods and goddesses, shepherds,
shepherdesses, and angels, crusaders who would take leave
of languishing ladies, living statuary, and tableaux of all
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sorts. Dennis was much shocked at the manner in which
ladies exposed themselves in the name of art, and for the
sake of effect. Christine seemed perfectly Greek and
Pagan in this respect, yet there was that in her manner
that forbade the wanton glance. But as he observed the
carriage of the men around him, he was more than satisfied
that no plea of art could justify the “style,” and felt
assured that every pure minded woman would take the
same view if she realized the truth. Under the names of
fashion and art much is done in society that would be
simply monstrous on ordinary occasions.
The music, as far as possible, was in character with
the scenes. The entertainment went forward with great
applause. Every one was radiant, and the subtle exhilarating
spirit of assured success glowed in every eye, and
gave a richer tone and coloring to everything.
Christine appeared in several and varied characters,
and Dennis had eyes only for her. The others he glanced
over critically as the artist in charge, and then dismissed
them from his thoughts, but on Christine his eyes rested
in a spell-bound admiration that both amused and pleased
her. She loved power of every kind, and when she read
approval in the cultured and critical eye of Dennis Fleet,
she knew that all the audience were applauding.
But Dennis had little time for musing, so great was the
strain upon him to prevent confusion. His voice excited
great surprise and applause, many inquiring vainly who he
was. When he and Christine sang together, the audience
were perfectly carried away, and stormed and applauded
without stint. Indeed it seemed that they could not be
satisfied. The call was so urgent that several asked
Christine to sing again, and she did so alone. For ten
minutes she held the audience perfectly entranced, and
none more so than Dennis. Usually she was too cold in
all that she did, but now in her excitement she far
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surpassed herself, and he acknowledged that he never heard such
music before.
The very soul of song seemed breathed into her, and
every nook and corner of the house appeared to vibrate
with melody. Even the servants in distant rooms said that
it seemed that an angel was singing. After she ceased,
the audience sat spell-bound for a moment, and then followed
prolonged thunders of applause, the portly brewer,
Mr. Brown himself, leading off again and again.
“Now let the tenor sing alone,” he said, for though a
coarse man, he was hearty and good-natured.
The audience emphatically echoed his wish, but Dennis
as decidedly shook his head.
Then came a cry, “Miss Ludolph and the Tenor
again,” and the audience took it up with a clamor that
would not be denied.
Christine looked inquiringly at Dennis, and he replied
in a low tone,
“You command me this evening.”
Again she thanked him with her eyes, and from a music
stand near, chose a magnificent duet from Mendelssohn,
in which he must sing several difficult solos.
“Will that answer?” she asked.
“Act your pleasure. I am familiar with it,” he said,
smiling at the way she had circumvented him in his refusal
to sing alone.
Christine sat down and played her own accompaniment,
while Dennis stood at her side. He determined to do his
best and prove that though he swept a store, he could also
do something else. Many of the strains were plaintive, and
his deep and unconscious feeling for his fair companion
in song, gave to his voice a depth, and at times a pathos
that both thrilled and touched the heart, and there were
not a few wet eyes in the audience. Unconsciously to
himself and all around, he was singing his love, and even
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Christine, though much preoccupied with her part, wondered
at the effect upon herself, and recognized the deep
impression made upon the audience.
As the last notes died away the sliding doors were
closed.
Dennis had achieved a greater success than Christine,
because singing from the heart he had touched the heart.
His applause could be read in moist eyes and expressive
faces, rather than in noisy hands. She saw and understood
the result. A sad, disappointed look came into her
face, and she said in a low, plaintive tone, as if it were
wrung from her,
“There must be something wrong about me. I fear I
shall never reach true art. I can only win admiration,
never touch the heart.”
Dennis was about to speak eagerly, when they were
overwhelmed by the rush and confusion attendant on the
breaking up of the entertainment.
Part of the older guests at once left for their homes,
and the rest stayed for supper.
The parlors were to be cleared as soon as possible for
dancing. Christine was joined by her father, who had sat
in the audience, scarcely believing his eyes, much less his
ears. Was that the young man who was blacking old
Schwartz's boots the other day?
His daughter was overwhelmed with compliments, but
she took them very coolly and quietly, for her heart was
full of bitterness. That which her ambitious spirit most
desired she could not reach, and to the degree that she
loved art, was her disappointment keen. She almost envied
poor Dennis, but she knew not the secret of his success;
nor did he, either, in truth. His old manner returned,
and he busied himself in rapidly packing up everything
that he had brought. Mr. Ludolph, who had received a
brief explanation from Christine, came and said kindly,
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“Why, Fleet, you have blossomed out strongly to-day.”
“Indeed, sir, I think I have never had a more rigorous
pruning,” was the reply.
When the story had been told him in full, he understood
the remark. Christine was waiting for the crowd to
disperse somewhat, in order to speak to Dennis also, for
her sense of justice and genuine admiration impelled her
to warm and sincere acknowledgment. But at that moment
Mr. Mellen came in exclaiming,—
“Miss Ludolph, they are all waiting for you to lead the
dance, for to you is given this honor by acclamation, and
I plead your promise to be my partner,” and he carried
her off, she meaning to return as soon as possible, as she
supposed Dennis would remain.
A moment after, light airy music was heard in the front
parlor, followed by the rhythmical cadence of light feet and
the rustle of silks like a breeze through a forest.
For some reason, as she went away Dennis's heart
sank within him. The strong excitements of the day reacted,
and a strange sense of weariness and despondency
crept over him. The gay music in the other room seemed
plaintive and far away, and the tripping feet sounded like
the patter of rain on Autumn leaves. The very lights appeared
to turn dimmer, and the color to fade out of his life.
Mechanically he packed up the few remaining articles,
to be called for in the morning, and then leaned heavily
against a pillar, intending to rest a moment before going
out into the night alone.
Some one pushed back the sliding-door a little and
passed through the room. Through the opening he caught
a glimpse of the gay scene within. Suddenly Christine
appeared floating lightly through the waltz in her gauzy
drapery as if in a white vapory cloud. Through the narrow
opening she seemed a radiant, living portrait. But
her partner whirled her out of his line of vision. Thus in
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the mazes of the dance she kept appearing and disappearing,
flashing on sight one moment, leaving a blank in the
crowded room the next.
“So it will ever be, I suppose,” he said to himself bitterly;
“chance and stolen glimpses my only privilege.”
Again she appeared, smiling archly on the man whose
arm clasped her waist.
A frown black as night gathered on Dennis's brow—
then a sudden pallor overspread his face to his very
lips.
The revelation had come! Then for the first time he
knew—knew it as if written in letters of fire before him,
that he loved Christine Ludolph.
At first the knowledge stunned and bewildered him,
and his mind was a confused blur; then as she appeared
again, smiling upon and in the embrace of another man,
a sharp sword seemed to pierce his heart.
Dennis was no faint shadow of a man who had frittered
away what little heart he originally had, in numberless
flirtations. He belonged to the male species, with something
of the pristine vigor of the first man, who said of
the one woman of all the world “This is now bone of my
bones, and flesh of my flesh;” and one whom he had
never seen but a few short months since, now seemed to
belong to him by the highest and divinest right. But
could he ever claim his own?
In his morbid, wearied state, there seemed a “great
gulf fixed” between them. For a moment he fairly felt
faint and sick, as if he had received a wound. He was
startled by hearing Miss Winthrop say at his side—
“Mr. Fleet, you will not leave yet. I have many friends
wishing an introduction to you. What is the matter? You
really look sick.”
At her voice he flushed painfully. He was so vividly
conscious of his love himself that he felt that every one
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else must be able to see it, and darkness and solitude now
seemed a refuge. Recovering himself by a great effort,
he said—
“Pardon me, I do—I am not well—nothing is the matter—
a little rest and I will be myself again.”
“No wonder. You have been taxed every way beyond
mortal endurance, and I think that it is a shame the way
you have been treated. Pray do not judge Chicago society
altogether by what you have seen here. Let me get
you some refreshment, and then I will acquaint you with
some people who can recognize a gentleman when they
meet him.”
“No, Miss Winthrop,” said Dennis courteously but
firmly, “you are not in your own home, and by staying I
would not accept your hospitality. I appreciate your kindness
deeply, and thank your friends who have expressed a
willingness to make my acquaintance. It would not be
right to stay longer in this house than is necessary. I do
not feel resentful. I have no room in my memory for Miss
Brown and her actions, but at the same time self-respect
requires that I go at once,” and he took his hat.
“I am not surprised that you feel as you do. But give
me the pleasure of welcoming you at my own home as
soon as possible,” she said, and gave her hand to him in
parting.
Dennis took it respectfully and bowed low, saying,
“I shall not willingly deny myself so great a pleasure,”
and was gone.
“Christine came in a few moments later, and found
only servants clearing the room for dancing.
“Where is Mr. Fleet?” she asked.
“Gone, mum.”
“Yes,” said Miss Winthrop, coming in at the same
time, “he has gone now in very truth; and I don't think
the power exists that could lead him to darken these doors
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again. I doubt if I ever come myself. I never saw a
clearer instance of—of—well—shoddy.”
“It seems to me that you Christians are as proud as
any of us.”
“Isn't there a difference between pride and self-respect?
I am satisfied that if Miss Brown were in trouble,
or poor, Mr. Fleet would be the first to help her. O Christine,
we have treated him shamefully!”
“You seem to take a wonderful interest in this unknown
knight in rusty armor.” (Dennis's dress was decidedly
threadbare.)
“I do,” said the impulsive girl frankly, “because he is
wonderfully interesting. What man of all the large audience
present to-night, could have acted the part he did.
I am satisfied that that man is by birth and education a
gentleman. Are you ready, with your aristocratic notions,
to recognize chiefly Miss Brown's title to position? What
could her coat-of-arms be but the dollar symbol and beer
barrel?”
“Come, remember she is our hostess.”
“You are right; I should not speak so here; but my
indignation gets the better of me.”
“Would you invite him to your house?”
“Certainly. I have; and what is more, he has promised
to come. Supposing that he is poor, are not many
of your noblemen as poor as poverty? My parlors shall
be haunted only by men of ability and character.”
“You are not going to shut out this little heathen,”
said Christine, putting her arm about her friend.
“Never!” said Miss Winthrop, returning the embrace
with double warmth. Then she added sadly, “You are not
an unbeliever from conviction and knowledge, Christine,
but from training and association. While I admire and
honor your father as a splendid and gifted man, I regret
his and your skepticism more deeply than you can ever
know.”
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“Well, Susie,” said Christine with a smile, “if they shut
out such as you from your Paradise, I do not wish to go
there.”
“If with my clear knowledge of the conditions of entrance,
I shut myself out, I will have no right to complain,”
said Miss Winthrop sadly.
But the absence of two such belles could not long remain
unnoted, and having been discovered, they were
pounced upon by half a dozen young gentlemen, clamorous
for the honor of their hand for the “German.”
In spite of herself, Christine was vexed and annoyed.
Dennis had seemed, in his obscurity, a nice little bit of
personal property, that she could use and order about as
she pleased. He had been so subservient and eager to
do her will, that she had never thought of him otherwise
than her “humble servant.” But now her own hand had suddenly
given him the role of a find gentleman. Christine
was too logical to think of continuing to order about, as
she might Pat Murphy, a man who could sing Mendelssohn's
music as Dennis had.
She congratulated herself that the arrangement of the
store was nearly completed, and only one show-room unfinished.
“I suppose he will be very dignified when we meet
again,” she thought to herself. “I should not be at all
surprised if my impulsive little friend Susie loses her
heart to him. Well, I suppose she can to any one she
choses. As for me, rich or poor, stupid or gifted, the
men of this land are all alike,” and with a half sigh she
plunged resolutely into the gayeties of the evening, as if
to escape from herself.
-- 195 -- p667-204
CHAPTER XXVI. NIGHT THOUGHTS.
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Dennis passed out of the heavy, massive entrance to
the wealthy brewer's mansion with a sense of relief as if
escaping from prison. The duskyness and solitude of
the street seemed a grateful refuge, and the night wind
was to his flushed face like a cool hand laid on a feverish
brow. He was indeed glad to be alone, for his was one
of those deep, earnest natures that cannot rush to the
world in garrulous confidence when disturbed and perplexed.
There are many sincere but shallow people who
must tell of and talk away every passing emotion. Not
of the abundance of their hearts, for abundance there is
not, but of the uppermost thing of their hearts their
mouths must speak, even though the subjects be of the
delicate nature that would naturally be hidden. Such
mental constitutions are at least healthful. Concealed
trouble never preys upon them like the canker in the bud.
Everything comes to the surface and is thrown off.
But at first Dennis scarcely dared to recognize the
truth himself, and the thought of even telling his mother,
was repugnant. For half an hour he walked the streets
in a sort of stupor. He was conscious only of a heavy,
aching heart and a wearied, confused brain. All the time,
however, he knew an event had occurred that must for
good or evil affect his entire existence; but he shrank
with nervous dread from grappling with the problem. As
the cold air refreshed and revived him, his strong,
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practical mind took up the question almost without volition on
his part, and by reason of his morbid, wearied state, only
the dark and discouraging side was presented. The
awakening to his love was a very different thing to Dennis,
and to the majority in this troubled world, from the
blissful consciousness of Adam when for the first time he
saw the fair being whom he might woo at his leisure, amid
embowering roses, without fear or thought of a rival.
To Dennis the fact of his love, so far from promising
to be the source of delightful romance and enchantment,
was clearly seen the hardest and most practical question
of a life full of such questions.
In his strong and growing excitement he spoke to himself
as to a second person,
“O, I see it all now. Poor, blind fool that I was to
think that by coveting and securing every moment in her
presence possible, I was only learning to love art. As I
saw her to-night, so radiant and beautiful, and yet in the
embrace of another man, and evidently an ardent admirer,
what was art to me! As well might a starving man seek
to satisfy himself by wandering through an old Greek
temple, as for me to turn to Art alone. One crumb of
warm, manifested love from her would be worth more
than all the cold, abstract beauty in the universe. And
yet what chance have I? What can I hope for more than
a passing thought and a little kindly condescending interest?
Clerk and man-of-all-work in a store, poor and
heavily burdened, the idea of my loving one of the most
wealthy, admired, and aristocratic ladies in Chicago! It
is all very well in story books for peasants to fall in love
with princesses, but in practical Chicago the fact of my
attachment to Miss Ludolph would be regarded as one of
the richest jokes of the season, and such a proof of country
rusticity and folly by Mr. Ludolph, as would at once
secure my return to pastoral life.”
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Then hope whispered, “But you can achieve position
and wealth as others have, and then can speak your mind
from the standpoint of equality.”
But Dennis was in a mood to see only the hopeless
side that night, and exclaimed almost aloud—“Nonsense!
Can it be even imagined that she, besieged by
the most gifted and rich of the city, will wait for a poor
unknown admirer? Mr. Mellen, I understand approaches
her from every vantage ground save that of a noble character,
but in the fashionable world how little thought is
given to this draw-back,” and in his perturbation he strode
rapidly and aimlessly on, finding some relief in mere physical
activity.
Suddenly his hasty steps ceased, and even in the dusk
of the street, his face gleamed out distinctly, so great was
its pallor. Like a ray of light, a passage from the Word
of God revealed to him his situation in a new aspect. It
seemed to him almost that some one had whispered the
words in his ear, so distinctly did they present themselves—
“Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers.”
Slowly and painfully he said to himself, as if recognizing
the most helpless barrier that had yet been dwelt
upon—
“Christine Ludolph is an infidel.”
Not only the voice of reason, and of the practical
world, but also the voice of God seemed to forbid his
love, and the conviction that he must give it all up, became
as clear as it was painful. The poor fellow leaned his
head against the shaggy bark of an elm that stood in a
shadowy square which the street lamps could but faintly
penetrate, and watered the gnarled roots with many hot
tears.
The night wind swayed the budding branches of the
great tree and they sighed over him as if in sympathy.
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The struggle within his soul was indeed bitter, for
though thus far he had spoken hopelessly, he had not
been altogether hopeless, but now that conscience raised
its impassable wall high as heaven, which he must not
break through, his pain was so great as to almost unman
him, and only such tears as men can weep fell from his
eyes. In anguish he exclaimed—
“That which might have been the chief blessing of
life has become my greatest misfortune.”
Above him the gale caused two fraying limbs to appear
to moan in echo of the suffering beneath.
“This then must be the end of my prayers in her behalf—
my ardent hope and purpose to lead her to the
truth—she to walk through honored sunny paths to everlasting
shame and night, and I through dark and painful
ways to light and peace, if in this bitter test I remain
faithful. Surely there is much to try one's faith. And
yet it must be so as far as human foresight can judge.”
Then a great pity for her swelled his heart, for he felt
that her case was the saddest after all, and his tears flowed
faster than ever.
Human voices now startled him—some late revellers
passing homeward. The tears and emotion, of which we
never think of being ashamed when alone with Nature
and its Author, he dreaded to have seen by his fellows,
and hastily wiping his eyes, he slunk into the deeper
shadow of the tree, and they passed on. Then, an old
trait asserting itself, he condemned his own weakness and
wavering spirit. Stepping from the sheltering trunk
against which he was leaning, he stood strong and erect.
The winds were hushed as if expectant in the branches
above—
“Dennis Fleet,” he said, “you must put your foot on
this folly here and now.”
He bared his head and looked upward.
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“O God,” he said solemnly, “if this is contrary to
Thy will—Thy will be done.”
He paused a moment reverently, and then turned on
his heel and strode resolutely homeward.
A gust of wind crashed the branches overhead together
like the clash of cymbals in victory.
The early Spring dawn was tinging the eastern horizon
before the mansion of the rich brewer was darkened and
the gay revel ceased. All the long night, light airy music
had caused late passers by to pause a moment to listen,
and to pity or envy the throng within as disposition might
dictate. Mr. Brown was a man who prided himself on
lavish and rather coarse hospitality. A table groaning
under costly dishes, and every variety of liquor that
diseased appetite could crave, was the crowning feature,
the blissful climax of all his entertainments; and society
from its highest circles furnished an abundance of anxious
candidates for his suppers, who ate and criticised, drank
to, and disparaged, their plebeian host.
Mrs. Brown was heavy in every sense of the word, and
with her huge person encased in acres of silk and festooned
with no end of black lace, she waddled about and smiled
and nodded good-naturedly at everybody and everything.
It was just the place for a fashionable revel, where the
gross repulsive features of coarse excess are veiled and
masked somewhat by the glamour of outward courtesy
and good-breeding.
At first Christine entered into the dance with great
zest and a decided sense of relief.
She was disappointed and out of sorts with herself.
Again she had failed in the object of her intense ambition,
and though conscious that through the excitement of the
occasion, she had never sung better, yet she plainly saw in
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the different results of her singing and that of Dennis
Fleet that there was depth in the human heart which she
could not touch. She could secure only admiration, superficial
applause. The sphere of the true artist who can
touch and sway the popular heart, seemed beyond her ability.
By voice or pencil she had never yet reached it. She
had too much mind to mistake the character of the admiration
she excited, and was far too ambitious to be satisfied
with the mere praise bestowed on a highly accomplished
girl. She aspired—determined to be among the first, and
to be a second rate imitator in the world of Art was to her
the agony of a disappointed life. And yet to imitate with
accuracy and skill, not with sympathy, was the only power
she had as yet developed. She saw the limitations of her
success more clearly than any one else, and chafed bitterly
at the invisible bounds she could not pass.
The excitement of the dance enabled her to banish
thoughts that were both painful and humiliating. Moreover
to a nature so active and full of physical vigor, the
swift, graceful motion was a source of keen enjoyment.
But when after supper many of the ladies were silly,
and the gentlemen were either stupid or excited, as might
be the action of the “invisible spirit of wine” upon their
several constitutions—when after many glasses of champagne
Mr. Mellen began to effervesce in frothy sentimentality,
and a style of love-making simply nauseating to one
of Christine's nature, she looked around for her father in
order to escape from the scenes that were becoming revolting.
Though of earth only in all the sources of her life and
hopes, she was not earthy. If her spirit could not soar and
sing in the sky, it also could not grovel in the mire of gross
materiality.
Some little time therefore before the company broke up,
on the plea of not feeling well, she lured her father away
-- 201 -- p667-210
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from his wine, cigars, and a knot of gentlemen who were
beginning to talk a little thick and incoherently, and making
their adieux amid many protestations against their
early departure, drove homeward.
“How did you enjoy yourself?” asked her father.
“Very much the early part of the evening, not at all
the latter part. To sum up, I am disgusted with Mr. Mellen
and these Browns in general, and myself in particular.”
“What is the matter with Mr. Mellen? I understand
that the intriguing mammas consider him the largest game
in the city.”
“When hunting degenerates into the chase and capture
of insects, you may style him game. Between his champagne
and silly love-making, he was as bad as a dose of
ipecac.”
Christine spoke freely to her father of her admirers,
usually making them the themes of satire and jest.
“And what is the trouble with our entertainers?”
“I am sorry to speak so of anyone whose hospitality I
have accepted, but unless it is your wish I hope never to
accept it again. They all smell of their beer. Everything
is so coarse, lavish, and ostentatious. They tell you as
through a brazen trumpet on every side `We are rich.'”
“They give magnificent suppers,” said Mr. Ludolph in
apology.
“More correctly, the French cook they employ gives
them. I do not object to the nicest of suppers, but prefer
that the Browns be not on the carte de menu. From the
moment our artistic programme ended, and the entertainment
fell into their hands, it began to degenerate into an
orgy. Nothing but the instinctive restraints of good breeding
prevents such occasions from ending in a drunken
revel.”
“You are severe. Mr. Brown's company is not a bad
type of the entertainments that prevail in fashionable life.”
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“Well it may be true, but they never seemed to me so
lacking in good taste and refinement, before. Wait till we
dispense choice viands and wines to choicer spirits in our
own land, and I will guarantee a marvellously wide difference.
Then the eye, the ear, the mind, shall be feasted,
as well as the lower sense.”
“Well I do not see why you should be disgusted with
yourself. I am sure that you covered yourself with glory,
and was the belle of the occasion.”
“That is no great honor, considering the occasion.
Father, strange as it may seem to you, I envied your man-of-all-work,
to-night. Did you not mark the effect of his
singing?”
“Yes, and felt it in a way that I cannot explain to
myself. His tones seemed to thrill and stir my very heart.
I have not been so affected by music for years. At first I
thought it was surprise at hearing him sing at all, but I
soon found that it was something in the music itself.”
“And that something I fear I can never grasp—never
attain.”
“Why, my dear, they applauded you to the echo.”
“I would rather see one moist eye as the tribute to my
singing, than to be deafened by noisy applause. I fear I
shall never reach high art. Men's hearts sleep when I do
my best.”
“I think you are slightly mistaken there, judging from
your train of admirers,” said Mr. Ludolph turning off a disagreeable
subject with a jest. The shrewd man of the
world guessed the secret of her failure. She must feel
herself, before she could touch feeling. But he had systematically
sought to chill and benumb her nature, meaning
it to awake and revive at just the time, and under just the
circumstances, that should accord with his controlling ambition.
Then reverting to Dennis he continued,
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“It won't answer for Fleet to sweep the store any
longer, after the part he played to-night. Indeed I doubt
if he would be willing to. Not only he, but the world will
know that he is capable of better things. What has occurred
will awaken inquiry, and may soon secure him good
business offers. I do not intend to part readily with so
capable a young fellow. He does well whatever is required,
and therefore I shall promote him as fast as is prudent.
I think I can make him of great use to me.”
“That is another thing that provokes me,” said Christine.
“Only yesterday morning he seemed such a useful
humble creature, and last evening through my own folly
he developed into a fine gentleman; and I shall have to
say `By your leave, sir;' `Will you please do this?'—if I
dare ask anything at all.”
“I am not so sure of that,” said her father. “My impression
is that Fleet has too much good sense to put on
airs in the store. But I will give him more congenial
work; and as one of the young gentleman clerks, we can
ask him up now and then to sing with us. I should much
enjoy trying some of our German music with him.”
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CHAPTER XXVII. DARKNESS.
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The next morning Christine did not appear at the late
breakfast, where her father with contracted brow and
capricious appetite, sat alone. Among the other unexpected
results of the preceding day she had taken a very
severe cold, and this, with the reaction from fatigue and
excitement, caused her to feel so seriously ill that she
found it impossible to rise. Her father looked at her, and
was alarmed, for her cheeks were flushed with fever, her
head was aching sadly, and she appeared as if threatened
with one of those dangerous diseases whose earlier symptoms
are so obscure, and yet so much alike. She tried to
smile, but her lip quivered, and she turned her face to
the wall.
The philosophy of Mr. Ludolph and his daughter was
evidently adapted to fair weather and smooth sailing.
Sickness, disease, and the possible results, were things
that both dreaded more than they ever confessed to each
other. It was most natural that they should, for only in
health or life could they enjoy or hope for anything. By
their own belief their horizon was narrowed down to time
and earth, and they could look for nothing beyond. In
Mr. Ludolph's imperious, resolute nature, sickness always
awakened anger as well as anxiety. It seemed like an
enemy threatening his dearest hopes and most cherished
ambition, therefore the heavy frown upon his brow as he
pushed away the scarcely tasted breakfast.
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To Christine the thought of death was simply horrible,
and with the whole strength of her will she ever sought to
banish it. To her it meant corruption, dust, nothingness.
With a few drawbacks she had enjoyed life abundantly,
and clung to it with the tenacity of one who believed it
was all. With the exception of some slight passing indisposition,
both she and her father were seldom sick; and
for a number of years now had voyaged on over smooth,
sunny seas of prosperity.
Christine's sudden prostration on the morning following
the company, was a painful surprise to both.
“I will have Dr. Arten call at once,” he said, at parting,
“and will come up from the store early in the day to
see you.”
And Christine was left alone with her French maid.
Her mind was too clouded and disturbed by fever to
think coherently, and yet a vague sense of danger—
trouble—oppressed her, and while lying in a half-unconscious
state between sleeping and waking, a thousand
fantastic visions presented themselves. But in them all
the fiery Cross and Dennis Fleet took some part. At
times the Cross seemed to blaze and threaten to burn her
to a cinder, while he stood by with stern accusing face.
The light from the Cross made him luminous also, and the
glare was so terrible that she would start up with a cry of
fear. Again, they would both recede till in the far distance
they shone like a faint star, and then the black darkness
that gathered round her was more dreadful than the
light, and with her eyes closed she would reach out her
hot hands for the light to return. Once or twice it shone
upon her with soft mellow light, and Dennis stood pointing
to it, pleading so earnestly and tenderly that tears
gathered in her eyes. Then all was blurred and distorted
again.
Within an hour after her father left, she found Dr.
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Arten feeling her pulse and examining her symptoms.
With a great effort she roused herself, and looking at the
Doctor with an eager inquiring face said:
“Doctor, tell me the truth. What is the matter?”
He tried to smile and evade her question, but she
would not let him.
“Well, really, Miss Ludolph,” he said, “we can hardly
tell yet what is the matter. You have evidently caught a
very severe cold, and I hope that is all. When I come
this evening I may be able to speak more definitely. In
the mean time I will give you something to soothe and reduce
your fever.”
The French maid followed the Doctor out, leaving the
door ajar in her haste, and in an audible whisper said:
“I say, Docteur, is it not de small-pox? Dare is so
much around. Tell me true, for I must leave dis very
minute.”
“Hush, you fool,” said the Doctor, and they passed
out of hearing.
A sickening dread made Christine's heart almost stand
still. When the woman returned she watched her most
narrowly as she asked:
“What did the Doctor say to you?”
The maid replied in French that he said she must be
still and not talk.
“But you asked him if I had the small-pox. What did
he say?”
“Ah Mademoiselle, you make one grand meestake. I
ask for a small box to keep your medicine in dat it make
no smell.”
From the woman's lie in evading her question, and
from the fact that she was redolent with camphor used as
a preventive, and kept as far away as she could, near the
windows, Christine gathered a most painful confirmation
of her fears. For a time she lay almost paralyzed by
dread.
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Then as the medicine relieved her of fever and unclouded
her mind, thought and conscience awoke with
terrible and resistless power. As never before she realized
what cold dark depths were just beneath her gay
pleasure-loving life—and how suddenly skies bright and
radiant with the richer promise of the future, could become
black and threatening. Never had earthly life
seemed so attractive, never had her own prospects seemed
so brilliant, and her hopes of fame, wealth, and happiness
in her future German villa more dazzling than now when
they stood out against the dark back-ground of her fears.
“If instead of going forward to all this delight, I become
an object of terror and loathing even before I die, and
something that must be hidden out of sight as soon as
possible after, what conceivable fate could be worse?
That such a thing is possible, proves this to be a dreadful
and defective world, with all its sources of pleasure. Surely
if there were a God he would banish such horrible evils.”
“There is no God—there can't be any, at least none
such as the Bible reveals. How often I have said this to
myself. How often my father has said it to me; and yet
the thought of Him torments me often even when well.”
“Why does this thought come so persistently now? I
settled it long ago, under father's proof, that I did not believe
in Him or the superstitions connected with His name.
Why don't the question stay settled? Other superstitions
do not trouble me. Why should that Cross continually
haunt me? Why should the man who died thereon have
the power to be continually speaking to me through His
Words that I have read. I believe in Socrates as much as
I do in Him, and yet I recall the Greek sage's words with
an effort, and cannot escape from the Nazarene's. All is
mystery and chaos and danger. We human creatures are
like frothy bubbles that glisten and dance for a moment
on a swift black tide that seems flowing forever, and yet
nowhere.”
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Then her thoughts recurred to Dennis.
“That young Fleet seemed to believe implicitly in what
he said yesterday, and he lives up to what he believes. I
would give the world for his delusion, were it only for its
comforting and sustaining power for this life. If he were
very sick, he would be imagining himself on the threshold
of some sort of heaven or paradise, and would be calm
and perhaps even happy, where I am so supremely wretched.
I find that I have nothing—absolutely nothing to sustain
me—not even the memory of good deeds. I have
not even lived the unselfish life that Socrates recommends,
much less the holy life of the Bible.”
“I have pleased myself. Well, believing as I have been
taught, that seemed the most sensible course. Why
doesn't it seem so now?”
Thus tossed on a sea of uncertainty and fear, Christine,
in darkness and weakness, grappled with those mighty
questions which only He can put to rest Who said—
“Let not your heart be troubled; ye believe in God;
believe also in Me.”
Dennis walked resolutely home. He felt himself adamant
in his stern resolution. He at least had the death-like
peace that follows decision; the agony of conflict was
over for a time; and, as he thought, forever.
From mere exhaustion he slept heavily, and on the following
day with white face and compressed lips entered
on his work. And work it truly now became; for the old
glamour was all gone, and life looked as practical and
hard as the stones of the street. Even the pictures on the
walls seemed to him but things for sale, representing
money values, and money appeared the beginning, middle,
and ending of the world's creed. Like the unsubstantial
mirage had vanished the beautiful, happy life of the past
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[figure description] Page 209.[end figure description]
few weeks. Around him were the rocks and sands of the
desert, through which he must toil with weary bleeding
feet till he reached the land watered by the river of life.
Reason and duty, as he believed, forbade the existence of
this foolish passion, and he must, and would destroy it,
but in his anguish he felt as if he had resolved to torture
himself to death.
“And she will never know what I suffer—never know
the wealth of heart I have lavished upon her. I am glad
she will not, for the knowledge of my love would make no
more impression on her cold, proud nature than a drop of
warm Summer rain falling on the brow of yonder marble
statue of Diana. She would only be amazed at my presumption.
She feels that she shines down on me like the
sun, and that I am a poor little satellite that she could
blot out altogether by causing her father to turn me out
into the street again, which undoubtedly would be done
should I reveal my feelings.”
And he was about right.
“Come!” said he to himself, breaking from his painful
revery, “no weakness! You have your way to make
in the world, and your work to do; God will help you, and
no creature shall hinder you,” and he plunged resolutely
into his duties.
Mr. Ludolph was late in reaching the store that morning,
and Dennis found himself secretly hoping, in spite of
himself, that Christine would accompany him. His will
and heart were now in distinct opposition, and the latter
would not obey orders.
When Mr. Ludolph appeared, it was with a frowning,
clouded brow. Without a word he passed into his private
office, but seemed so restless and troubled in his manner
that Dennis felt something was wrong. Why should he
take such an interest in this man? Why should he care?
The other clerks did not—not one save himself had noticed
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[figure description] Page 210.[end figure description]
anything different. Poor Dennis was to learn that he had
a disease of many and varied symptoms.
After something over an hour had passed, Mr. Ludolph
started from his desk, took his hat and cane as with the
purpose of going out—a very unusual thing at that time.
But as he was passing down the store, he met Dr. Arten
opposite Dennis's counter.
“Well,” said Mr. Ludolph impatiently.
“I will call again this evening,” said the Doctor, prudently
non-committal. “Your daughter has caught a very
severe cold. I hope it is nothing more than a cold, but
so many troublesome diseases commence with these obscure
symptoms, that we have to wait till further developments
reveal the true nature of the case.”
“You doctors make no headway in banishing disease
from the world,” snarled Mr. Ludolph. “There is small-pox
around, is there not?”
“Yes, I am sorry to say there is a great deal of it, but
if you remember the history of that one disease, I think
you will admit your remark to be unfair.”
“I beg your pardon, Doctor, but I am anxious, and all
out of sorts, as I ever am in sickness” (when affecting
himself,—he might justly have added). “It seems such
a senseless, useless evil in the world. The idea of you
Christians believing a benevolent Being rules the world,
and that he permits small-pox. Can it be possible that
my daughter has contracted this loathsome horror?”
“Well, it is possible, but I hope not at all probable.
We doctors are compelled to look at the practical rather
than the theological side of the question. It is possible
for any one to have this disease. Has your daughter been
vaccinated?”
“No!” growled Mr. Ludolph. “I don't believe in vaccination.
It is as apt to vitiate the system as protect it.”
“I am sorry for that,” said the Doctor looking grave.
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Keen Mr. Ludolph saw and read his physician's expression
accurately. Seizing his hand he said eagerly—
“Pardon me, Doctor, you can understand a father's
feelings. Watch this case night and day. Spare no pains,
and be assured I will regret no expense,” and he hastened
away to his daughter's bedside.
No prisoner at the bar ever listened with more interest
than Dennis. If it had been his own case they were discussing
it would not have touched half so nearly.
But a moment before, Christine in her pride, wealth
and beauty, seemed destined to go through life as in a triumphant
march. Now he saw her to be a weak human
creature, threatened as sorely as the poorest and humblest.
Her glorious beauty, even her life, might pass away in Le
Grand Hotel as surely as in a tenement house. The very
thought thrilled him with fear. Then a great pity rushed
into his soul like a tide, sweeping everything before it.
His stern resolution to stifle and trample upon his love,
melted like a snow wreath, and every interest of life centred
in the darkened room where Christine tossed and
moaned in the deeper darkness of uncertainty and doubt.
The longing to go to her to comfort and help, was so intense
that it required the utmost effort of reason and will
to prevent such rash action. He trembled at himself—at
the strength of his feelings, and saw that though he might
control outward action, his heart had gone from him beyond
remedy, and that his love, so long unrecognized, was
now like the principal source of the Jordan, that springs
from the earth a full grown river, and that he could not
help it.
Mr. Ludolph found little comfort at his daughter's bedside.
Sending her maid away, who was glad to go, Christine
told what she had overheard. Small-pox seemed in
the mind of every one, but this was not strange since it
was so prevalent in the city.
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“O father, what shall I do—what shall I do, if this
should be the case? Janette will leave me, and there will
be no one to take care of me. I know I will die, and I
might as well, as to be made hideous by this horrible disease.
No, I would rather live, on any terms, for to die is
to be nothing. O father, are you sure the Bible is all
false? There is so much in it to comfort the sick. If I
could only believe in such a life hereafter as Susie Winthrop
does, I would as soon die as not.”
“No,” said Mr. Ludolph firmly, “your only chance is
to get well. There is no use of deceiving ourselves. I
have secured the services of the most skilful of physicians,
and will see that you have every attention. So try to be
as calm as possible, and coöperate with every effort to
baffle and banish disease. After all it may be nothing
more than a severe cold.”
So then in very truth this world was all. In bitterness
and dread she realized how slight was her hold upon it.
To her healthful body pain was a rare experience, but now
her head and every bone ached, and the slightest movement
caused increased suffering. But her mental trouble
was by far the greatest. Often she murmured to herself—
“O that I had been trained to the grossest superstitions,
so that I might not look down into this black bottomless
gulf that unbelief opens at my feet,” and she tossed
and moaned most piteously.
Mr. Ludolph returned to the store in an exceedingly
worried and anxious state. As he entered he caught Dennis's
eager questioning gaze, and a thought struck him:
“Perhaps this young fellow, through his mission school,
may know of some good trustworthy woman who would act
as nurse,” and coming to Dennis he explained what is
already known, and then asked if he knew of any one, or
could find a suitable person.
Dennis listened eagerly, thought a moment, and then
said with a flushed face and in a low tone:
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“I think my mother would be willing to come. She
has had the small-pox and would not be afraid.”
“But would she be willing?”
“I think I could persuade her,” said Dennis.
Mr. Ludolph though a moment, then said:
“I think she would be the one of all others, for she
must be very much of a lady, and I would not like to put
my daughter in charge of a common coarse woman. You
may rest assured that I would reward her liberally.”
“She would not come for money, sir.”
“What then?”
Dennis flushed now more deeply than before. He
had been speaking for his mother from his own stand-point,
and now he hardly knew what to say, for he was not
good at evasion. But he told the truth, if not all the
truth. “We feel very grateful to you for the means of
support, and a chance in life when the world was very
dark. You have since promoted me—”
“Nonsense!” said Ludolph, somewhat touched though,
you have earned every dollar you have received, and
your coming has been of advantage to me also. But if
your mother will meet this need, should it occur, neither
of you will have cause to regret it,” and he passed on to
his office, but soon after left again and did not return that
day.
To Dennis the hours dragged on like years, full of
suspense and mental tumult. At times he would bow his
head behind his counter, and pray in tearful fervor for the
object of his constant thought. The day was rainy and the
store empty of customers, for which he was most thankful,
as he would have made the poorest of salesmen. At
last the hour for closing arrived, and he was left to himself.
In the solitude of his own room he once more
looked the situation fairly in the face. With his head
bowed in his hands he thought, “Last night I thought to
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tear this love from my heart, but to-night I find that this
would be to tear out my heart itself. I cannot do it. It
is my strongest conviction that I can no more stop loving
her than I can stop living. Unconsciously this love has
grown until now it is my master, and it is folly to make
any more resolves only to be as weak as water when I
least expect it. What shall I do?”
Motionless, unconscious of the lapse of time, he remained
hour after hour absorbed in painful thought. Circumstances,
reason, the Bible, all seemed to frown upon his
love, but though it seemed hopeless, his whole nature revolted
against the idea of its being wrong.
“It cannot be wrong to love, purely and unselfishly,”
he muttered; “such love as mine seems to carry its own
conviction of right with it—an inner consciousness that
seems so strong and certain, as to be beyond argument,
beyond everything; and yet if God's Word is against it, I
must be wrong, and my heart is misleading me.”
Again in unbroken silence an hour passed away.
Then the thought struck him—
“It is not contrary to God's action! He so loved the
world—unbelievers and all—as to give His best and dearest!
Can it be wrong to be God-like?”
“It is not wise, it is not safe,” prudence whispered,
“to give a worldly, unbelieving spirit the power to influence
you that she will have who is first in your heart.
What true congeniality can there be? What fellowship
hath righteousness with unrighteousness, or what part hath
he that believeth with an infidel? As the most intimate
friend and companion in life, you should seek one who
truly can be one with you in all things, and most assuredly
so in this vital respect.”
“Ah,” thought Dennis, “that would have been very
good advice to give awhile ago. If from the first I could
have understood my feelings and danger, I might have
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steeled my heart against and avoided the influences that
have brought me to this. But now the mischief is done.
The words that now, in spite of myself, continually run in
my mind, are “What God hath joined together let not man
put asunder.” It seems as if some resistless power had
joined my soul to hers, and I find no strength within myself
to break the bond. I am not usually irresolute. I
think I have principle, and yet I feel I would not
dare make the most solemn vow against this love. I
should be all the more weak because conscience does not
condemn me. It seems to have a light that reason and
knowledge know not of. And yet I wish I could be more
sure. I wish I could say to myself, I may be loving hopelessly,
but not sinfully. I would take the risk. Indeed I
cannot help taking it. O that I could find light, clear and
unmistakable.”
He rose, turned up his lamp, and turned to the Pauline
precepts. These words struck his eye—
“Art thou bound unto a wife? Seek not to be loosed.”
Then above, the words “How knowest thou, O man,
whether thou shalt save thy wife, even though she be an
unbeliever?”
“Am I not bound—bound, by that which is God's link
in the chain? It does not seem as if the legal contract
could change or strengthen my feelings materially, and
while honoring the inviolable rite of marriage, which is
God's law and society's safety, I know that nothing can
more surely bind me to her, so that the spirit, the vital
part of the passage, applies to me. Then if through this
love I could save her; if by prayer and effort I could bring
her feet into the paths of life, I should feel repaid for all
that I could possibly suffer. She may slight my human
love with its human consummation, but God will not let a
life of prayer and true love be wasted, and she may learn
here, or know hereafter, that though the world laid many
rich gifts at her feet, I brought the best of all.”
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He looked out, and saw that the early Spring dawn
was tinging the horizon.
“A good omen,” he said aloud. “Perhaps the night
of this trouble is past, and the dawn is coming. I am
convinced that it is not wrong; and I am resolved to
make the almost desperate attempt. A mysterious hope,
coming from I know not where or what, seems to beckon
and encourage me forward.”
Dennis was young.
-- --
CHAPTER XXVIII. MISS LUDOLPH COMMITS A THEFT.
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Mr. Ludolph on his return found Christine suffering
from a nervous horror of the small-pox. From her indiscreet
and callous maid, intent on her own safety, and preparing
to extenuate her own flight should her fears prove
true, Christine learned that the city was full of this loathsome
disease, and her feelings were harrowed by exaggerated
instances of its virulent and contagious character.
“But you will surely stay with me,” pleaded Christine.
“Mademoiselle could not expect dat.”
“Heartless!” muttered Christine. Then she said,
“Won't you go for Susie Winthrop? O how I would like
to see her now.”
“She vould not come, no von vould come who knew.”
Christine wrung her hands and cried, “O I shall die
alone and deserted of all.”
“No you shall not,” said her father, entering at that
moment; “so do not give way, my dear. Leave the room,
stupid!” (to the maid, who again gladly escaped, resolving
not to enter till the case was decided). “I have secured
the best of physicians, and the best of nurses, and by to-night
or to-morrow morning we will know about what to
expect. I cannot help hoping still that it is only a severe
cold.”
And he told her of Dennis' offer of his mother's services.
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“I am sure I would like her, for somehow I picture to
myself a kind motherly person. What useful creatures
those Fleets are. They are on hand in emergencies when
one so needs help. It seemed very nice to have young
Fleet my humble servant; but really, father, he deserves
promotion.”
“He shall have it, and I doubt not will be just as
ready to do your bidding as ever. It is only commonplace
people whose heads are turned by a little prosperity.
Fleet knew he was a gentleman before he came to
the store.”
“Father, if I should have the small-pox and live, would
my beaut—would I become a fright?”
“Not necessarily. Let us hope for the best. Make
the most of the world, and never endure evils till they
come, are my maxims. Half of suffering is anticipation of
possible or probable evil.”
“Father,” said Christine abruptly, “I believe you are
right, you must be right, and have given me the best comfort
and hope that truthfully can be given. But this is a
strange cruel world. We seem the sport of circumstances,
the victims of hard, remorseless laws. One bad person
can frightfully injure another person” (a spasm distorted
her father's face). “What accidents may occur! Worst
of all are those horrible, subtle, contagious diseases which
none can see or guard against! Then to suffer, die, corrupt,—
faugh! To what a disgusting end, to what a lame
and impotent conclusion does the noble creature, man,
come! My whole nature revolts at it. For instance, here
am I a young girl, capable of the highest enjoyment, with
everything to live for, and lured forward by the highest
hopes and expectations; and yet in spite of all the safeguards
you can place around me, my path is in the midst
of dangers, and now perhaps I am to be rendered hideous,
-- 219 -- p667-228
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if not killed outright, by a disease the very thought of which
fills me with loathing. What I fear has happened, and
may happen again. And what compensation is there for it
all?—what can enable one to bear it all? O that I could
believe in a God and a future happier life.”
“And what kind of a God would He be who, having
the power to prevent, permits, or orders, as the Bible
teaches, all these evils? I am a man of the world, and
pretend to nothing saint-like or chivalric, but do you think
I am capable of going to Mr. Winthrop and striking down
his daughter Susie with a loathsome disease? And yet if
a minister or priest should come here, he would begin to
talk about the mysterious providence, and submission to
God's will. If I am to have a God, I want one at least
better than myself.”
“You must be right,” said Christine, with a weary
moan. “There is no God, and if there were, in view of
what you say, I could only hate and fear Him. How chaotic
the world is! But it is hard.” After a moment she
added shudderingly, “It is horrible. I did not think of
these things when well.”
“Get well and forget them again, my dear. It is the
best you can do.”
“If I get well,” said Christine almost fiercely, “I shall
get the most I can out of life, cost what it may,” and she
turned her face to the wall.
A logical result of his teaching, but for some reason it
awakened in Mr. Ludolph a vague foreboding.
The hours dragged on, and late in the afternoon the
hard-driven physician appeared, examined his patient and
seemed relieved.
“If there is no change for the worse,” he said cheerily,
“if no new symptoms develop by to-morrow, I can pronounce
this merely a severe cold, caused by state of
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system and too sudden check of perspiration.” And the doctor
gave an opiate and bowed himself out.
Long and heavily Christine slept. The night that Dennis
filled with agonizing prayer and thought, was to her a
blank. While he in his strong Christian love brought
heaven nearer to her, while he resolved on that which would
give her a chance for life—happy life, here and hereafter,
she was utterly unconscious. No vision or presentiment
of good, like a struggling ray of light, found access to her
darkened spirit. So heavy was the stupor induced by the
opiate, that her sleep seemed like the blank she so feared,
when her pleasurable ambitious life should end in nothingness.
So I suppose God's love meditates good, and resolves
on life and joy for us, while our hearts are sleeping, dead
to Him—dead in trespasses and sins—benumbed and paralyzed
so that only His love can awaken them. Like a
vague yet hope-inspiring dream, this truth often enters the
minds of those who are wrapped in the spiritual lethargy
that may end in death. God wakes, watches, loves, and
purposes good for them. When most unconscious, perhaps
another effort for our salvation has been resolved
upon in the councils of heaven.
But ambition more than love, earthly hopes rather than
heavenly, kept Mr. Ludolph an anxious watcher at Christine's
side that night. A smile of satisfaction illumined
his somewhat haggard face as he saw the fever pass away
and the dew of natural moisture come out on Christine's
brow, but there was no thankful glance upward. Immunity
from loathsome disease was due only to chance and
the physician's skill, by his creed.
The sun was shining brightly when Christine awoke,
and by a faint call startled her father from a doze in the
great arm-chair.
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“How do you feel, my dear?” he asked.
She languidly rubbed her heavy eyes, and said “she
thought she was better—she felt no pain.” The opiate
had not yet lost its effect. But soon she greatly revived,
and when the Doctor came he found her decidedly better,
and concluded that she was merely suffering from a severe
cold, and would soon regain her usual health.
Father and daughter were greatly relieved, and their
spirits rose.
“I really feel as if I ought to thank somebody,” said
Christine. “I am not going to thank the Doctor, for I
know what a bill is coming, so I will thank you. It was
very kind of you to sit up the long night with me.”
Even Mr. Ludolph had to remember that he had
thought as much of himself as of her, in his anxiety.
“Another lease of life,” said Christine, dreamily looking
into the future, “and as I said last night, I mean to
make the most of it.”
“I can best guide you in doing that,” said her father,
looking into his daughter's face with keen scrutiny.
“I believe you, and intend to give you the chance.
When can we leave this detested land, this city of shops
and speculators? To think that I, Christine Ludolph, am
sick, idle and perhaps have endangered all by reason of
foolish exposure in a Brewer's tawdry, money-splashed
house! Come, father, when is the next scene in the brief
drama to open? I am impatient to go home to our beloved
Germany and enter on real life.”
“Well, my dear, if all goes well, we can enter on our
true career a year from next Fall—a short year and a half.
Do not blame the delay, for it will enable us to live in Germany
in almost royal style. I never was making money
so rapidly as now. I have invested in that which cannot
depreciate, and thus far has advanced beyond belief—
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buildings in the business part of the city. Rents are paying
me from twenty to a hundred per cent. At the same
time I could sell out in a month. So you see you have
only to coöperate—to preserve health and strength—to
enjoy all that money can insure; and money can buy
about everything.”
Christine's eyes sparkled as the future opened before
her, and she said with emphasis, “If I could preserve
health and strength, I would live a thousand years.”
“You can do much toward it. Every chance is in favor
of prudence and wise action;” and much relieved, her
father went to the store.
Business had accumulated, and in complete absorption
he gave himself to it. With an anxiety beyond
expression, Dennis, flushed and trembling, ventured to
approach.
Merely glancing to see who it was, Mr. Ludolph, with
his head bent over his writing, said:
“Miss Ludolph is better—no fear of small-pox, I
think—you need not write to your mother—greatly
obliged.”
It was well for Dennis that his employer did not
look up. The open face of Mr. Ludolph's clerk expressed
more than friendly interest in his daughter's health.
He went to his tasks with a mountain of fear lifted from
his heart.
But the thought of her lying alone and sick at the
hotel, seemed very pathetic to him. Love filled his heart
with more sympathy for Christine upon her luxurious
couch, in rapid convalescence, than for all the hopeless
suffering of Chicago. What could he do for her? She
seemed so far off, so high and distant, that he could not
reach her. If he ventured to send anything, prudence
whispered that she would regard it as an impertinence.
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But love can climb every steep place, and prudence is not
its Grand Vizier.
Going by a fruit-store in the afternoon he saw some
elegant strawberries, the first in from the South. He
bought a basket, decorated it with German ivy obtained
at a flower-stand, and spirited it up-stairs to his room as
if it were the most dangerous of contraband. In a disguised
hand he wrote on a card—“For Miss Ludolph.”
Calling Ernst, who had little to do at that hour of the day,
he said—
“Ernst, my boy, take this parcel to Le Grand Hotel,
and say it is for Miss Christine Ludolph. Tell them to
send it right up, but on no account—remember, on no
account, tell any one who sent it. Carry it carefully in just
this manner.”
Ernst was soon at his destination, eager to do anything
for his friend.
After all, the day had proved a long one for Christine.
Unaccustomed to the restraints of sickness, the enforced
inaction was very wearisome. Mind and body both
seemed weak. The sources of chief enjoyment when well,
seemed powerless to contribute much now. In silken
robe she reclined in arm-chair, or languidly sauntered about
the room. She took up a book only to throw it down
again. Her pencil fared no better. Ennui gave to her
fair young face the expression of one who had tried the
world for a century and found it wanting.
She was leaning her elbow on the window-sill, gazing
vacantly into the street, when Ernst appeared.
“Janette,” she said suddenly, “do you see that boy?
He is employed at the store; go bring him up here, I want
him,' and with more animation than she had shown that
day, she got out materials for a sketch.
“I must get that boy's face,” she said, “before good
living destroys all his artistic merit.”
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[figure description] Page 224.[end figure description]
Ernst was unwilling to come, but the maid almost dragged
him up.
“What have you got there?” asked Miss Ludolph with
a reassuring smile.
“Something for Miss Ludolph,” stammered the boy,
looking very embarrassed.
Christine carefully opened the parcel and then exclaimed
with delight:
“Strawberries, as I live! the very ambrosia of the gods.
Pa sent them, did he not?”
“No,” said the boy hanging his head.
“Who did, then?” said Christine looking at him keenly.
He shuffled uneasily but made no answer.
“Come, I insist on knowing,” she cried, her wilful
spirit and curiosity both aroused.
The boy was pale and frightened, and she was mentally
taking notes of his face.
But he said doggedly, “I can't tell.”
“But I say you must. Don't you know that I am Miss
Ludolph?”
“I don't care what you do to me,” said the little fellow,
beginning to cry, “I won't tell.”
“Why won't you tell, my boy?” said Christine cunningly
in a wheedling tone of voice.
Before he knew it, the frightened, bewildered boy fell
into the trap, and he sobbed:
“Because Mr. Fleet told me not to, and I wouldn't
disobey him to save my life.”
A look of surprise, and then a broad smile at the whole
thing, stole over the young girl's face,—at the gift, the
messenger, and at him who sent it. It was indeed a fresh
and unexpected little episode, breaking the monotony of
the day—as fresh and pleasing to her as one of the luscious
berries so grateful to her parched mouth.
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“You need not tell me,” she said soothingly, “if Mr.
Fleet told you not to.”
The boy saw the smile, and in a moment realized that
he had been tricked out of the forbidden knowledge.
His little face glowed with honest indignation, and
looking straight at Miss Ludolph with his great eyes flashing
through the tears, he said:
“You stole that from me.”
Even she colored a little and bit her lip under the
merited charge. But all this made him all the more interesting
as an art study, and she was now sketching
away rapidly.
She coolly replied, however: “You don't know the
world very well, yet, my little man.”
The boy said nothing, but stood regarding her with his
unnaturally large eyes filled with anger, reproach, and
wonder.
“Oh,” thought Christine, “if I could only paint that
expression!”
“You seem a great friend of Mr. Fleet,” she said,
studying and sketching him as if he had been an inanimate
object.
The boy made no answer.
“Perhaps you do not know that I am a friend—friendly,”
she added, correcting herself, “to Mr. Fleet also.”
“Mr. Fleet never likes to have his friends do wrong,”
said the boy doubtingly.
Again she colored a little, for Ernst's pure and reproachful
face made her feel that she had done a mean
thing, but she laughed and said:
“You see I am not in his mission class, and have never
had the instruction that you have. But after all, why do
you think Mr. Fleet better than other people?”
“By what he does.”
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“That is a fair test; what has he done?”
“He saved us all from starving, and worse than starving.”
Then with feminine tact she drew from him his story,
and it was told with the natural pathos of childhood and
deep feeling, and his gratitude caused him to dwell on the
part Dennis had taken with a simple eloquence, while his
rich and loved German accent made it all the more interesting
to Christine. She dropped her pencil, and when
he closed, her eyes, that were seldom moistened by the dew
of sympathy, were wet.
“Good-bye, my child,” she said in a voice so kind and
sweet that it seemed as if another person had spoken.
“You shall come again, and then I shall finish my sketch.
When I get well I shall go to see your father's picture.
Do not be afraid; neither you nor Mr. Fleet will be the
worse for the strawberries, and you may tell him that they
have done me much good.”
When Dennis, wondering at Ernst's long absence, heard
from him his story, his mind was in a strange tumult, and
yet the result of his effort seemed favorable. But he
learned more fully than ever that Christine was not perfect,
and that her faultless beauty and taste were but the
fair mask of a deformed spirit. But he dwelt in hope on
the feeling she had shown at Ernst's story.
“She seemed to have two hearts,” said the boy, “a
good, kind one way inside the cold, hard outside one.”
“That is about the truth,” thought Dennis. “Good-night,
Ernst. I don't blame you, my boy, For you did
the best you could.”
He had done better than Dennis knew.
-- -- p667-236
CHAPTER XXIX. A MISERABLE TRIUMPH.
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After Ernst's departure Christine reclined wearily in
her chair, quite exhausted by even the slight effort she had
made, but her thoughts were busy.
“What a unique character that Dennis Fleet is! And
yet, in view of what he believes and professes, he is both
natural and consistent. He seems humble only in station,
and that is not his fault. Everything he does seems
marked by unusual good taste and intelligence. His earlier
position and treatment in the store must have been
very galling. I can hardly believe that the gentleman I
sang Mendelssohn's music with the other evening was the
same that I laughed at as he blacked old Schwartz's boots.
And yet he saw me laugh, and blacked the boots, conscious
that he was a gentleman. It must have been very
hard. And yet I would rather do such work myself than
live on charity, and so undoubtedly he felt. It was very
fortunate that we got the store arranged before all this
occurred, for I could not order him about now, as I did.
The fact is I like servants, not dignified helpers; and
knowing what I do, even if he would permit it, I could not
speak to him as formerly. But he did show wonderful
taste and skill in his help. See now that little ivory-twined
basket of luscious fruit: it looks just like him. If
he were only rich and titled, what a genuine nobleman he
would make. He is among the few men who do not weary
or disgust me—so many are coarse and commonplace. I
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cannot understand it, but I, who fear and care for no one
save my father, almost feared him when under Miss
Brown's insolence he looked as few men can. What a
jumble the world is! He sweeps the store, while insignificant
atoms of men are conspicuous in their littleness
by reason of high position.
“It was very kind of him to send me this tasteful gift
after the miserable experience I caused him the other day.
I suppose he does it on the principle of returning good for
evil, as his creed teaches. Moreover he seems grateful that
father gave him employment, and a chance to earn twice
what he gets. He certainly must be promoted at once.
“Perhaps,” thought she, smiling to herself, while a faint
tinge of color came into her cheeks, “perhaps, like so
many others, he may be inclined to be a little sentimental
also, though he will never be as silly as some of them.
“What a noble part he acted toward those Bruders!
The heart of a pagan could not fail to be touched by that
poor little fellow's story, and it has made me believe that
I have more heart than I supposed. Sometimes, especially
when I hear or read of some such noble deed, I catch
glimpses of a life infinitely better than the one I know, like
the sun shining through a rift in the clouds; then they
shut down again, and father's practical wisdom seems the
best there is.
“At any rate,” she said aloud, getting up and walking
the floor with something of the old restless energy, “I intend
to live while I live, and crowd into life's brief day all
that I can. I thank Mr. Fleet for a few sensations in what
would otherwise have been a monotonous, dreary afternoon.”
“What strawberries!” said Mr. Ludolph, coming in.
“Where did you get these? They are the first I have
seen.”
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“Your man-of-all-work sent them to me,” said Christine,
daintily dipping one after another in sugar.
“Well, that is a good joke.”
“A most excellent one, which I am enjoying, and in
which you may share. Help yourself.”
“And what has led him to this extravagant favor?”
“Consistency, I suppose. As a good Christian he
would return good for evil; and I certainly caused him
many and varied tortures the other day.”
“No, he is grateful; from first to last the callow youth
has been overwhelmed with gratitude that I have permitted
him to be worth to me double what I paid him.”
“Well, you have decided to promote him, have you
not?”
“Yes, he shall have charge of the hanging of new pictures,
and the general arrangement of the store, so as to
keep up your tasteful and artistic arrangement. Moreover,
he shall meet customers at the door, and direct them just
where to find what they want. He is fine-looking, polite,
speaks English perfectly, and thus takes well. I can gradually
work him in as general salesman, without creating
troublesome jealousies.”
“What will old Schwartz say?”
“Schwartz is good at finance and figures. I can trust
him, and he must relieve me more in this respect. He of
course knows that this is the more important work, and
will feel honored. As to the others, if they do not like it
I can find plenty who will. Fleet's good fortune will take
him quite by surprise. He was performing his old humble
duties as briskly and contentedly as usual to-day.”
“I am surprised at that, for I should have supposed
that he would have been on his dignity somewhat, indicating
by manner at least that the time for a change had come.
He can indicate a great deal by manner, as you might have
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[figure description] Page 230.[end figure description]
learned had you seen him under Miss Brown's insults and
my lack of courtesy. Well it does me good to find one
American whose head is not turned by a little success.
You are right though, I think, father; that young fellow
can be very useful to you, and a decided help in hastening
the time when we can leave this shop life, and enter our
true sphere. I am more impatient to go than words can
express, for life seems so brief and uncertain that we must
grasp things as soon as possible or we lose them forever.
Heavens! what a scare I have had! Everything seemed
slipping from my feet yesterday, and I sinking I know not
where. Surely by concentrating every energy we can be
ready to go by a year from next Fall.”
“Yes, that is my plan now.”
On the following day Dennis was again promoted and
his pay increased. A man more of the Pat Murphy type
was found to perform the coarse work of the store. As
Mr. Ludolph had said, he could hardly realize his good
fortune. He felt like one lifted out of a narrow restricted
valley to a breezy hill-side. He was now given a vantage-point
from which it seemed he could climb rapidly, and his
heart was light as he thought of what he would be able to
do for his mother and sisters. Hope grew sanguine as he
saw how he would now have the means to pursue his
beloved art-studies to far greater advantage. But chief of
all, his promotion brought him nearer the object of his all-absorbing
passion. What he feared would take him one
or two years to accomplish, he had gained in a day. Hope
whispered that perhaps it was through her influence in
some degree that he had obtained this advance. Could
she have seen and read his ardent glances? Lover's hopes
will grow like Jonah's gourd, and die down again as
quickly. Words could not express his longing to see her
again, but for several days she did not come to the store.
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She merely sent him word to complete the unfinished show-room
in accordance with the plan on which they had been
working, leaving space on the sides of the room opposite
each other for two large pictures. Though much disappointed,
Dennis had carefully carried out her bidding.
Every evening the moment his duties permitted he
sought his instructor, Mr. Bruder, and with an eagerness
his friends could not understand, sought to educate hand
and eye. Dennis judged rightly that mere business success
would never open to him a way to the heart of such a
girl as Christine. His only hope of winning even her
attention, was to excel in the world of art, where she hoped
to shine as a queen. Then to his untiring industry and
eager attention he added real genius for his tasks, and it
was astonishing what progress he made. When at the
close of his daily lesson Dennis had taken his departure,
Mr. Bruder would shake his head, and cast up his eyes in
wonder, and exclaim:
“Dat youth vill astonish de vorld yet. Never in all
Germany haf I seen such a scholar.”
Often till after midnight he would paint and study in
the solitude of his own little room. And now relieved of
duties in the early morning, he arranged an old easel in
the attic of the store, a sort of general lumber room, but
which had a good light for his purpose. Here he secured
two good hours daily, and often more; and his hand grew
skilful, and his eye true, under his earnest efforts. But his
intense application caused his body to grow thin and his
face pale.
Christine had rapidly recovered from her illness, her
vital and elastic constitution rebounding back into health
and vigor like a bow rarely bent. She, too, was working
scarcely less eagerly than Dennis, and preparing for a
triumph which she hoped would be the earnest of the fame
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she meant to achieve. She no longer came to the store
with her father in the morning, but spent the best and early
hours of the day in painting, riding out along the lake andd
in the park in the afternoon. Occasionally she came to
the store in the after part of the day, glanced sharply round
to see that her tasteful arrangement was kept up, and ever
seemed satisfied.
Dennis was usually busy with customers at that time,
and though conscious of her presence the moment she
entered, found no excuse or encouragement to approach.
The best he ever received from her was a slight smile and
a cold bow of recognition, and in her haste and self-absorption
she did not always give these. She evidently had
something on her mind by which it was completely preoccupied.
“She does not even think of me,” sighed Dennis; “she
evidently imagines that there is an immeasurable distance
between us yet.”
He was right; she did not think of him or scarcely
any one else, so absorbed was she with the thought of a
great success that now was almost sure. She had sent her
thanks for the berries by her father, which so frightened
Dennis that he had ventured on no more such favors.
She had interceded for his promotion, surely she had paid
her debt, and was at quits. So she would have been if he
had only given her a basket of strawberries, but having
given his heart, and life-long love, he could scarcely be
expected to be satisfied. But he vowed after each blank
day all the more resolutely that he would win her attention,
secure recognition of his equality, and so be in position for
laying siege to her heart.
But a deadly blight suddenly came over all his hopes.
One bright morning the last of May, two large flat
boxes were brought to the store. Dennis was busy with
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customers, and Mr. Schwartz said in his blunt decided way
that he would see to the hanging of those pictures. They
were carried to the show-room in the rear of the store, and
Dennis at once concluded that they were something very
fine, designed to fill the spaces he had left, and was most
anxious to see them. Before he was disengaged they
were lifted from their casing and were standing side by side
on the floor opposite the entrance, the warm rich morning
sun falling upon them with fine effect. Mr. Schwartz
seemed unusually excited and perplexed for him, and stared
first at one picture, then at the other, in a manner indicating
that not their beauty, but some other cause disturbed
him.
Dennis had scarcely had time to exclaim at the exquisite
loveliness and finish of the two paintings, before Mr.
Ludolph entered accompanied by Mr. Consoor, a well-known
artist, and Mr. Frame, proprietor of another large
picture-store, and several gentlemen of taste but of lesser
note, whom Dennis had learned to know by sight as habitu
és of the “Temple of Art.” He also saw that Christine
was advancing up the store with a lady and gentleman.
Feeling that his presence might be regarded as obtrusive,
he passed out, and was about to go away, when he heard
his name called.
Looking up he saw Miss Winthrop holding out her
hand, and in a moment more she presented him to her
father, who greeted him cordially. Christine also gave
him a brief smile, and said:
“You need not go away. Come and see the pictures.”
Quick-eyed Dennis saw that she was filled with suppressed
excitement. Her cheeks, usually but slightly
tinged with pink, now by turns glowed and were pale.
Miss Winthrop seemed to share her nervousness, though
what could so excite them he could not divine. The
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paintings, beautiful as they were, could scarcely be the adequate
cause; and yet every eye was fastened on them.
One seemed the exact counterpart of the other in frame
and finish as well as subject. A little in the background,
upon a crag overhanging the Rhine, was a castle massive,
frowning, and built more for security and defence than
comfort. The surrounding landscape was bold, wild, and
even gloomy. But in contrast with these rugged and
sterner features, was a scene of exquisite softness and tenderness.
Beneath the shadow of some great trees not far
from the castle gate, a young Crusader was taking leave
of his fair-haired bride. Her pale, tearful face, wherein
love and grief blent indescribably, would move the most
callous heart, while the struggle between emotion and the
manly pride that would not permit him to give way, in
the young chieftain's features, was scarcely less touching.
Beautiful as were the accessories of the pictures, their
main point was to portray the natural, tender feeling induced
by a parting that might be forever. At first they
all gazed quietly and almost reverently at the vivid scene
of human love and sorrow, save old Schwartz, who fidgeted
about as Dennis had never seen him before. Clearly
something was wrong.
“Mr. Schwartz,” said Mr. Ludolph, “you may hang
the original picture on the side as we enter, and the copy
opposite. We would like to see them up, and in a better
light.”
“Dat's it,” snorted Mr. Schwartz, “I'd like to know
vich is vich.”
“You do not mean to say that you cannot tell them
apart? The original hung here some time, and you saw
it every day.”
“I do mean to say him,” said Mr. Schwartz, evidently
much vexed with himself. “I couldn't have believed dat
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any von in de vorld could so impose on me. But de two pictures
are just de same to a pin scratch in frame, subject,
and treatment, and to save my life I cannot tell dem apart.”
Christine's face fairly glowed with triumph, and her
eyes were all aflame as she glanced at her friend. Miss
Winthrop came and took her cold, quivering hands into
her warm palms, but was scarcely less excited. Dennis
saw not this side scene, so intent was he on the pictures.
“Do you mean to say,” said Mr. Consoor, stepping
forward, “that one of these paintings is a copy made here
in Chicago, and that Mr. Schwartz cannot tell it from the
original?”
“He says he cannot,” said Mr. Ludolph.
“And I'd like to see de von who can,” said old
Schwartz gruffly.
“Will you please point out the original,” said one of
the gentlemen, “that we may learn to distinguish them?
For my part they seem like the twins whose mother knew
them apart by pink and white ribbons, and when the ribbons
got mixed she could not tell which was which.”
Again Christine's eyes glowed with triumph.
“Well, really, gentlemen,” said Mr. Ludolph, “I would
rather you would discover the copy yourselves. Mr. Consoor,
Mr. Frame, and some others, I think, saw the original
several times.”
“Look at Mr. Fleet,” whispered Miss Winthrop to
Christine.
She looked, and her attention was riveted to him.
Step by step he had drawn nearer, and his eyes were eagerly
glancing from one to another as if following up a clue.
Instinctively she felt that he would solve the question, and
her little hands clenched, and her brow grew dark.
“Really,” said Mr. Consoor, “I did not know that we
had an artist in Chicago who could copy the work of one
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of the best European painters, so that there need be a
moment's hesitancy in detecting differences, but it seems
I am mistaken. I am almost as puzzled as Mr. Schwartz.”
“The frames are exactly alike,” said Mr. Frame.
“There is a difference between the two pictures,” said
Mr. Consoor slowly. “I can feel it rather than see it.
They seem alike line for line and feature for feature in
every part. But just where the difference lies and in what
it consists I cannot tell for the life of me.”
With the manner of one who had settled a difficult
problem, Dennis gave out a sigh of relief so audibly that
several glanced at him.
“Perhaps Mr. Fleet from his superior knowledge and
long experience can settle this question,” said Christine
sarcastically.
All eyes were turned toward him. He flushed painfully
but said nothing.
“Speak up,” said Mr. Ludolph good-naturedly, “if you
have any opinion to give.”
“I would not presume to give my opinion among so
many more competent judges.”
“Come, Mr. Fleet,” said Christine with a covert taunt
in her tone, “that is a cheap way of making a reputation.
I fear the impression will be given that you have no opinion
to give.”
Dennis was now very pale, as he ever was under great
excitement. The old look came again that the young
ladies remembered seeing at Miss Brown's entertainment.
“Come, speak up if you can,” said Mr. Ludolph, shortly.
“Your porter, Mr. Ludolph?” said Mr. Consoor,
remembering Dennis only in that capacity. “Perhaps he
has some private marks by which he can enlighten us.”
Dennis now acted no longer as porter or clerk, but as
a man among men.
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Stepping forward and looking Mr. Consoor full in the
face he said:
“I can prove to you, sir, that your insinuation is false
by simply stating that I never saw those pictures before.
The original had been removed from the store before
I came. I have had therefore no opportunity of knowing
the copy from the original. But the pictures are different,
and I can tell precisely wherein I think the difference
lies.”
“Tell it then,” said several voices. Christine stood a
little back and to one side so that he could not see her face,
or he would have hesitated long before he had spoken. In
the firm, decided tones of one thoroughly aroused and sure
of his ground, he proceeded:
“Suppose this the copy,” said he, stepping to one of
the pictures. (Christine breathed hard and leaned heavily
against her friend.) “I know of but one in Chicago capable
of such exquisite work, and he did not do it—indeed he
could not, though a master in art.”
“You refer to Mr. Bruder?” said Mr. Consoor.
Dennis bowed and continued: “It is the work of one
in whom the imitative power is wonderfully developed; but
one having never felt, or unable to feel the emotions here
presented cannot portray them. This picture is but the
beautiful corpse of that one. While line for line, and
feature for feature, and even leaf for leaf on the trees is
faithfully exact, yet the soul, the feeling, the deep sorrowful
tenderness that you feel in that picture rather than see,
is wanting in this. In that picture you forget to blame or
praise, to criticise at all, so deeply are your sympathies
touched. It seems as if in reality two human hearts were
being torn asunder before you. This you know to be an
exquisite picture only, and can coolly criticise and dwell
on every part, and say how admirably it is done.”
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And Dennis bowed and retired.
“By Jove, he is right,” exclaimed Mr. Consoor; and
approving faces and nodding heads confirmed his judgment.
But Dennis enjoyed not his triumph, for as he turned he
met Christine's look of agony and hate, and like lightning
it flashed through his mind—“She painted the picture.”
CHAPTER XXX. LIFE WITHOUT LOVE.
As Dennis realized the truth, and remembered what
he had said, his face was scarcely less full of pain than
Christine's. He saw that her whole soul was bent on an
imitation that none could detect, and that he had spoiled it
all. But Christine's wound was deeper than that. She
had been told again, clearly and correctly, that the sphere
of high, true art was beyond her reach. She felt that the
verdict was true, and her own judgment confirmed every
word Dennis uttered. But she had done her best; therefore
her suffering was truly agony—the pain and despair at
failure in the most cherished hope of life. There seemed
a barrier which, from the very limitations of her being, she
could not pass. She did not fail from the lack of taste,
culture, or skill, but in that which was like a sixth sense—
something she did not possess. Lacking the power to
touch and move the heart, she knew she could never be a
great artist.
Abruptly and without a word she left the room and
store, accompanied by the Winthrops. Dennis felt as if
he could bite his tongue out, and Christine's face haunted
him like a dreadful apparition. Wherever he turned he
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saw it so distorted by pain, and almost hate, that it scarcely
seemed the same that had smiled on him as he entered at
her invitation.
“Truly God is against all this,” groaned he to himself;
“and what I in my weakness could not do, He has accomplished
by this unlooked-for scene. She will now ever
regard me with aversion.”
Dennis, like many another, thought he saw God's plan
clearly from a mere glimpse at a part of it. He at once
reached this miserable conclusion, and suffered as greatly
as if it had been God's will, instead of his own imagination.
To wait and trust, is often the latest lesson we learn
in life.
Mr. Ludolph's guests, absorbed in the pictures, at first
scarcely noticed the departures.
Christine, with consummate skill and care, kept her
relationship to the picture unknown to all save the Winthrops,
meaning not to acknowledge it unless she succeeded.
But in Dennis' startled and pained face she saw that he
had read her secret, and this fact also annoyed her much.
“I should like to know the artist who copied this painting,”
said Mr. Consoor.
“The artist is an amateur, and not willing to come
before the public at present,” said Mr. Ludolph so decidedly
that no further questions were asked.
“I am much interested in that young clerk of yours,”
said Mr. Frame. “He seems to understand himself. It
is so hard to find a good discriminating judge of pictures.
Do you expect to keep him?”
“Yes, I do,” said Mr. Ludolph with such emphasis
that his rival in trade also pressed that point no farther.
“Well, really, Mr. Ludolph,” said one of the gentlemen
“you deal in wonders, mysteries, and all sorts of astonishing
things here. We have an unknown artist in Chicago
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deserving an ovation; you have in your employ a prince
of critics, and if I mistake not he is the same who sang at
Brown's some little time ago. Miss Brown told me that he
was your porter.”
“Yes, I took him as a stranger and out of work, and
knew nothing of him. But he proved an educated and
accomplished man, who will doubtless be of great use to
me in time. Of course I promoted him when I found him
out.” These last remarks were made more for Mr.
Frame's benefit than any one else. He intended that his
rival should knowingly violate all courtesy if he sought to
lure Dennis away. After admiring the paintings and other
new things recently received, the gentlemen bowed themselves
out.
At the entrance of the store Mr. Winthrop—feeling
awkwardly in the presence of the disappointed girl —
pleaded business, and bade adieu with a warm grasp of
the hand, and many assurances that she had succeeded
beyond his belief.
“I know you mean kindly in what you say,” said Christine,
while not the slightest gleam lighted up her pale, sad
face. “Good-bye.”
She, too, was relieved, and wished to be alone. Miss
Winthrop sought to comfort her friend as they walked
homeward.
“Christine, you look really ill. I don't see why you
take this matter so to heart. You have achieved a success
that would turn any head but yours. I could not believe
it possible had I not seen it. Your ambition and ideal
are so lofty that you will always make yourself miserable
by aiming at the impossible. As Mr. Fleet said, I do not
believe there is another in the city who could have done
so well, and if you can do that now, what may you not accomplish
by a few years more of work?”
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“That's the terrible part of it,” said Christine with a
long sigh. “Susie, I have got my growth. I can never
be a real artist, and no one living can ever know the bitterness
of my disappointment. I do not believe in the immortality
that you do, and this was my only chance to live
beyond the brief hour of my life. If I could only have won
for myself a place among the great names that the world
will ever honor, I might with more content let the candle
of my existence flicker out when it must. But I have
learned to-day what I have often feared, that Christine
Ludolph must soon end in a forgotten handful of dust.”
“O Christine, if you could only believe!”
“I cannot. I tried in my last sickness, but vainly. I
am more convinced than ever of the correctness of my
father's views.”
Miss Winthrop sighed deeply. “Why are you so despondent?”
she at last asked.
As if half speaking to herself, Christine repeated the
words, “`Painted by one having never felt, or unable to
feel, the emotions presented, and therefore cannot portray
them.' That is just the trouble. I tried to speak in a
language I do not know. Susie, I believe I am about half
ice. Sometimes I think I am like Undine, and have no
soul. I know I have no heart, in the sense that you
have.
“I live a very cold sort of life,” she continued with a
slight shudder. “I seem surrounded by invisible barriers
that I cannot pass. I can see beyond what I want, but
cannot reach it. O Susie, if you knew what I suffered when
sick! Everything seemed slipping from me. And yet
why I should so wish to live, I hardly know, when my life
is so narrowed down.”
“You see the disease but not the remedy,” sighed
Susie.
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“What is the remedy?”
“Love. Love to God, and I may add love for some
good man.”
Christine stopped a moment and almost stamped her
foot impatiently.
“You discourage me more than any one else,” she
cried. “As to loving God, how can I love merely a name?
and even if He existed, how could I love a Being who left
His world so full of vile evils? As to human love, faugh,
I have had enough of romantic attachments.”
“Do you never intend to marry?”
“Susie, you are the friend of my soul, and I trust you
and you only with our secret. Yes, I expect to marry, but
not in this land. You know that in Germany my father
will eventually be a noble, the representative of one of the
most ancient and honorable families. We shall soon have
sufficient wealth to resume our true position there. A
husband will then be found for me. I only stipulate that
he will be able to give me position among the first, and
gratify my bent for art to the utmost.”
“Well, Christine, you are a strange girl, and your dream
of the future is stranger still.”
“Sometimes I think that all is a dream, and may end
like one. Nothing seems certain or real, or turns out as
one expects. Think of it. A nobody who swept my father's
store the other day has this morning made such havoc in
my dream that I am sick at heart.”
“But you cannot blame Mr. Fleet. He did it unconsciously;
he was goaded on to it. No man would have
done otherwise. You surely do not feel hardly towards
him?”
“We do not naturally love the lips and bless the voice
that tell us of an incurable disease. O no,” she added,
“why should I think of him at all. He merely happened
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to point out what I half suspected myself. And yet the
peculiar way this stranger crosses my path from time to
time, almost makes me superstitious.”
“And you seem to have peculiar power over him.
He would have assuredly left us in the lurch at our tableau
party had it not been for you, and I would not have blamed
him. And to-day he seemed troubled and pained beyond
expression when he read from your face, as I imagine, that
you were the author of the picture.”
“Yes, I saw that he discovered the fact, and this provokes
me also. If he should speak his thoughts—”
“I do not think he will. I am sure he will not if you
caution him.”
“That I will not do, and I think on the whole he has
too much sense to speak carelessly of what he imagined he
saw in a lady's face. And now, Susie, good-bye; I shall
not inflict my miserable self longer upon you to-day, and I
am one who can best cure my wounds in solitude.”
“Do you cure them, Christine, or do you only cover
them up? If I had your creed nothing could cure my
wounds. Time might deaden the pain, and I forget them
in other things, but I do not see where any cure could
come from. O Christine, you did me good service when
in the deepening twilight of Miss Brown's parlor you
showed me my useless, unbelieving life. But I do believe
now. The cross is radiant to me now—more radiant than
the one that so startled us then. Mr. Fleet's words were
true, I know, as I know my own existence. I could die
for Him.”
Christine frowned and said almost harshly, “I don't
believe in a religion so full of crosses and death. Why
could not the all-powerful Being you believe in take away
the evil from the world?”
“That is just what He came to do. In that very
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character He was pointed out by His authorized forerunner:
`Behold the Lamb of God that taketh away the sin of
the world.'”
“Why does He not do it then?” asked Christine petulantly.
“Centuries have passed; patience itself is
wearied out. He has had time enough, if He ever meant
or had the power to fulfil the promise. But the world is
as full of evil and suffering as ever. Susie, I would not
disturb your credulous faith, for it seems to do you good.
But to me Christ was a noble but mistaken man, dead and
buried centuries ago. He can do for me no more than
Socrates. They vigorously attacked evil in their day, but
evil was too much for them, as it is for us. We must just
get the most we can out of life, and endure what we cannot
prevent or escape. An angel could not convert me to-day—
no, not even Susie Winthrop, and that is saying more
still;” and with a hasty kiss she vanished.
Susie looked wistfully after her, and then bent her
steps homeward with a pitying face.
Christine at once went to her own private room. Putting
on a loose wrapper she threw herself on a lounge, and
buried her face in the cushions.
Her life seemed growing narrow and meagre. Hour
after hour passed, and the late afternoon sun was shining
into her room when she arose from her bitter revery, and
summed up all in a few words spoken aloud, as was her
custom when alone.
“Must I, after all, come down to the Epicurean Philosophy,
`Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we
die?' I seem on a narrow island, the ocean is all around
me, and the tide is rising, rising. It will cover soon where
I stand, and then what becomes of Christine Ludolph?”
A look of anguish came into the fair young face, and a
slight shudder passed over her. She glanced around a
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room furnished in costly elegance. She saw her lovely
person in the mirror opposite, and exclaimed:
“What mystery it all is! I have so much, and yet so
utterly fail in having that which contents. I have all that
wealth can purchase; and multitudes act as if that were
enough. I know I am beautiful. I can see that yonder
for myself, as well as read it in admiring eyes. And yet
my maid is better contented than I, and the boy who
blacks the boots better satisfied with his lot than either of
us. I am raised so high that I can see how much more
there is or might be beyond. I feel like one led into a
splendid vestibule only to find that the palace is wanting,
or that it is a mean hovel. All that I have only mocks me,
and becomes a means of torture. All that I am and have,
ought to be, might be, a mere prelude, an earnest and
preparation for something better beyond. But I am told,
and must believe, that this is all, and I may lose this in a
moment and forever. It is as if a noble strain of music
commenced sweetly, and then suddenly broke down into a
few discordant notes and ceased. It is like my picture, all
very well, but with that which would speak to and move
the heart, year after year, when the mere beauty ceased to
to please, that life or something is wanting. What were
his words?—`This picture is but the beautiful corpse of
the other,' and my life is but a cold marble effigy of a true
life. And yet is there any true and better life? If there
is nothing better beyond, I have been carried forward too
far. Miss Brown thoroughly enjoys champagne and flirtations.
Susie Winthrop is happy in her superstition, as
any one might be, could they believe what she does. But
I have gone past the power of taking up these things, as I
have gone past my childhood sports. And now what is
there for me? My most dear and cherished hope—a hope
that shone above my life like a sun—has been blown away
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by the breath of my father's clerk (it required no greater
power to bring me down to my true level), and I hoped to
be a queen among men, high-born, but crowned with the
richer coronet of genius. I, who hoped to win so high a
place that men would speak of me with honest praise, now
and in all future time, must be contented as a mere accomplished
woman, deemed worthy perhaps in time to grace
some nobleman's halls who in the nice social scale abroad
may stand a little higher than myself. I meant to shine
and dazzle, to stoop to give in every case; but now I must
take what I can get, with an humble `Thank you,'” and
she clenched her little powerless hands in impotent revolt
at what seemed very cruel destiny.
She appeared at the dinner-table outwardly calm and
quiet. Her father did not share in her bitter disappointment,
and she saw that he did not, and so felt more alone.
He regarded her success as remarkable (as it truly was),
having never believed she could copy a picture so exactly
as to deceive an ordinarily good observer. When, therefore,
old Schwartz and others were unable to distinguish
between the pictures, he was more than satisfied. He was
sorry that Dennis had spoiled the triumph, but could
not blame him. At the same time he recognized in Fleet
another and most decided proof of intelligence on questions
of Art, for he knew that his criticism was just. He
believed that when the true knight that his ambition would
choose appeared, with golden spurs and jewelled crest,
then her deeper nature would awaken, and she far surpass
all previous effort. Moreover, he did not fully understand
or enter into her lofty ambition. To see her settled in life,
titled, rich, and a recognized leader in the aristocracy of
his own land, was his highest aspiration as far as she was
concerned.
He commenced, therefore, in a strain of compliment to
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cheer his daughter and rally her courage, but she shook
her head sadly, and said so decidedly, “Father let us
change the subject,” that with some surprise at her feelings,
he yielded to her wish, thinking that a little time and
experience would moderate her ideas and banish the pain
of disappointment. It was a quiet meal, each being occupied
by their own thoughts. Soon after he was immersed
in his cigar and some business papers for the evening.
It was a mild, summer-like night, and a warm, gentle
rain was falling. Even in the midst of a great city, the
sweet odors of spring found their way to the private parlor
where Christine sat by the window, still lost in painful
thoughts.
“Nature is full of hope, and the promise of coming life.
So ought I to be in this my spring-time. Why am I not?
If I am sad and disappointed in my spring, how dreary
will be my autumn, when leaf after leaf of beauty, health,
and strength drop away.”
A muffled figure, seemingly regardless of the rain,
passed slowly down the opposite side of the street.
Though the person cast but a single quick glance toward
her window, and though the twilight was deepening, something
in the passer-by suggested Dennis Fleet. For a
moment she wished she could speak to him. She felt very
lonely. Solitude had done her no good. Her troubles
only grew darker and more real as she brooded over them.
She instinctively felt that her father could not understand
her, and she had never been able to go to him for sympathy.
He was not the kind of person that any one would
seek for such a purpose. Christine was not inclined to
confidence, and there was really no one who knew her
deeper feelings, and who could enter into her real hopes
for life. She was so proud and cold that few ever thought
of giving confidence, much less of asking hers.
-- 248 --
[figure description] Page 248.[end figure description]
Up to the time of her last sickness she had been strong,
self-confident, almost assured of success. At times she
recognized dimly that something was wrong, as when singing
her best she could only secure noisy, transient applause,
while she saw another on the same occasion, touch the
heart; but she shut her eyes to the unwelcome truth, and
determined to succeed. But her sickness and fears at that
time, and now a failure that seemed to destroy the ambition
of her life, all united in greatly shaking her self-confidence.
This evening, as never before, she was conscious of
weakness and dependence. With the instinct of one sinking,
her spirit longed for help and support. Then the
thought suddenly occurred to her, “Perhaps this young
stranger who so clearly pointed out the disease, may also
show the way to some remedy.”
But the figure had passed on. In a moment more
pride and conventionality resumed sway, and she smiled
bitterly, saying to herself:
“What a weak fool I am to-night. Of all things do not
become a romantic Miss again.”
She went to her piano and struck into a brilliant strain.
For a few moments the music was of a forced and defiant
character, loud, gay, but no real or rollicking mirth in it,
and it soon ceased. Then in sharp contrast came a sad,
weird German ballad, and this was real. In its pathos
her burdened heart found expression, and whoever listened
then would not merely have admired, they would have felt.
One song followed another. All the pent-up feeling of the
day seemed to find natural flow in the plaintive minstrelsy
of her own land.
Suddenly she ceased and went to her window. The
muffled figure stood in the shadow of an angle in the attitude
of a listener. A moment later it vanished in the dusk
-- 249 -- p667-258
[figure description] Page 249.[end figure description]
toward the business part of the city. The quick footsteps
died away and only the patter of the falling rain broke the
silence. Christine felt sure that it was Dennis. At first
her feeling was one of pleasure. His coming and evident
interest took somewhat, she scarcely knew why, from her
sense of loneliness. Soon her pride awoke, however, and
she said:
“He has no business here to watch and listen. I will
show him, with all his taste and intelligence, we have no
ground in common on which he can presume.”
Her father had also listened to the music, and said to
himself:
“Christine is growing a little sentimental. She takes
this disappointment too much at heart. I must touch her
pride with the spur a little, and that will make her ice and
steel in a moment. It is no slight task to keep a girl's
heart safe till you want to use it. I will wait till the practical
daylight of to-morrow, and then she shall look at the
world through my eyes again.”
Roe, Edward Payson, 1838-1888 [1872], Barriers burned away. (Dodd & Mead, New York) [word count] [eaf667T].
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