When Christine saw that Dennis was not in the room,
she rushed to a window only in time to see his retreating
form passing down the street. For a moment she felt like
one left alone to perish on a sinking wreck. His words,
so assured in their tones, seemed like those of a prophet.
Conscience echoed them, and a chill of fear came over her

[figure description] Page 299.[end figure description]

heart. What if he were right? What if she had let the
one golden opportunity of her life pass? Even though she
had stolen her inspiration from him through guile and
cruelty, had he not enabled her to accomplish more than in
all her life before? To what might he not have led her, if
she had put her hand frankly and truthfully in his? There
are times when to those most bewildered in mazes of error,
light breaks, clear and unmistakable, defining right and
wrong with terrible distinctness. Such an hour was this
to Christine. The law of God written on her heart asserted
itself, and she trembled at the guilty thing she saw
herself to be. But there seemed no remedy save in the
one she had driven away, never to return, as she believed.
After a brief but painful revery she exclaimed:

“But what am I thinking of? What can he or any man
of this land be to me?”

Then pride, her dominant trait, awoke as she recalled
his words.

“He despises me, does he? I will teach him that I
belong to a sphere he cannot touch, the poor infatuated
youth! And did he dream that I, Christine Ludolph, could
give him my hand. He shall learn some day that none in
this land could receive that honor, and none save the
proudest in my own may hope for it. The idea of my
giving up my ancient and honorable name for the sake of
this unknown Yankee youth! Father would indeed say that
the Gudgeon farce was enacted over again.”

Bold, proud words that her heart did not echo.

But pride and anger were now her controlling impulses,
and with the strong grasp of her resolute will she crushed
back her gentler and better feelings, and became more icy
and hard than ever.

By such choice and action, men and women commit
moral suicide.

[figure description] Page 300.[end figure description]

With a cold white face, and a burnished gleam in her
eyes, she went to the easel and commenced painting out
the ominous black stain.

“I'll prove him a false prophet also. I will be an artist
without passing through all his sentimental and superstitious
phases that have so amused me during the past weeks
I have seen his lovelorn face too often not to be able to
reproduce it and its various expressions.”

Her strokes were quick and almost fierce.

“Mrs. Dennis Fleet, ha! ha! ha!” and her laugh was
as harsh and discordant as the feeling that prompted it.

Again, a little later:

“He despises me! Well, he is the first man that ever
dared say that,” and her face was flushed and dark with
anger.

Dennis at first walked rapidly from the scene of his bitter
disappointment, but his steps soon grew slow and feeble.
The point of endurance was passed. Body and mind acting
and reacting on each other had been taxed beyond
their powers, and both were giving way. He felt that they
were, and struggled to reach the store before the crisis
came. Weak and trembling, he mounted the steps but fell
fainting across the threshold. One of the clerks saw him
fall and gave the alarm. Mr. Ludolph, Mr. Schwartz, and
others hastened to the spot. Dennis was carried to his
room and a messenger despatched for Dr. Arten. Ernst,
with flying feet, and wild, frightened face, soon reached his
home in DeKoven-street, and startled his father and mother
with the tidings.

The child feared that Dennis was dead, his face was
so thin and white. Leaving the children in Ernst's care,
both Mr. and Mrs. Bruder, prompted by their strong gratitude
for Dennis, rushed through the streets as if distracted.

[figure description] Page 301.[end figure description]

Their intense anxiety and warm German hearts caused
them to heed no more the curious glances cast after them
than would a man swimming for life note the ripple he
made.

When Dennis regained consciousness, they, with Mr.
Ludolph, and Dr. Arten, were standing around. At first
his mind was confused and he could not understand it all.

“Where am I?” he asked feebly, “and what has happened?”

“Do not be alarmed, you have only had a faint turn,”
said the Doctor.

“O Mr. Fleet, you vork too hart, you vork too hart, I
knew dis vould come,” sobbed Mrs. Bruder.

“Why, his duties in the store have not been so onerous
of late,” said Mr. Ludolph, in some surprise.

“It is not de vork in de store, but he vork nearly all
night too. Den he haf had trouble, I know he haf. Do he
say no vort about him?”

Dennis gave Mrs. Bruder a sudden warning look, and
then, through the strong instinct to guard his secret, roused
himself.

“Is anything serious, Doctor?” he asked.

The physician looked grave, and said:

“Your pulse and whole appearance indicate great exhaustion
and physical depression, and I also fear that fever
may set in.”

“I think you are right,” said Dennis. “I feel as if I
were going to be sick. My mind has a tendency to wander.
Mr. Ludolph, will you permit me to go home? If I am to
be sick, I want to be with my mother.”

Mr. Ludolph looked inquiringly at the Doctor, who said
significantly in a low tone:

“I think it would be as well.”

“Certainly, Fleet,” said his employer; “though I hope

[figure description] Page 302.[end figure description]

it is only a temporary indisposition, and that you will be
back in a few days. You must try and get a good night's
rest, and so be prepared for the journey in the morning.”

“With your permission I will go at once. A train
leaves now in an hour, and by morning I can be at home.”

“I do not scarcely think it prudent,” began the
Doctor.

“O certainly not to-night,” said Mr. Ludolph, also.

“Pardon me, I must go at once,” interrupted Dennis,
briefly and so decidedly that the gentlemen looked at each
other and said no more.

“Mr. Bruder,” he continued, “I must be indebted to
you for a real proof of your friendship. In that drawer
you will find my money. The key is in my pocketbook.
Will you get a carriage and take me to the depot at once,
and can you be so kind as to go on home with me? I
cannot trust myself alone. Mrs. Bruder, will you pack up
what you think I need?”

His faithful friends hastened to do his bidding.

“Mr. Ludolph, you have been very kind to me. I am
sorry this has occurred, but cannot help it. I thank you
gratefully, and will now trespass on your valuable time no
longer.”

Mr. Ludolph, feeling that he could be of no further use,
said:

“You will be back in a week, Fleet. Courage. Good-bye.”

Dennis turned eagerly to the Doctor and said:

“Can you not give me something that will reduce the
fever and keep me sane a little longer? I know that I am
going to be delirious, but would reach the refuge of home
first.”

A prescription was given and immediately procured,
and the Doctor went away shaking his head—

[figure description] Page 303.[end figure description]

“This is the way people commit suicide. They know
no more about, or pay no more heed to, the laws of health
than the laws of China. Here is the result: This young
fellow has worked in a way that would break down a castiron
machine, and now may never see Chicago again.”

But Dennis might have worked even in his intense way
for months and years without serious harm, had not a fair
white hand kept him on the rack of uncertainty and fear.

Not work, but worry makes havoc of health.

In the gray dawn Ethel Fleet, summoned from her rest,
received her son, weak, unconscious, muttering in delirium,
and not recognizing even her familiar face. He was indeed
a sad, painful contrast to the ruddy, buoyant youth
who left her a few short months before, abounding in hope
and life. But she comforted herself with the thought that
neither sin nor shame had brought him home.

We need not dwell on the weary weeks that followed.
Dennis had every advantage that could result from good
medical skill and the most faithful nursing. But we believe
that his life lay rather in his mother's prayers of faith.
In her strong realization of the spiritual world she would
go continually into the very presence of Jesus, and say,
“Lord, he whom Thou lovest is sick:” or, like parents
of old, she would seem by her importunity to bring the
Divine Physician to his very bedside.

Mr. Bruder, too, insisted on remaining, and watched
with the unwearied faithfulness of one who felt that he
owed to Dennis far more than life. It was indeed touching
to see this man, once so desperate and depraved, now
almost as patient and gentle as the mother herself, sitting
by his unconscious friend, often turning his eyes heavenward
and muttering in deep guttural German as sincere a

[figure description] Page 304.[end figure description]

prayer as ever passed human lips, that Dennis might be
spared.

The hand of God seemed about to take him from them,
but their strong, loving faith laid hold of that hand, and
put upon it the restraint that only reverent, believing
prayer can. Dennis lived. After many days delirium
ceased, and the confused mind became clear. But during
his delirium Ethel and Mr. Bruder learned from the oftrepeated
words, “Cruel, cruel Christine!” the nature of
the wound that had nearly destroyed his life.

Mr. Ludolph was late in reaching his home the
evening Dennis was taken sick. Christine sat in the
dusk on the ivy-shaded piazza, awaiting him. He said
abruptly:

“What have you been doing to Fleet, over here?”

For a second her heart stood still, and she was glad
the increasing gloom disguised her face. By a great effort
she replied in a cool, matter-of-fact tone:

“I do not understand your question. Mr. Fleet was
here this afternoon, and gave some finishing touches to
my studio. I do not think I shall need him any more.”

Her quiet, indifferent voice would have disarmed suspicion
itself.

“It is well you do not, for he seems to have received
some `finishing touches' himself. He fell across the
threshold of the store in a dead faint, and has gone home,
threatened with a serious illness.”

Even her resolute will could not prevent a sharp,
startled exclamation.

“What is the matter?” said her father hastily; “you
are not going to faint also, are you?”

“No,” said Christine quietly again; “but I am tired
and nervous, and you told your news so abruptly. Why it
seemed but a moment ago he was here at work, and now

[figure description] Page 305.[end figure description]

he is sick and dangerously ill. What an uncertain stumbling
forward in the dark life is!”

This was a style of moralizing peculiarly distasteful to
Mr. Ludolph—all the more repugnant because it seemed
true, and brought home in Dennis' experience. Anything
that interfered with his plans and interests, even though it
might be God's providence, always angered him. And now
he was irritated at the loss of one of his best clerks, just
as he was becoming of great value; so he said sharply:

“I hope you are not leaning toward the silly cant of
mysterious providence. Life is uncertain, stumbling only to
fools who can't see the chances that fortune throws right
in their way, or recognize the plain laws of health and success.
This young Fleet has been putting two days' work
in one for the past four months, and now perhaps his work
is done forever, for the doctor looked very grave over him.”

Again the shadow of night proved most friendly to
Christine. Her face had a frightened, guilty look that it
was well her father did not see, or he would have wrung
from her the whole story. She felt the chill of a terrible
dread at heart. If he should die, her conscicnce would
give a fearful verdict against her. She stood trembling,
feeling almost powerless to move.

“Come,” said her father sharply, “I am hungry and
tired.”

“I will ring for lights and supper,” said Christine
hastily, and then fled to her own room.

When she appeared, her father was sitting at the table
impatiently awaiting her. But her face was so white, and
there was such an expression in her eyes, that he started
and said:

“What is the matter?”

His question irritated her, and she replied as sharply
as he had spoken:

[figure description] Page 306.[end figure description]

“I told you I was tired, and I don't feel well. I have
been a month in constant effort to get this house to rights,
and I am worn out, I suppose.”

He looked at her keenly, but said more kindly:

“Here, my dear, take this wine,” and he poured out a
glass of old port.

She drank it eagerly, for she felt she must have something
that would give her life, warmth, and courage. In a
way she could not understand, her heart sank within her.

But she saw her father was watching her and knew she
must act skilfully to deceive him. Rallied and strengthened
by the generous wine, her resolute will was soon on its
throne again, and Mr. Ludolph with all his keen insight
was no match for her. In a matter-of-fact tone she said:

“I do not see how we have worked Mr. Fleet to death.
Does he charge anything of the kind?”

“O no! but he too seems possessed with the idea of
becoming an artist. That drunken old Bruder, whom he
appears to have reformed, was giving him lessons, and
after working all day he would paint all night. He might
have made something if he had had a judicious friend to
guide him,” (and such you might have been, whispered
her conscience,) “but now he drops away like untimely
fruit.”

“It is a pity,” said she coolly, and changed the subject
as if she had dismissed it from her mind.

Mr. Ludolph believed Dennis to be no more to his
daughter than a useful clerk.

The next morning Christine rose pale and listless.

Her father said, “I will arrange my business so that
we can go off on a trip in a few days.”

When left alone she sat down at her easel and tried to
restore the expression that had so delighted her on the preceding
day. But she could not. Indeed she was greatly

[figure description] Page 307.[end figure description]

vexed to find that her tendency was to paint his stern and
scornful expression, which had made a deeper impression
on her mind than any she had ever seen on his face,
because so unexpected and novel. She became irritated
with herself, and cried fiercely:

“Shame on your weakness. You are unworthy of
your blood and ancestry. I will reproduce that face as it
was before he so insolently destroyed it,” and she bent
over her easel with an expression anything but in harmony
with her work. Unconsciously she made a strange contrast,
with her severe, hard face and compressed lips, to
the look of love and pleading she sought to paint. For
several days she wrought with resolute purpose, but found
that her inspiration was gone. At last she threw down
her brush in despair, and cried:

“I cannot catch it again, the wretch either smiles or
frowns upon me. I fear he was right, I have made my
first and last success,” and she leaned her head sullenly
and despairingly on her hand. Again the whole scene
passed before her, and she dwelt upon every word, as she
was beginning often to do now, in painful revery. When
she came to the words, “I too mean to be an artist. At
the store I could show you a picture that would tell you
far more of what I mean than can my poor words,” she
started up, and hastily arraying herself for the street, was
soon on her way to the Art Building.

No one heeded her movements there, and she went
directly upstairs to his room. Though so simple and
plain, it had unmistakably been the abode of a gentleman
and a person of taste. It was partially dismantled, and in
disorder from his hasty departure, and she found nothing
which satisfied her quest there. She hastened away, glad
to escape from a place where everything seemed full of
mute reproach, and next bent her steps to the top floor of

[figure description] Page 308.[end figure description]

the building. In a part half-filled with antiquated lumber,
and seldom entered, she saw near a window facing the
east an easel with canvas upon it. She was startled at
the throbbing of her heart.

“It is only climbing these long stairs,” she said, but
any one would have seen that this was not all, from the
hesitating manner and rosy face with which she approached
and removed the covering from the canvas.

She gazed a moment and then put out her hands for
something by which to steady herself. His chair was near
and she sank in that, exclaiming:

“He has indeed painted more than he—more than any
one could put in words. He has the genius that I have
not. All here is striking and original,” and she sat with
her eyes riveted to a painting that had revealed to her—
herself.

Here was the secret of Dennis' midnight toil and
early work. Here the results of his insatiable demand for
the incongruous elements of ice and sunlight.

Side by side were two emblematic pictures. In the
first there opened before Christine a grotto of ice. The
light was thin and cold but very clear and distinct, stalactites
hung glittering from the vaulted roof. Stalagmites
in strange fantastic forms rose to meet them. There was
a vivid brightness and beauty on every side, but of that
kind that threw a chill on the eye of the beholder. All
was of cold blue ice, and so natural was it that the eye
seemed to penetrate its clear crystal. To the right was an
opening in the grotto, through which was caught a glimpse
of a summer landscape, a vivid contrast to the icy cave.

But the main features of the picture were two figures.
Sleeping on a couch of ice was the form of a maiden.
The flow of the drapery, the contour of the form, was grace
itself, and yet all was ice. But the face was the most

[figure description] Page 309.[end figure description]

wonderful achievement. Christine saw her own features,
as beautiful as in her vainest moments she had ever dared
to hope. So perfect was the portrait that the delicate blue
veins branched across the temple in veiled distinctness.
It was a face that lacked but two things, life and love;
and yet with all its beauty the want of these was painfully
felt—all the more painfully, even as a lovely face in death
awakenes a deeper sadness and regret.

One little icy hand grasped a laurel wreath, also of ice.
The other hand hung listless, half open down the couch,
and from it had dropped a brush that formed a small
stalagmite at her side.

Bending over her in a most striking contrast is the
figure of a young man, all instinct with life, power, and
feeling. Though the face was turned away, Dennis had
suggested his own form and manner. His left hand was
extended toward the sleeping maiden, as if to awaken her,
while with the right he pointed toward the opening through
which was seen the summer landscape, and his whole attitude
indicated an eager wish to rescue her. This was the
first picture.

The second one was still more suggestive. At the entrance
of the grotto, which looked more cold than ever, in
its partial shadow, Christine saw herself again, but how
changed! She now had a beauty which she could not
believe in—could not understand.

The cold icy hue and rigidity were all gone. She stood
in the warm sunlight, and seemed all warmth and life to herself.
Her face glowed with feeling, yet was full of peace.

Instead of the barren ice, flowers bloomed at her feet
and fruitful trees bent over her. Birds were seen flitting
through their branches. Their bended tops, her flowing
costume, and the tress of golden hair lifted from her temple,
all showed that the summer wind was blowing.

[figure description] Page 310.[end figure description]

Everything, in contrast with the frozen, death-like cave,
indicated life, activity. Near where she stood, a plane-tree,
which in nature's language is the emblem of genius, towered
into the sky. Around its trunk twined the passion-flower,
meaning in Flora's tongue, “Holy love;” while just
above her head, sipping the nectar from an open blossom,
was a bright-hued butterfly, the symbol of immortality. By
her side stood the same tall, manly form, with face still
averted, that was in the act of awakening her in the first
picture. He was pointing, and her eyes, softened, and yet
so lustrous and happy, were following where a path wound
through a long vista, in alternate light and shadow, to a
gate, that in the distance looked like a pearl. Above and
beyond it, in airy outline, rose the walls and towers of the
Holy City, the New Jerusalem.

For a long time she sat in rapt attention—moment by
moment the paintings in their meaning grew upon her. At
last her eyes filled with tears, her bosom rose and fell with
an excitement and emotion in her case most unwonted, and
in low tones she murmured:

“Heavenly delusion! and taught with the logic I most
dearly love. O that I could believe it! I would give ten
thousand years of the life I am leading to know that it is
true. Is there, can there be a path that leads through light
or shade to a final and heavenly home? If this is true, in
spite of all my father's keen and seemingly convincing
arguments, what a terrible mistake our life is.”

Then her thoughts reverted to the author.

“What have I done in driving him away with contempt
in his heart for me? I can affect no more haughty superiority
to the man who painted those pictures. Though he
could not be my lover, what a friend he might have been.
I fear I shall never find his equal. O this world of chaos
and confusion! What is right? What is best? What is

[figure description] Page 311.[end figure description]

truth? He might have taught me. But the skilful hand
that portrayed those wonderful scenes may soon turn to
dust, and I will go to my grave burdened with the thought
that I have quenched the brightest genius that will ever
shine upon me,” and she clasped her hands in an agony of
regret.

Then came the thought of securing the pictures. Dropping
a veil over her red eyes, she went down and got some
large sheets of paper, and by fastening them together made
a secure covering. Then she carried the light frame with
the canvas to the second floor, and summoning Ernst
started homeward with her treasure. The boy obeyed with
reluctance. Since the time she had surprised him out of
his secret in regard to the strawberries he had never liked
her, and now he felt that in some way she was the cause of
the sickness of his dearest friend. Christine could not bear
the reproach in his large, truthful eyes, and their walk was
a silent one. At parting she handed him a large bill, but
he shook his head.

“Have you heard from Mr. Fleet?” she asked with a
flush.

The boy's lip quivered at the mention of that name,
and he answered hastily:

“Fader wrote moder he was no better. I fear he die,”
and in an agony of grief he turned and ran sobbing away.

From under her veil Christine's tears were falling fast
also, and she entered her elegant home as if it had been a
prison.

p667-321 CHAPTER XXXVI. REGRET.

[figure description] Page 312.[end figure description]

The next day was the Sabbath, and a long, dreary one
it was to Christine. But late in the afternoon Susie Winthrop
came with a pale, troubled face.

“O Christine, have you heard the news?” she exclaimed.

Christine's heart stood still with fear, but by a great
effort she said composedly:

“What news?”

“Mr. Fleet has gone home very ill; indeed he is not
expected to live.”

For a moment she did not answer, and when she did it
was with a voice unnaturally hard and cold:

“Have you heard what is the matter?”

Miss Winthrop wondered at her manner, but replied:

“Brain fever, I am told.”

“Is he delirious?” asked Christine in a low tone.

“Yes, all the time. Ernst, the little office-boy, told me
he did not know his own mother. It seems that the boy's
father is with Mrs. Fleet, helping take care of him.”

Christine's face was averted and so colorless that it
seemed like marble.

“O Christine, don't you care?” said Susie, springing
up and coming toward her friend.

“Why should I care?” was the quick answer.

Susie could not know that it was in reality but an incoherent
cry of pain, the blind desperate effort of pride to

[figure description] Page 313.[end figure description]

shield itself. But the tone checked her steps and filled her
face with reproach.

“Perhaps you have more reason to care than you
choose to admit,” she said pointedly.

Christine flushed, but said coldly:

“Of course I feel an interest in the fate of Mr. Fleet,
as I do in that of every passing acquaintance. I feel very
sorry for him and his friends.” But never was sympathy
expressed in a voice more unnaturally frigid.

Susie looked at her keenly, and again saw the tell-tale
flush rising to her cheek. She was puzzled, but saw that
her friend had no confidence to give, and she said with a
voice growing somewhat cold also:

“Well really, Christine, I thought you capable of seeing
as much as the rest of us in such matters, but I must
be mistaken, if you only recognized in Dennis Fleet a passing
acquaintance. Well, if he dies I doubt if either you or
I look upon his equal again. Under right influences he
might have been one of the first and most useful men of
his day. But they need not tell me it was overwork that
killed him. I know it was trouble of some kind.”

Christine was very pale, but said nothing; and Susie,
pained and mystified that the confidence of other days
was refused, bade rather a cold and abrupt adieu.

Left alone, Christine bowed her white face in her hands
and sat so still that it seemed as if life had deserted her.
In her morbid state she began to fancy herself the victim
of some terrible fatality. Her heart had bounded at the
announcement of Susie Winthrop, believing that from her
she would gain sympathy, but in strange perverseness she
had hidden her trouble from her friend, and permitted her
to go away in coldness. Christine could see as quickly
and as far as any, and from the first had noted that Dennis
was very interesting to her friend. Until of late she had

[figure description] Page 314.[end figure description]

not cared, but now for some reason the fact was not pleasing,
and she felt a sudden reluctance to speak to Susie of
him.

But now that she was gone a deeper sense of loneliness
and isolation came over her than she had ever felt before.
Her one confidential friend had departed, chilled and hurt.
She made friends but slowly, and having once become
estranged, from her very nature, she found it almost impossible
to offer the first advances towards reconciliation.

Soon she heard her father's steps, and fled to her room
to nerve herself for the part she must act before him. But
she was far from successful; her pale face and preoccupied
manner awakened his attention and surmises as to
the cause. Having an engagement out, he soon left her to
welcome solitude; for when she was in trouble he was no
source of help or comfort.

Monday dragged wearily to a close. She tried to work
but could not. She took up the most exciting book she
could find, only to throw it down in despair. For ever between
the canvas or the page would rise a pale thin face, at
times stern and scornful, again full of reproach, and then of
pleading.

Even at night her rest was disturbed, and in dreams
she heard the mutterings of his delirium, in which he continually
charged her with his death. At times she would
get out his picture and look at it as one might some priceless
thing past and gone beyond reach forever. Then she
would become irritated with herself, and say angrily:

“What is this man to me? Why am I worrying about
one who never could be much more to me living than dead?
Forget the whole miserable affair.”

But she could not forget. Tuesday morning, but no relief.
“Whether he lives or dies he will follow me to my
grave!” she cried. “From the time I first spoke to him

[figure description] Page 315.[end figure description]

there has seemed no escape, and in strange unexpected
ways he constantly crosses my path!”

She felt that she must get some relief from the oppression
on her spirit. Suddenly she thought of Ernst, and at
once went to the store and asked if he had heard anything
later. He had not, but thought that his mother would get
a letter that day.

“I want to see your father's picture, and will go home
that way, if you will give me the number.”

The boy hesitated, but at last complied with her wish.

A little later Christine knocked at Mr. Bruder's door.
There was no response, though she heard a stifled sound
within. After a little she knocked more loudly. Then the
door slowly opened, and Mrs. Bruder stood before her just
as she came from her washtub. Her eyes were very red,
and she held in her hand an open letter. Christine expected
to find more of a lady than was apparent at first
glance in the hard-working woman before her, so she said:

“My good woman, will you tell Mrs. Bruder I would
like to see her.”

“Dis is Mrs. Bruder,” was the answer.

Then Christine noticed the letter, and the half-effaced
traces of emotion, and her heart misgave her, but she nerved
herself to say: “I came to see your husband's picture.”

“It is dare,” was the brief reply.

Christine commenced expatiating on its beauty, though
perhaps for the first time she looked at a fine picture without
really seeing it. She was at a loss how to introduce
the object of her visit, but at last said:

“Your husband is away?”

“Yes.”

“He is taking care of one of my father's—of Mr. Fleet,
I am told. Have you heard from him as to Mr. Fleet's
health?”

[figure description] Page 316.[end figure description]

“Dis is Miss Ludolph?”

“Yes.”

“You can no read Sherman?”

“O yes I can. German is my native tongue.”

“Strange that him should be so.”

“Why so?”

“De Shermans haf hearts.”

Christine flushed deeply, but Mrs. Bruder without a
word put her husband's letter in her hand, and Christine
read eagerly what, translated, is as follows:

“My dear Wife:—Perhaps before this reaches you,
our best friend, our human saviour, will be in heaven. There
is a heaven, I believe as I never did before; and when
Mrs. Fleet prays the gate seems to open, and the glory to
stream right down upon us. But I fear now that not even
her prayers can keep him. Only once he knew her; then
he smiled and said, “Mother, it is all right,” and dropped
asleep. Soon fever came on again, and he is sinking fast.
The doctor shakes his head and gives no hope. My heart
is breaking. Marguerite, Mr. Fleet is not dying a natural
death; he has been slain. I understand all his manner
now, all his desperate hard work. He loved one above
him in wealth—none could be above him in other respects—
and that one was Miss Ludolph. I suspected it, though,
till delirious, he scarcely ever mentioned her name. But
now I believe she played with his heart—the noblest that
ever beat—and then threw it away, as it were a toy instead
of the richest offering ever made to a woman. Proud fool
that she was; she had done more mischief than a thousand
such frivolous lives as hers can atone for. I can write no
more—my heart is breaking with grief and indignation.”

As Christine read she suffered her veil to drop over her
face. When she looked up she saw Mrs. Bruder

[figure description] Page 317.[end figure description]

regarding her as she might one who had murdered her best
friend. She drew her veil closer about her face, laid the
letter down, and left the room without a word. She felt so
guilty and miserable on her way home that it would scarcely
have surprised her had a policeman arrested her for the
crime with which her own conscience as well as Mr. Bruder's
letter charged her; and yet her pride revolted at it all.

“Why should this affair take so miserable a form with
me?” she said. “To most it ends with a few sentimental
sighs on one side, and as a good joke on the other. All
seems to go wrong of late, and I am destined to have
everything save happiness and the success upon which I
set my heart. There is no more cruel mockery than to give
one all save the very thing one wants, and in seeking to
grasp that I have brought down upon myself this wretched
blighting experience. O this chaotic world! The idea
of there being a God! Why I could make a better world
myself!” And she reached her home in such a morbid,
unhappy state, that none in the great city need have envied
the rich and flattered girl. Mechanically she dressed and
came down to dinner.

During the afternoon Ernst, while out on an errand,
had slipped home and heard the sad news. He returned
to Mr. Ludolph's office crying. To the question, “What
is the matter?” he had answered:

“O, Mr. Fleet is dying—he is dead by dis time!”

Mr. Ludolph was sadly shocked and pained, for as far
as he could like anybody in addition to himself and
daughter, he had been prepossessed in favor of his useful
and intelligent clerk, and he was greatly annoyed at the
thought of losing him. He returned full of the subject,
and the first words with which he greeted Christine were:

“Well, Fleet will hang no more pictures for you, and
sing no more songs.”

[figure description] Page 318.[end figure description]

She staggered into a chair and sat before him pale
and panting, for she thought he meant that death had
taken place.

“Why, what is the matter?” cried he.

She stared at him gaspingly, but said nothing.

“Here, drink this,” he said, hastily pouring out a glass
of wine.

She took it eagerly. After a moment he said:

“Christine, I do not understand all this. I was merely
saying that my clerk, Mr. Fleet, was not expected—”

The point of endurance and guarded self-control was
past, and she cried half hysterically:

“Am I never to escape that man? Must every one I
meet speak to me as if I had murdered him?”

Then she added, almost fiercely:

“Living or dead, never speak to me of him again! I
am no longer a child, but a woman, and as such I insist
that his name be dropped between us forever!”

Her father gave a low exclamation of surprise, and
said:

“What! was he one of the victims?” (this being his
term for Christine's rejected suitors.)

“No,” said she, “I am the victim. He will soon be at
rest, while I shall be tormented to the grave by—” She
hardly knew what to say, so mingled and chaotic were her
feelings. Her hands clenched, and with a stamp of her
foot she hastily left the room.

Mr. Ludolph could hardly believe his eyes. Could this
passionate, thoroughly aroused woman be his cold, self-contained
daughter? He could not understand, as so
many cannot, that such natures when aroused are tenfold
more intense than those whom little things excite. A long
and peculiar train of circumstances, a morbid and overwrought
physical condition, led to this outburst from

[figure description] Page 319.[end figure description]

Christine, which was as much a cause of surprise to herself
afterward as to her father. He judged correctly that a
great deal had occurred between Dennis and herself of
which he had no knowledge, and again his confidence in
her was thoroughly shaken.

At first he determined to question and extort from her
the truth. But when, an hour later, she quietly entered the
parlor, he saw at a glance that he could not treat the cold,
proud, self-possessed woman before him as he might the
little Christine of former days. The wily man read from
her manner and the expression of her eye that he might
with her consent lead, but could not command without
awakening a nature as imperious as his own.

He was angry, but he had time to think. Prudence
had given a decided voice in the way of wary caution.

He saw what she did not recognize herself, that her
heart had been greatly touched, and in his secret soul he
was not sorry now to believe that Dennis was dying.

“Father,” said Christine abruptly, “how soon can we
start on our trip East?”

“Well, if you particularly wish it,” he replied, “I can
leave by the evening train to-morrow.”

“I do wish it very much,” said Christine earnestly,
“and will be ready.”

After a silent, stiff evening, they separated for the night.

Mr. Ludolph sat for a long time sipping his wine after
she had gone.

“After all it will turn out for the best,” he said.
“Fleet will probably die, and then will be out of the way.
Or, if he lives, I can easily guard against him, and it will
go no further. If she had been bewitched by a man like
Mr. Mellen, the matter would have been more difficult.

“In truth,” he continued after a little, “now that her
weak woman's heart is occupied by an impossible lover

[figure description] Page 320.[end figure description]

there is no danger from possible ones,” and the man of
the world went complacently to his rest, believing that
what he regarded as the game of life was entirely in his
own hands.

The next evening the night express bore Christine
from the events she sought to escape; but she was to
learn, in common with the great host of the sinning and
suffering, how little change of place has to do with change
of feeling.

We take memory and character with us from land to
land, from youth to age, from this world to the other, from
time through eternity. Sad, then, is the lot of those who
ever carry the elements of their own torture with them.

It was Christine's purpose, and she had her father's
consent, to make a long visit in New York, and, in the
gayety and excitement of the metropolis, to forget her
late wretched experience.

As it was still early September, they resolved to stop a
while at West Point and participate in the gayest season
of that fashionable watering-place. At this time the
hotels are thronged with summer tourists returning homeward
from the more northern resorts. Though the broad
piazzas of Cozzens' great hotel were crowded by the élite
of the city, there was a hum of admiration as Christine
first made her round, on her father's arm; and in the
evening, when the spacious parlor was cleared for dancing,
officers from the post and civilians alike eagerly sought
her hand, and hundreds of admiring eyes followed as she
swept through the mazes of the dance, the very embodiment
of grace and beauty. She was very gay, and her
repartee was often brilliant, but a close observer would
have seen something forced and unnatural in all. Such
an observer was her father. He saw that the sparkle of
her eyes had no more heart and happiness in it than that

[figure description] Page 321.[end figure description]

of the diamonds on her bosom, and that with the whole
strength of her resolute nature she was laboring to repel
thought and memory. But as he witnessed the admiration
she excited on every side, he became more determined
than ever that his fair daughter should shine a star of the
first magnitude in the salons of Europe. Late, and wearied
past the power of thought, she gladly sought refuge in
the blank of sleep.

The next morning they drove out early, before the sun
grew high and warm. It was a glorious Autumn day. Recent
rains had purified the atmosphere, so that the unrivalled
scenery of the Hudson stood out in clear and grand outline.

As Christine looked about her she felt a thrill of almost
delight; the first sensations of the kind since that moment
of triumph and exultation which Dennis had inspired, but
which he had also turned to the bitterness of disaster and
humiliation. She was keenly alive to beauty, and she saw
it on every side.

The Ludolph family had ever lived among the mountains
on the Rhine, and the heart of this latest child of the
race yearned with hereditary affection over the rugged
scenery before her, which had grown stronger with each
successive generation.

The dew, like innumerable pearls, gemmed the grass in
the park-like lawn of the hotel, and the slanting rays of the
sun flecked the luxuriant foliage. Never before had this
passion for the beautiful in nature been so gratified, and
all the artist feeling within her awoke.

When out upon the street the carriage turned southward,
and after passing the village of Highland Falls, they
entered on one of the most beautiful drives in America.
At times the road led under overarching forest trees, shaded
and dim with that delicious twilight which only myriads of
fluttering leaves can make.

[figure description] Page 322.[end figure description]

Again it would wind around some bold headland, and
the broad expanse of the Hudson would shine out dotted
with white sails. Then through a vista its waters would
sparkle, suggesting an exquisite cabinet picture. On the
right the thickly-wooded mountains rose like emerald walls,
with here and there along their base a quiet farm-house.
With kindling eye and glowing cheeks she drank in view
after view, and at last exclaimed:

“If there were only a few old castles scattered among
these Highlands, this would be the very perfection of
scenery.”

Her father watched her closely, and with much satisfaction.

“After all, her wound is slight,” he thought, “and new
scenes and circumstances will soon cause her to forget.”

Furtively, but continually, he bent his eyes upon her,
as if to read her very soul. A dreamy, happy expression
rested on her face, as if a scene were present to her fancy
even more to her taste than the one her eyes rested upon.
In fact she was living over that evening at Miss Winthrop's,
when Dennis told her that she could reach truest and highest
art—that she could feel—could copy anything she saw;
and exhilarated by the fresh morning air, inspired by the
scenery, she felt for the moment as never before that it
might all be true.

Was he who gave those blissful assurances also exerting
a subtle, unrecognized power over her? Certainly within
the last few weeks she had been subject to strange moods
and reveries. But the first dawning of a woman's love is
more like the aurora with its strange fitful flashes. The
phenomena have never been satisfactorily explained.

But as Mr. Ludolph watched complacently and admiringly,
her expression suddenly changed, and a frightened,
guilty look came into her face. The glow upon her cheeks

[figure description] Page 323.[end figure description]

gave place to extreme pallor, and she glanced nervously
around as if fearing something, then caught her father's eye,
and was conscious of his scrutiny. She at once became
cold and self-possessed, and sat at his side pale and quiet
till the ride ended. But he saw from the troubled gleam
of her eyes that there was tumult and suffering beneath that
calm exterior.

Few in this life are so guilty and wretched as not to
have moments of forgetfulness, when the happier past
comes back and they are oblivious to the painful present.
Such a brief respite Christine enjoyed during part of her
morning ride. The grand and swiftly varying scenery
crowded her mind with pleasant images, and all had ended
in a delicious revery. She felt herself to be a true priestess
of nature, capable of understanding and interpreting
her voices and hidden meanings—of catching her evanescent
beauty and of fixing it on the glowing canvas. The
strongly felt consciousness of such power was indeed sweet
and intoxicating. Her mind naturally reverted to him who
had most clearly asserted her possession of it.

“He, too, would have equal appreciation of this
scenery,” she said to herself.

Then came the sudden remembrance, shrivelling her
pretty dreams as the lightning scorches and withers.

“He—he is dead!—he must be by this time!”

And dread and guilt and something else that she did
not define, but which seemed more like a sense of great
loss, lay heavy at her heart. No wonder her father was
perplexed and provoked by the sad change in her face.
At first he was inclined to remonstrate and put spurs to
her pride. But there was a dignity about the lady at his
side, even though she was his daughter, that embarrassed
and restrained him. Moreover, though he understood
much and suspected far more—more indeed than the truth

[figure description] Page 324.[end figure description]

—there was nothing acknowledged or tangible that he
could lay hold of, and she meant that there should not be.
For reasons she did not understand she felt a disinclination
to tell her troubles to Susie Winthrop, and she was most
resolute in her purpose never to permit her father to speak
on the subject.

If Mr. Ludolph had been as coarse and ignorant as he
was hard and selfish, he would have gone to work at the
case with sledge and hammer dexterity, as many a parent
has, making sad brutal havoc in delicate womanly natures
with which they were no more fit to deal than a blacksmith
with hair-springs. But though he longed to speak and
bring his remorseless logic to bear, Christine's manner
raised a barrier which a man of his fine culture could not
readily pass.

She joined her father at a late breakfast smiling and
brilliant, but all was clearly forced. The morning was
spent in sketching, she seeming to crave constant occupation
or excitement.

In the afternoon they drove up the river to the military
grounds to witness a drill. Her father did his best to rally
her, pointing out everything of interest. First, the grand
old ruin of Fort Putnam frowned down upon them. This
had been the one feature wanting, and Christine felt that
she could ask nothing more. Her wonder and admiration
grew as the road wound along the immediate bluff and
around the plain by the river fortifications. But when she
stood on the piazza of the West Point Hotel and looked
up through the Highlands towards Newburgh, tears came
even to her eyes, and she trembled with excitement.
From what had happened her nerves were morbidly sensitive.
But her father could only look and wonder, she
seemed so changed to him.

“And is the Rhine like this?” she asked.

[figure description] Page 325.[end figure description]

“Well, the best I can say is, that to a German and a
Ludolph, it seems just as beautiful,” he replied.

“Surely,” said she slowly and in half soliloquy, “if one
could live always amid such scenes as these, elysium of the
gods or the heaven of the Christians would offer few temptations.”

“And among just such scenes you shall live after a
short year passes,” he answered warmly and confidently.
But with anger he missed the wonted sparkle of her eyes
when these cherished plans were broached.

In bitterness Christine said to herself: “A few weeks
since this thought would have filled me with delight. Why
does it not now?”

Silently they drove to the parade-ground. At the sally-port
of the distant barracks bayonets were gleaming.
There was a burst of martial music, then each class at the
Academy—four companies—came out upon the grassy
plain upon the double-quick. Their motions were light
and swift, and yet so accurately timed that each company
seemed one perfect piece of mechanism. A cadet stood at
a certain point with a small color flying. Abreast of this
their advance was checked as suddenly as if they had been
turned to stone, and the entire corps was in line. Then
followed a series of skilful manœuvres, in which Christine
was much interested, and her old eager manner returned.

“I like the army,” she exclaimed; “the precision and
inflexible routine would just suit me. I wish there was
war, and I a man, that I might enter into the glorious
excitements.”

Luxurious Mr. Ludolph had no tastes that way, and,
shrugging his shoulders, said:

“How about the hardships, wounds, and chances of an
obscure death? These are the rule in a campaign—the
glorious excitements the exceptions.”

[figure description] Page 326.[end figure description]

“I did not think of those,” she said, shrinking against
the cushions. “Everything seems to have so many miserable
drawbacks.”

The pageantry over, the driver turned and drove northward
through the most superb scenery.

“Where are we going?” asked Christine.

“To the cemetery,” was the reply.

“No, no! not there!” she exclaimed nervously.

“Nonsense! Why not?” remonstrated her father.

“I don't wish to go there!” she cried excitedly. “Please
turn around.”

Her father reluctantly gave the order, but added:

“Christine, you certainly indulge in strange moods and
whims of late.”

She was silent a moment, and then commenced a running
fire of questions about the Academy, that left no space
for explanations.

That evening she danced as resolutely as ever, and by
her beauty and brilliant repartee threw around many bewildering
spells that even the veterans of the Point could
scarcely resist.

But, when alone in her own room, she looked at her
white face in the mirror, and murmured in tones full of
indescribable dread and remorse:

“He is dead—he must be dead by this time!”

p667-336 CHAPTER XXXVII. REMORSE.

[figure description] Page 327.[end figure description]

Christine had a peculiar experience while at West
Point. She saw on every side what would have been to
her the choicest enjoyments, were her mind at rest. To
her artist nature, and with her passion and power for
sketching, the Highlands on the Hudson were Paradise.
But though she saw in profusion what once would have
delighted her, and which she now felt ought to be the
source of almost unmingled happiness, she was still thoroughly
wretched. It was the old fable of Tantalus
repeating itself. Her sin and its results had destroyed
her receptive power. The world offered her pleasures on
every side; she longed to enjoy them, but could not, for
her heart was preoccupied—filled and overflowing with
fear, remorse, and a sorrow she could not define.

A vain, shallow girl might soon have forgotten such an
experience as Christine had passed through. Such a
creature would have been sentimental or hysterical for a
little time, according to temperament, and then have gone
to flirting with some new victim with the same old zest.
There are belles so weak and wicked that they would
rather plume themselves on the fact that one had died out
of love for them. But in justice to all such it should be
stated that they rarely have mind enough to realize the
evil they do. Their vanity overshadows every other
faculty, and almost destroys those sweet, pitiful, unselfish

[figure description] Page 328.[end figure description]

qualities which make a true woman what a true man most
reverences next to God.

Christine was proud and ambitious to the last degree,
but she had not this small vanity. She did not realize
the situation fully, and was unsparing in her self-condemnation.

If Dennis had been an ordinary man, and interested
her no more than had other admirers, and had she given
him no more encouragement, she would have shrugged
her shoulders over the result and said she was very sorry
he had made such a fool of himself.

But as she went over the past (and this now she often
did), she saw that he was unusually gifted; nay, more, the
picture she discovered in the loft of the store proved him
possessed of genius of the highest order. And such a man
she had deceived, tortured, and even killed! This was the
verdict of her own conscience, the assertion of his own
lips. She remembered the wearing life of alternate hope
and fear she had caused him. She remembered how eagerly
he hung on her smiles and sugared nothings, and how her
equally causeless frowns would darken all the world to him.
She saw day after day how she had developed in a strong,
true heart, with its native power to love unimpaired, the
most intense passion, and all that her own lesser light
might burn a little more brightly. Then, with her burning
face buried in her hands, she would recall the bitter,
shameful consummation. Worse than all, waking or sleeping,
she continually saw a pale, thin face, that even in
death looked upon her with unutterable reproach. In
addition to the misery caused by her remorse, there was a
deeper bitterness still. Within the depths of her soul a
voice told her that the picture was true; that he might have
awakened her, and led her out into the warmth and light
of a happy life—a life which she felt ought to be possible,

[figure description] Page 329.[end figure description]

but which as yet had been but a vague and tantalizing
dream. Now the world seemed to her utter chaos—a
place of innumerable paths leading nowhere—and her own
hands had broken the clue that might have brought her
to something assured and satisfactory. She was very
wretched, for her life seemed but a little point between
disappointment on one side, and the blackness of death
and nothingness on the other.

The very beauty of the landscapes about her often
increased her pain. She felt that a few weeks ago she
would have enjoyed them keenly, and found in their
transference to canvas a source of unfailing pleasure. With
a conscious blush she thought that if he were present to
encourage, to stimulate her, by the very vitality of his
earnest, loving nature, it would be paradise itself. In a
word, she saw the heaven she could not enter.

To that degree that she had mind, heart, conscience,
and an intense desire for true happiness, she was unhappy.
Dress, dancing, the passing admiration of society, the
pleasures of a merely fashionable life, seemed less and less
satisfactory. She had got beyond them, as children do
their toys, because she had a native superiority to them,
and yet they seemed her best resource. She had all her
old longing to pursue her art studies, and everything about
her stimulated to this, but her heart and hand appeared
paralyzed. She was in just that condition, mental and
moral, in which she could do nothing well.

And so the days passed in futile efforts to forget—to
drown in almost reckless gayety—the voices of conscience
and memory.

But she only remembered all the more vividly—she
only saw the miserable truth all the more clearly. She
suffered more in her torturing consciousness than Dennis
in his wild delirium.

[figure description] Page 330.[end figure description]

After they had been at the hotel about a week, Mr.
Ludolph received letters that made his speedy return
necessary.

On the same day the family of his old New York partner
arrived at the house on their return from the Catskills.
Mrs. Von Bräkhiem gladly received Christine under her
care and protection, feeling that the addition of such a
bright star would make her little constellation one of the
most brilliant of the fashionable world.

The ladies of the house were now immersed in the excitement
of an amateur concert. Mrs. Von Bräkhiem, bent
upon shining among the foremost, though with a borrowed
lustre, assigned Christine a most prominent part. She half
shrank from it, for it recalled unpleasant memories, but she
could not decline without explanations, and so tried to
enter into the affair with a sort of recklessness.

The large parlors were filled with chairs, and these
were soon occupied by a very silent audience, and it was
evident that elegant toilets would vie for attention with the
music. Christine came down on her father's arm, dressed
like a princess, and though her diamonds were few, such
were their size and brilliancy that they seemed on fire.
Every eye followed Mrs. Von Bräkhiem's party, and that
good lady took half the admiration to herself.

A superior tenor, with an unpronounceable foreign name,
had come up from New York to grace the occasion. But
personally he lacked every grace himself, his fine voice
being the one thing that redeemed him from utter insignificance
in mind and appearance. Nevertheless he was vain
beyond measure, and made the most of himself on all occasions.

The music was fine, for the amateurs, feeling that they
had a critical audience, did their best. Christine chose
three brilliant, difficult, but heartless pieces as her

[figure description] Page 331.[end figure description]

contribution to the entertainment (she would not trust herself
with anything else), and with something approaching reckless
gayety she sought to hide the bitterness at her heart.
Her splendid voice and exquisite touch doubled the admiration
her beauty and diamonds had excited, and Mrs. Von
Bräkhiem basked in still stronger reflected light. She took
every opportunity to make it known that she was Miss Ludolph's
chaperon.

After her first effort, the “distinguished” tenor from
New York opened his eyes widely at her. At her second,
he put up his eye-glass in something like astonishment,
and the close of her last song found him nervously rumaging
a music portfolio in the corner.

But for Christine the law of association had become
too strong, and the prolonged applause recalled the evening
at Miss Brown's when the same sounds had deafened
her, but when turning from it all she had seen Dennis
Fleet standing in rapt attention, his lips parted, his
eyes glowing with such an honest admiration that even
then it was worth more to her than all the clamor. Then,
by the same law of association, she again saw that eager,
earnest face, changed, pale, dead—dead! and she the
cause.

Regardless of the compliments showered upon her she
buried her face in her hands and trembled from head to
foot.

But the irrepressible tenor had found what he wanted,
and now came forward asking that Miss Ludolph would
sing a duet with him.

She lifted a wan and startled face. Must the torturing
similarity and still more torturing contrast of the two
occasions be continued? But she saw her father regarding
her sternly, and that she was becoming the subject of
curious glances and whispered surmises. Her pride was

[figure description] Page 332.[end figure description]

aroused at once, and goaded on by it she said: “O certainly;
she was not feeling well, but it did not signify.”

“And den,” put in the tenor, “dis is von grand occazeon
to you, for it is so unfrequent dat I find any von
vorthy to sing dis style of music vith me.”

“What is the music?” asked Christine coldly.

To her horror she found it the same selection from
Mendelssohn that she had sung with Dennis.

“No,” she said sharply, “I cannot sing that.”

“Pardon me, my daughter, you can sing it admirably
if you choose,” interposed her father.

She turned to him imploringly, but his face was inflexible,
and his eyes had an incensed, meaning look. For a
moment she, too, was angry. Had he no mercy? She
was about to coldly decline, but her friends were very
urgent and clamorous, “Please do—don't disappoint us,”
echoing on every side. The tenor was so surprised and
puzzled at her insensibility to the honor he had conferred,
that, to prevent a scene she could not explain, she went to
the piano as if led to the stake.

But the strain was too great upon her in her suffering
state. The familiar notes recalled so vividly the one who
once before had sung them at her side, that she turned
almost expecting to see him,—but saw only the vain little
animated music-machine, who with many contortions was
producing the harmony. “Just this mockery my life will
ever be,” she thought; “all that I am—the best I can do,
will always be connected with something insignificant and
commonplace. The rich, impassioned voice of the man
who sang these words, and who might have taught me to
sing the song of a new and happier life, I have silenced
forever.”

The thought overpowered her. Just then her part recurred,
but her voice died away in a miserable quaver, and

[figure description] Page 333.[end figure description]

again she buried her face in her hands. Suddenly she
sprang from the piano, darted through the low-cut open
window near, and a moment later ordered her startled
maid from the room, turned the key, and was alone.

Her father explained coldly to the astonished audience
and the half-paralyzed tenor (who still stood with his mouth
open,) that his daughter was not at all well that evening,
and ought not to have appeared at all. This Mrs. Von
Bräkhiem took up and repeated with endless variations.
But the evidences of sheer mental distress on the part of
Christine had been too clear, and countless were the whispered
surmises of the fashionable gossips in explanation.

Mrs. Von Bräkhiem herself, burning with curiosity,
soon retired, that she might receive from her lovely charge
some gushing confidences, which she expected, as a matter
of course, would be poured into what she chose to regard
as her sympathizing heart. But she knocked in vain
at Christine's door.

Later, Mr. Ludolph knocked—there was no answer.

“Christine!” he called.

After some delay a broken voice answered:

“You cannot enter—I am not well—I have retired.”

He turned on his heel and strode away, and that night
drank more brandy and water than was good for him.

As for Christine, warped and chilled though her nature
had been, she was still a woman, she was still young, and
though she knew it not, she had heard the voice which had
spoken her heart into life. Through a chain of circumstances
for which she was partly to blame, she had been
made to suffer as she did not believe she could. The terrible
words of Mr. Bruder's letter rang continually in her
ears,—“Mr. Fleet is not dying a natural death; he has
been slain.”

For many long weary days the conviction had been

[figure description] Page 334.[end figure description]

growing upon her that she had indeed slain him and mortally
wounded herself. Until to-night she had kept herself
outwardly under restraint, but now the long pent-up feeling
gave way, and she sobbed as if her heart would break—
sobbed till the power to weep was gone. If now some
kind, judicious friend had shown her that she was not so
guilty as she deemed herself; that, however frightful the
consequences of such acts, she was really not to blame for
what she did not intend and could not foresee; more than
all, if she could only have known that Dennis was recovering
instead of being dead and buried, she might at once
have entered on a new and happier life. But there was no
such friend, no such knowledge, and her wounded spirit
was thrown back upon itself.

At last, robed as she had been for the evening, she fell
asleep from sheer exhaustion and grief—for grief induces
sleep.

The gems that shone in her dishevelled hair, that rose
and fell as at long intervals her bosom heaved with a convulsive
sob, like the fitful gusts of a storm that is dying
away; the costly fabrics she wore made sad mockery in
their contrast with the pale, tear-stained, suffering face.
The hardest heart might have pitied her—yes, even the
wholly ambitious heart of her father, incensed as he was
that a plebeian stranger of this land should have caused such
distress.

When Christine awoke, her pride awoke also. With
bitterness of spirit she recalled the events of the past evening.
But a new phase of feeling now begun to manifest
itself.

After her passionate outburst she was much calmer.
In this respect the unimpeded flow of feeling had done her
good, and, as intimated, if kindness and sympathy could
now have added their gentle ministrations, she might have

[figure description] Page 335.[end figure description]

been the better for it all her life. But left to herself, her
old and worst traits resumed their sway. Chief among
these was pride; and under the influence of this passion
and the acute suffering of her unsoothed, unguided spirit,
she began to rebel in impotent anger. She grew hard,
cynical, and reckless. Her father's lack of sympathy and
consideration alienated her heart even from him. Left
literally alone in the world, her naturally reserved nature
shut itself up more closely than ever. Even her only
friend, Susie Winthrop, drifted away. One other, who
might have been—but she could think of him with only a
shudder now. All the rest seemed either indifferent, or to
condemn, or worse still, to be using her like Mrs. Von
Bräkhiem, and even her own father, as a stepping-stone to
their personal ambition. Christine could not see how she
was to blame for this isolation. She did not understand
that cold, selfish natures, like her own and her father's,
could not surround themselves with warm, generous
friends.

She saw only the results. But with flashing eyes she
resolved that they should pry into her heart's secrets not a
hair's breadth further; that she would be used only so far
as she chose. She would, in short, “face out” the events
of the past evening simply and solely on the ground that
she was not well, and permit no questions to be asked.

Cold and self-possessed she came down to a late breakfast.
Mrs. Von Bräkhiem, and others who had been introduced,
joined her, but nothing could penetrate through the
nice polished armor of her courteous reserve. Her father
looked at her keenly, but she coolly returned his gaze.

When alone with her soon afterward, he turned and
said sharply:

“What does all this mean?”

She looked around as if some one else were near.

[figure description] Page 336.[end figure description]

“Were you addressing me?” she asked coldly.

“Yes, of course I am,” said her father impatiently.

“From your tone and manner, I supposed you must
be speaking to some one else.”

“Nonsense! I was speaking to you. What does all
this mean?”

She turned on him an indescribable look, and after a
moment said in a slow, meaning tone:

“Have you not heard my explanation, sir?”

Such was her manner, he felt he could as easily strike
her as say another word.

Muttering an oath, he turned on his heel and left her
to herself.

The next morning her father bade her “Good-bye.”
In parting, he said meaningly:

“Christine, beware!”

Again she turned upon him that peculiar look, and
replied in a low, firm tone:

“That expression applies to you, also. Let us both
beware, lest we repent at leisure.”

The wily man, skilled in character, was now thoroughly
convinced that in his daughter he was dealing with a nature
very different from his wife's—that he was now confronted
by a spirit as proud and imperious as his own. He clearly
saw that force, threatening, sternness would not answer in
this case, and that if he carried his points it must be through
skill and cunning. By some means he must ever gain her
consent and coöperation.

His manner changed. Instinctively she divined the
cause; and hers did not. Therefore father and daughter
parted as father and daughter ought never to part.

After his departure she was to remain at West Point
till the season closed, and then accompany Mrs. Von Brakhiem
to New York, where she was to make as long a visit

[figure description] Page 337.[end figure description]

as she chose—and she chose to make quite a long one.
In the scenery, and the society of the officers at West Point,
and the excitements of the metropolis, she found more to
occupy her thoughts than she could have done at Chicago.
She went deliberately to work to kill time and snatch from
it such fleeting pleasures as she might.

They stayed in the country till the pomp and glory of
October began to illumine the mountains, and then (to
Christine's regret) went to the city. There she entered into
every amusement and dissipation that her tastes permitted,
and found much pleasure in frequent visits to the Central
Park, although it seemed tame and artificial after the wild
grandeur of the mountains. It was well that her nature
was so high toned that she found enjoyment only in what
was refined or intellectual. Had it been otherwise she
might soon have taken, in her morbid, reckless state, a path
to swift and remediless ruin, as many a poor creature all
at war with happiness and truth, has done. And thus in
a giddy whirl of excitement (Mrs. Von Bräkhiem's normal
condition) the days and weeks passed, till at last, thoroughly
satiated and jaded, she concluded to return home, for the
sake of change and quiet, if nothing else. Mrs. Von Brakhiem
parted with her in much regret. Where would she
find such another ally in her determined struggle to be
talked about and envied a little more than some other
pushing, jostling votaries of fashion?

In languor or sleep she made the journey, and in the
dusk of a winter's day her father drove her to their beautiful
home, but which from association was now almost hateful
to her. Still she was too weary to think or suffer much.
They met each other very politely, and their intercourse
assumed at once its wonted character of high-bred courtesy,
though perhaps a little more void of manifested sympathy
and affection than before.

p667-347

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Several days passed in languid apathy, the natural reaction
of past excitement; then an event occurred which
most thoroughly aroused her.