CHAPTER XXXIII
THE TWO PICTURES
When Christine saw that Dennis was not in the room, she rushed to awindow 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 heart. Whatif he were right? What if she had let the one golden opportunity ofher life pass? Even though she had stolen her inspiration from himthrough guile and cruelty, had he not enabled her to accomplish morethan in all her life before? To what might he not have led her, if shehad put her hand frankly and truthfully in his? There are times whento those most bewildered in mazes of error light breaks, clear andunmistakable, defining right and wrong with terrible distinctness.Such an hour was this to Christine. The law of God written on her heartasserted itself, and she trembled at the guilty thing she saw herselfto 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 sheexclaimed: "But what am I thinking of? What can he or any man of thisland 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 spherehe cannot touch--the poor infatuated youth! And did he dream that I,Christine Ludolph, could give him my hand? He shall learn some daythat none in this land could receive that honor, and none save theproudest in my own may hope for it. The idea of my giving up my ancientand honorable name for the sake of this unknown Yankee youth."
Bold, proud words that her heart did not echo.
But pride and anger were now her controlling impulses, and with thestrong grasp of her resolute will she crushed back her gentler andbetter feelings, and became more icy and hard than ever.
By such choice and action, men and women commit moral suicide.
With a cold, white face, and a burnished gleam in her eyes, she wentto the easel and commenced painting out the ominous black stain.
"I'll prove him a false prophet also. I will be an artist withoutpassing through all his sentimental and superstitious phases that haveso amused me during the past weeks. I have seen his lovelorn face toooften 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 anddiscordant as the feeling that prompted it.
Again, a little later: "He despises me! Well, he is the first man thatever dared to say that;" and her face was flushed and dark with anger.
Dennis at first walked rapidly from the scene of his bitterdisappointment, but his steps soon grew slow and feeble. The point ofendurance was passed. Body and mind acting and reacting on each otherhad been taxed beyond their powers, and both were giving way. He feltthat they were, and struggled to reach the store before the crisisshould come. Weak and trembling, he mounted the steps, but fell faintingacross the threshold. One of the clerks saw him fall and gave thealarm. Mr. Ludolph, Mr. Schwartz, and others hastened to the spot.Dennis was carried to his room, and a messenger was despatched for Dr.Arten. Ernst, with flying feet, and wild, frightened face, soon reachedhis home in De Koven Street, and startled his father and mother withthe 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, promptedby their strong gratitude to Dennis, rushed through the streets as ifdistracted. Their intense anxiety and warm German feeling caused themto heed no more the curious glances cast after them than would a manswimming for life note the ripple he made.
When Dennis regained consciousness, they, and Mr. Ludolph and Dr.Arten, were around him. At first his mind was confused, and he couldnot 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.
"Oh, Mr. Fleet, you vork too hart, you vork too hart; I knew dis vouldcome," sobbed Mrs. Bruder.
"Why, his duties in the store have not been so onerous of late," saidMr. Ludolph, in some surprise.
"It is not der vork in der 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 thestrong instinct to guard his secret, roused himself.
"Is it anything serious, doctor?" he asked.
The physician looked grave, and said, "Your pulse and whole appearanceindicate great exhaustion and physical depression, and I also fearthat fever may set in."
"I think you are right," said Dennis. "I feel as if I were going tobe ill. My mind has a tendency to wander. Mr. Ludolph, will you permitme 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 it is only atemporary indisposition, and that you will be back in a few days. Youmust try and get a good night's rest, and so be prepared for the journeyin 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 scarcely think it prudent," began the doctor.
"Oh, certainly not to-night," said Mr. Ludolph, also.
"Pardon me, I must go at once," interrupted Dennis, briefly and sodecidedly that the gentlemen looked at each other and said no more.
"Mr. Bruder," he continued, "I must be indebted to you for a real proofof your friendship. In that drawer you will find my money. The key isin my pocketbook. Will you get a carriage and take me to the depot atonce? and can you be so kind as to go on home with me? I cannot trustmyself 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 hasoccurred, but cannot help it. I thank you gratefully, and will nowtrespass on your valuable time no longer."
Mr. Ludolph, feeling that he could be of no further use, said: "Youwill be back in a week, Fleet. Courage. Good-by."
Dennis turned eagerly to the doctor and said: "Can you not give mesomething 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 ofhome first."
A prescription was given and immediately procured, and the doctor wentaway shaking his head.
"This is the way people commit suicide. They know no more about, orpay no more heed to, the laws of health than the laws of China. Hereis the result: This young fellow has worked in a way that would breakdown a cast-iron machine, and now may never see Chicago again."
But Dennis might have worked even in his intense way for months andyears without serious harm, had not a fair white hand kept him on therack of uncertainty and fear.
Not work, but worry, makes havoc of health.
In the gray dawn Ethel Fleet, summoned from her rest, received herson, weak, unconscious, muttering in delirium, and not recognizingeven her familiar face. He was indeed a sad, painful contrast to theruddy, buoyant youth who had left her a few short months before,abounding in hope and life. But she comforted herself with the thoughtthat neither sin nor shame had brought him home.
We need not dwell on the weary weeks that followed. Dennis had everyadvantage that could result from good medical skill and the mostfaithful nursing. But we believe that his life lay rather in hismother's prayers of faith. In her strong realization of the spiritualworld she would go continually into the very presence of Jesus, andsay, "Lord, he whom Thou lovest is sick"; or, like parents of old, shewould seem by her importunity to bring the Divine Physician to hisvery bedside.
Mr. Bruder, too, insisted on remaining, and watched with the unweariedfaithfulness 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 hisunconscious friend, often turning his eyes heavenward and mutteringin deep guttural German as sincere a 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 restraintthat only reverent, believing prayer can. Dennis lived. After manydays delirium ceased, and the confused mind became clear. But duringhis delirium Ethel and Mr. Bruder learned from the oft-repeated words,"Cruel, cruel Christine!" the nature of the wound that had nearlydestroyed his life.
Mr. Ludolph was late in reaching his home on the evening after Denniswas 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 increasinggloom disguised her face. By a great effort she replied, in a cool,matter-of-fact tone: "I do not understand your question. Mr. Fleet washere this afternoon, and gave some finishing touches to my studio. Ido 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 'finishingtouches' himself. He fell across the threshold of the store in a deadfaint, 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 tofaint also, are you?"
"No," said Christine, quietly again; "but I am tired and nervous, andyou told your news so abruptly! Why, it seemed but a moment ago he washere at work, and now he is dangerously ill. What an uncertain stumblingforward 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 broughthome in Dennis's experience. Anything that interfered with his plansand interests, even though it might be God's providence, always angeredhim. 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 hopeyou are not leaning toward the silly cant of mysterious providence.Life is uncertain stumbling only to fools who can't see the chancesthat fortune throws in their way, or recognize the plain laws of healthand success. This young Fleet has been putting two days' work in onefor 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 facehad 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 chillof a terrible dread at heart. If he should die, her conscience wouldgive a fearful verdict against her. She stood trembling, feeling almostpowerless to move.
"Come," said her father, sharply, "I am hungry and tired."
"I will ring for lights and supper," said Christine hastily, and thenfled to her own room.
When she appeared, her father was sitting at the table impatientlyawaiting her. But her face was so white, and there was such anexpression 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.
"I told you I was tired, and I don't feel well. I have been a monthin constant effort to get this house in order, and I am worn out, Isuppose."
He looked at her keenly, but said more kindly, "Here, my dear, takethis wine"; and he poured out a glass of old port.
She drank it eagerly, for she felt she must have something that wouldgive 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 actskillfully to deceive him. Rallied and strengthened by the generouswine, her resolute will was soon on its throne again, and Mr. Ludolphwith all his keen insight was no match for her. In a matter-of-facttone she said:
"I do not see how we have worked Mr. Fleet to death. Does he chargeanything of the kind?7'
"Oh, no! but he too seems possessed with the idea of becoming an artist.That drunken old Bruder, whom he appears to have reformed, was givinghim lessons, and after working all day he would study much of the nightand paint as soon as the light permitted in the morning. He might havemade something if he had had a judicious friend to guide him" ("Andsuch you might have been," whispered her conscience), "but now he dropsaway like untimely fruit."
"It is a pity," said she, coolly, and changed the subject, as if shehad dismissed it from her mind.
Mr. Ludolph believed that Dennis was no more to his daughter than auseful clerk.
The next morning Christine rose pale and listless.
Her father said, "I will arrange my business so that we can go off ona trip in a few days."
When left alone she sat down at her easel and tried to restore theexpression that had so delighted her on the preceding day. But shecould not. Indeed she was greatly vexed to find that her tendency wasto paint his stern and scornful look, which had made a deeper impressionon her mind than any she had even seen on his face, because sounexpected and novel. She became irritated with herself, and cried,fiercely: "Shame on your weakness! You are unworthy of your blood andancestry. I will reproduce that face as it was before he so insolentlydestroyed it;" and she bent over her easel with an expression not atall in harmony with her work. Unconsciously she made a strange contrast,with her severe, hard face and compressed lips, to the look of loveand pleading she sought to paint. For several days she wrought withresolute purpose, but found that her inspiration was gone.
At last she threw down her brush in despair, and cried: "I cannot catchit again. The wretch either smiles or frowns upon me. I fear he wasright: I have made my first and last success;" and she leaned her headsullenly and despairingly on her hand. Again the whole scene passedbefore her, and she dwelt upon every word, as she was beginning oftento do now, in painful revery. When she came to the words, "I too meanto be an artist. I could show you a picture that would tell you farmore of what I mean than can my poor words" she started up, and, hastilyarraying herself for the street, was soon on her way to the ArtBuilding.
No one heeded her movements there, and she went directly upstairs tohis room. Though simple and plain, it had unmistakably been the abodeof a gentleman and a person of taste. It was partially dismantled, andin disorder from his hasty departure, and she found nothing whichsatisfied her quest there. She hastened away, glad to escape from aplace where everything seemed full of mute reproach, and next bent hersteps to the top floor of the building. In a part half-filled withantiquated lumber, and seldom entered, she saw near a window facingthe east an easel with canvas upon it. She was startled at the throbbingof her heart.
"It is only climbing these long stairs," she said; but her words werebelied by the hesitating manner and eager face with which she approachedand removed the covering from the canvas.
She gazed a moment and then put out her hand for something by whichto steady herself. His chair was near, and she sank into it, exclaiming:"He has indeed painted more than he--more than any one--could put intowords. He has the genius that I have not. All here is striking andoriginal;" and she sat with her eyes riveted to a painting that hadrevealed to her--herself.
Here was the secret of Dennis's toil and early work. Here were theresults of his insatiable demand for the incongruous elements of iceand sunlight.
Side by side were two emblematic pictures. In the first there openedbefore Christine a grotto of ice. The light was thin and cold but veryclear. Stalactites hung glittering from the vaulted roof. Stalagmitesin strange fantastic forms rose to meet them. Vivid brightness andbeauty were on every side, but of that kind that threw a chill on thebeholder. All was of cold blue ice, and so natural was it that the eyeseemed to penetrate its clear crystal. To the right was an opening inthe grotto, through which was caught a glimpse of a summer landscape,a vivid contrast to the icy cave. r />
But the main features of the picture were two figures. Sleeping on acouch of ice was the form of a young girl. The flow of the drapery,the contour of the form, was grace itself, and yet all was ice. Butthe face was the most wonderful achievement. Christine saw her ownfeatures, as beautiful as in her vainest moments she had ever daredto hope. So perfect was the portrait that the delicate blue veinsbranched across the temple in veiled distinctness. It was a face thatlacked but two things, life and love; and yet in spite of all itsbeauty the want of these was painfully felt--all the more painfully,even as a lovely face in death awakens a deeper sadness and regret.
One little icy hand grasped a laurel wreath, also of ice. The otherhand hung listless, half open, and from it had dropped a brush thatformed a small stalagmite at her side.
Bending over her in most striking contrast was the figure of a youngman, all instinct with life, power, and feeling. Though the face wasturned away, Dennis had suggested his own form and manner. His lefthand was extended toward the sleeping maiden, as if to awaken her,while with the right he pointed toward the opening through which wasseen the summer landscape, and his whole attitude indicated an eagerwish 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 sawherself again, but how changed! She now had a beauty which she couldnot believe in--could not understand.
The icy hue and rigidity were all gone. She stood in the warm sunlight,and seemed all warmth and life. Her face glowed with feeling, yet wasfull of peace.
Instead of the barren ice, flowers were at her feet, and fruitful treesbent over her. Birds were seen flitting through their branches. Thebended boughs, her flowing costume, and the tress of golden hair liftedfrom her temple, all showed that the summer wind was blowing.
Everything, in contrast with the frozen, death-like cave, indicatedlife, activity. Near her, a plane-tree, which in nature's language isthe emblem of genius, towered into the sky; around its trunk twinedthe passion-flower, meaning, in Flora's tongue, "Holy love"; whilejust above her head, sipping the nectar from an open blossom, was abright-hued butterfly, the symbol of immortality. By her side stoodthe same tall, manly form, with face still averted. He was pointing,and her eyes, softened, and yet lustrous and happy, were followingwhere 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 beyondit, in airy outline, rose the walls and towers of the Holy City, theNew Jerusalem.
For a long time she sat in rapt attention. Moment by moment thepaintings in their meaning grew upon her. At last her eyes filled withtears, her bosom rose and fell with an emotion most unwonted, and inlow tones she murmured: "Heavenly delusion! and taught with the logicI most dearly love. Oh, that I could believe it! I would give tenthousand years of the life I am leading to know that it is true. Isthere, can there be a path that leads through light or shade to a finaland heavenly home? If this is true, in spite of all my father's keenand seemingly convincing arguments, what a terrible mistake our lifeis!"
Then her thoughts reverted to the artist.
"What have I done in driving him away with contempt in his heart forme? I can no more affect haughty superiority to the man who paintedthose pictures. Though he could not be my lover, what a friend he mighthave been! I fear I shall never find his equal. Oh, this world of chaosand confusion! What is right? What is best? _What is truth?_ He mighthave taught me. But the skilful hand that portrayed those wonderfulscenes may soon turn to dust, and I shall go to my grave burdened withthe thought that I have quenched the brightest genius that will evershine upon me;" and she clasped her hands in an agony of regret.
Then came the thought of securing the pictures. Dropping a veil overher red eyes, she went down and got some large sheets of paper, andby fastening them together made a secure covering. Then she carriedthe light frame with the canvas to the second floor, and, summoningErnst, started homeward with her treasure. The boy obeyed withreluctance. Since the time she had surprised him out of his secret inregard to the strawberries, he had never liked her, and now he feltthat in some way she was the cause of the sickness of his dearestfriend. Christine could not bear the reproach of his large, truthfuleyes, and their walk was a silent one. At parting she handed him abanknote, 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 Mr. Fleet 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 sheentered her elegant home as if it had been a prison.