Barriers Burned Away

  CHAPTER XXXV

  REMORSE

  Christine had a peculiar experience while at West Point. She saw onevery side what would have brought her the choicest enjoyment, had hermind been at rest. To her artist nature, and with her passion and powerfor sketching, the Highlands on the Hudson were paradise. But thoughshe saw in profusion what once would have delighted her, and what shenow felt ought to be the source of almost unmingled happiness, she wasstill thoroughly wretched. It was the old fable of Tantalus repeatingitself. Her sin and its results had destroyed her receptive power. Theworld offered her pleasures on every side; she longed to enjoy them,but could not, for her heart was preoccupied--filled and overflowingwith fear, remorse, and a sorrow she could not define.

  A vain, shallow girl might soon have forgotten such an experience asChristine had passed through. Such a creature would have beensentimental or hysterical for a little time, according to temperament,and then with the old zest have gone to flirting with some new victim.There are belles so weak and wicked that they would rather plumethemselves on the fact that one had died from love of them. But injustice to all such it should be said that they rarely have mind enoughto realize the evil they do. Their vanity overshadows every otherfaculty, and almost destroys those sweet, pitiful, unselfish qualitieswhich 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 notthis small vanity. She did not appreciate the situation fully, but shewas unsparing in her self-condemnation.

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

  But as she went over the past (and this now she often did), she sawthat he was unusually gifted; nay, more, the picture she discoveredin the loft of the store proved him possessed of genius of a highorder. And such a man she had deceived, tortured, and even killed!This was the verdict of her own conscience, the assertion of his ownlips. She remembered the wearing life of alternate hope and fear shehad caused him. She remembered how eagerly he hung on her smiles andsugared nothings, and how her equally causeless frowns would darkenall the world to him. She saw day after day how she had developed ina strong, true heart, with its native power to love unimpaired, themost intense passion, and all that her own lesser light might burn alittle 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 evenin death looked upon her with unutterable reproach. In addition to themisery caused by her remorse, there was a deeper bitterness still.Within the depths of her soul a voice told her that the picture wastrue; that he might have awakened her, and led her out into the warmthand light of a happy life--a life which she felt ought to be possible,but which as yet had been but a vague and tantalizing dream. Now theworld seemed to her utter chaos--a place of innumerable paths leadingnowhere; and her own hands had broken the clew that might have broughther to something assured and satisfactory. She was very wretched, forher life seemed but a little point between disappointment on one sideand the blackness of death and nothingness on the other. The verybeauty of the landscapes about her often increased her pain. She feltthat a few weeks ago she would have enjoyed them keenly, and found intheir transference to canvas a source of unfailing pleasure. With aconscious blush she thought that if he were present to encourage, tostimulate her, by the very vitality of his earnest, loving nature, shewould be in the enjoyment of paradise itself. In a word, she saw theheaven she could not enter.

  To the degree that she had mind, heart, conscience, and an intensedesire for true happiness, she was unhappy. Dress, dancing, the passingadmiration of society, the pleasures of a merely fashionable life,seemed less and less satisfactory. She was beyond them, as childrenoutgrow their toys, because she had a native superiority to them, andyet they seemed her best resource. She had all her old longing topursue her art studies, and everything about her stimulated her tothis, but her heart and hand appeared paralyzed. She was in just thatcondition, mental and moral, in which she could do nothing well.

  And so the days passed in futile efforts to forget--to drown in almostreckless gayety--the voices of conscience and memory. But she onlyremembered all the more vividly; she only saw the miserable truth allthe more clearly. She suffered more in her torturing consciousnessthan Dennis in his wild delirium.

  After they had been at the hotel about a week, Mr. Ludolph receivedletters that made his speedy return necessary. On the same day thefamily of his old New York partner arrived at the house on their returnfrom the Catskills. Mrs. Von Brakhiem gladly received Christine underher care, feeling that the addition of such a bright star would makeher little constellation one of the most brilliant in the fashionableworld.

  The ladies of the house were now immersed in the excitement of anamateur concert. Mrs. Von Brakhiem, bent upon shining among theforemost, though with a borrowed lustre, assigned Christine a mostprominent part. She half shrank from it, for it recalled unpleasantmemories; but she could not decline without explanations, and so enteredinto the affair with a sort of recklessness.

  The large parlors were filled with chairs, which were soon occupied,and it was evident that in point of attraction elegant toilets wouldvie with the music. Christine came down on her father's arm, dressedlike a princess, and, though her diamonds were few, such were theirsize and brilliancy that they seemed on fire. Every eye followed Mrs.Von Brakhiem's party, and that good lady took half the admiration toherself.

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

  The music was fine, for the amateurs, feeling that they had a criticalaudience, did their best. Christine chose three brilliant, difficult,but heartless pieces as her contribution to the entertainment (shewould not trust herself with anything else); and with somethingapproaching reckless gayety she sought to hide the bitterness at herheart. Her splendid voice and exquisite touch doubled the admirationher beauty and diamonds had excited, and Mrs. Von Brakhiem basked instill stronger reflected light. She took every opportunity to make itknown that she was Miss Ludolph's chaperon.

  After her first effort, the "distinguished" tenor from New York openedhis eyes widely at her; at her second, he put up his eyeglass insomething like astonishment; and the close of her last song found himnervously rummaging a music portfolio in the corner.

  But for Christine the law of association had become too strong, andthe prolonged applause recalled the evening at Miss Brown's when thesame sounds had deafened her, but when turning from it all she hadseen Dennis Fleet standing in rapt attention, his lips parted, hiseyes glowing with such an honest admiration that even then it was worthmore to her than all the clamor. Then, by the same law of association,she again saw that eager, earnest face, changed pale, dead--dead!--andshe the cause. Regardless of the compliments lavished upon her, sheburied her face in her hands and trembled from head to foot.

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

  She lifted a wan and startled face. Must the torturing similarity andstill more torturing contrast of the two occasions be continued? Butshe saw her father regarding her sternly--saw that she was becomingthe subject of curious glances and whispered surmises. Her pride wasaroused at once, and, goaded on by it, she said, "Oh, certainly; I amnot feeling well, but it does not signify."

  "And den," put in the tenor, "dis is von grand occazeon to _you_, for itis so unfrequent dat I find any von vorthy to sing dis style of musicvith _me_."

  "What is the music?" asked Christine, coldly.


  To her horror she found it the same selection from Mendelssohn thatshe 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 hiseyes had an incensed look. For a moment she, too, was angry. Had heno mercy? She was about to decline coldly, but her friends were veryurgent and clamorous--"Please do," "Don't disappoint us," echoing onevery side. The tenor was so surprised and puzzled at her insensibilityto the honor he had conferred, that, to prevent a scene she could notexplain, she went to the piano as if led to the stake.

  But the strain was too great upon her in her suffering state. Thefamiliar notes recalled so vividly the one who once before had sungthem at her side that she turned almost expecting to see him--but sawonly the vain little animated music-machine, who with many contortionswas 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 connectedwith something insignificant and commonplace. The rich, impassionedvoice of the _man_ who sang these words, and who might have taught me tosing the song of a new and happier life, I have silenced forever."

  The thought overpowered her. Just then her part recurred, but her voicedied away in a miserable quaver, and again she buried her face in herhands. Suddenly she sprang from the piano, darted through the low-cutopen window near, and a moment later ordered her startled maid fromthe room, turned the key, and was alone.

  Her father explained coldly to the astonished audience and thehalf-paralyzed tenor (who still stood with his mouth open) that hisdaughter was not at all well that evening, and ought not to haveappeared at all. This Mrs. Von Brakhiem took up and repeated withendless variations. But the evidences of sheer mental distress on thepart of Christine had been too clear, and countless were the whisperedsurmises of the fashionable gossips in explanation.

  Mrs. Von Brakhiem herself, burning with curiosity, soon retired, thatshe might receive from her lovely charge some gushing confidences,which she expected, as a matter of course, would be poured into whatshe chose to regard as her sympathizing ear. But she knocked in vainat 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 notwell--I have retired."

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

  As for Christine, warped and chilled though her nature had been, shewas 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. Througha chain of circumstances for which she was partly to blame, she hadbeen made to suffer as she had not believed was possible. The terriblewords of Mr. Bruder's letter rang continually in her ears--"Mrs. Fleetis not dying a natural death; he has been, slain."

  For many long, weary days the conviction had been growing upon herthat she had indeed slain him and mortally wounded herself. Untilto-night she had kept herself outwardly under restraint, but now thelong pent-up feeling gave way, and she sobbed as if her heart wouldbreak--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 deemedherself; that, however, frightful the consequences of such acts, shewas really not to blame for what she did not intend and could notforesee; more than all, if she could only have known that her worstfears about Dennis were not to be realized, and that he was nowrecovering, she might at once have entered on a new and happier life.But there was no such friend, no such knowledge, and her wounded spiritwas thrown back upon itself.

  At last, robed as she had been for the evening, she fell asleepfrom sheer exhaustion and grief--for grief induces sleep.

  The gems that shone in her dishevelled hair; that rose and fell as atlong intervals her bosom heaved with convulsive sobs, like the fitfulgusts of a storm that is dying away; the costly fabrics she wore--madesad mockery in their contrast with the pale, tear-stained, sufferingface. The hardest heart might have pitied her--yes, even the whollyambitious heart of her father, incensed as he was that a plebeianstranger of this land should have caused such distress.

  When Christine awoke, her pride awoke also. With bitterness of spiritshe recalled the events of the past evening. But a new phase of feelingnow began to manifest itself.

  After her passionate outburst she was much calmer. In this respect theunimpeded flow of feeling had done her good, and, as intimated, ifkindness and sympathy could now have added their gentle ministrations,she might have been the better for it all her life. But, left toherself, she again yielded to the sway of her old and worst traits.Chief among these was pride; and under the influence of this passionand the acute suffering of her unsoothed, unguided spirit, she beganto rebel in impotent anger. She grew hard, cynical, and reckless. Herfather's lack of sympathy and consideration alienated her heart evenfrom him. Left literally alone in the world, her naturally reservednature shut itself up more closely than ever. Even her only friend,Susie Winthrop, drifted away. One other, who might have been--But shecould think of him only with a shudder now. All the rest seemedindifferent, or censorious, or, worse still, to be using her, likeMrs. Von Brakhiem and even her own father, as a stepping-stone to theirpersonal ambition. Christine could not see that she was to blame forthis 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 fact. But with flashing eyes sheresolved that her heart's secrets should not be pried into ahair-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 simplyand solely on the ground that she had not been well, and permit noquestions to be asked.

  Cold and self-possessed, she came down to a late breakfast. Mrs. VonBrakhiem, and others who had been introduced, joined her, but nothingcould penetrate through the nice polished armor of her courteousreserve. Her father looked at her keenly, but she coolly returned hisgaze.

  When alone with her soon afterward, he turned and said, sharply, "Whatdoes all this mean?"

  She looked around as if some one else were near.

  "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 someone else."

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

  She turned on him an indescribable look, and after a moment said ina slow, meaning tone, "Have you not heard my explanation, sir?"

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

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

  The next morning her father bade her "Good-by." In parting he said,meaningly, "Christine, beware!"

  Again she turned upon him that peculiar look, and replied in a low,firm tone: "That recommendation applies to you, also. Let us bothbeware, lest we repent at leisure."

  The wily man, skilled in character, was now thoroughly convinced thatin his daughter he was dealing with a nature very different from hiswife's--that he was now confronted by a spirit as proud and imperiousas his own. He clearly saw that force, threatening, sternness wouldnot answer in this case, and that if he carried his points it must bethrough skill and cunning. By some means he must ever gain her consentand co-operation.

  His manner changed. Instinctively she divined the cause; and hers didnot. Therefore father and daughter parted as father and daughter oughtnever to part.

  After his departure she was to remain at West Point till the seasonclosed, and then accompany Mrs. Von Brakhiem to New York, where shewas to make as long a visit as she chose;--and she chose to make along one. In the scenery, and the society of the officers at WestPoint, and the excitements of the metropolis, she found more to occ
upyher thoughts than she could have done at Chicago. She went deliberatelyto work to kill time and snatch from it such fleeting pleasures as shemight.

  They stayed in the country till the pomp and glory of October beganto illumine the mountains, and then (to Christine's regret) went tothe city. There she entered into every amusement and dissipation thather tastes permitted, and found much pleasure in frequent visits tothe Central Park, although it seemed tame and artificial after thewild grandeur of the mountains. It was well that her nature was sohigh-toned that she found enjoyment in only what was refined orintellectual. Had it been otherwise she might soon have taken, in hermorbid, reckless state, a path to swift and remediless ruin, as manya poor creature all at war with happiness and truth has done. And thusin a giddy whirl of excitement (Mrs. Von Brakhiem'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, ifnothing else. Mrs. Von Brakhiem parted with her regretfully. Wherewould she find such another ally in her determined struggle to betalked about and envied a little more than some other pushing, jostlingvotaries of fashion?

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

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