MISS LUDOLPH COMMITS A THEFT
Mr. Ludolph on his return found Christine suffering from a nervous
horror of the smallpox. From the indiscreet and callous maid, intent
on her own safety, and preparing to palliate the cowardice of her
flight should her fears prove true, Christine learned that the city
was full of this loathsome disease, and her feelings were harrowed by
exaggerated instances of its virulent and contagious character.
"But you will surely stay with me," pleaded Christine.
"Mademoiselle could not expect zat."
"Heartless!" muttered Christine. Then she said: "Won't you go for Susie
Winthrop? Oh, how I would like to see her now!"
"She vould not come; no von vould come who knew."
Christine wrung her hands and cried, "Oh, I shall die alone and deserted
of all!"
"No, you shall not," said her father, entering at that moment; "so do
not give way, my dear.--Leave the room, stupid!" (to the maid, who
again gladly escaped, resolving not to re-enter till the case was
decided). "I have secured the best of physicians, and the best of
nurses, and by to-night or to-morrow morning we shall know about what
to expect. I cannot help hoping still that it is only a severe cold."
And he told her of Dennis's offer of his mother's services.
"I am sure I should like her, for somehow I picture to myself a kind,
motherly person. What useful creatures those Fleets are! They are on
hand in emergencies when one so needs help. It seemed very nice to
have young Fleet my humble servant; but really, father, he
deserves promotion."
"He shall have it, and I doubt not will be just as ready to do your
bidding as ever. It is only commonplace people whose heads are turned
by a little prosperity. Fleet knew he was a gentleman before he came
to the store."
"Father, if I should have the smallpox and live, would my beaut--would
I become a fright?"
"Not necessarily. Let us hope for the best. Make the most of the world,
and never endure evils till they come, are my maxims. Half of suffering
is anticipation of possible or probable evil."
"Father," said Christine, abruptly, "I believe you are right, you
_must_ be right, and have given me the best comfort and hope that
truthfully can be given. But this is a strange, cruel world. We seem
the sport of circumstances, the victims of hard, remorseless laws. One
bad person can frightfully injure another person" (a spasm distorted
her father's face). "What accidents may occur! Worst of all are those
horrible, subtle, contagious diseases which, none can see or
guard against! Then to suffer, die, corrupt--faugh! To what a disgusting
end, to what a lame and impotent conclusion, does the noble creature,
man, come! My whole nature revolts at it. For instance, here am I a
young girl, capable of the highest enjoyment, with everything to live
for, and lured forward by the highest hopes and expectations; and yet,
in spite of all the safeguards you can place around me, my path is in
the midst of dangers, and now perhaps I am to be rendered hideous, if
not killed outright, by a disease the very thought of which fills me
with loathing. What I fear _has_ happened, and may happen again. And
what compensation is there for it all?--what can enable one to bear it
all? Oh, that I could believe in a God and a future happier life!"
"And what kind of a God would He be who, having the power to prevent,
permits, or orders, as the Bible teaches, all these evils? I am a man
of the world, and pretend to nothing saint-like or chivalric, but do
you think I am capable of going to Mr. Winthrop and striking down his
daughter Susie with a loathsome disease? And yet if a minister or
priest should come here he would begin to talk about the mysterious
providence, and submission to God's will. If I am to have a God, I
want one at least better than myself."
"You _must_ be right," said Christine, with a weary moan. "There is no
God, and if there were, in view of what you say, I could only hate and
fear Him. How chaotic the world is! But it is hard." After a moment she
added, shudderingly: "_It is horrible_. I did not think of these things
when well."
"Get well and forget them again, my dear. It is the best you can do."
"If I get well," said Christine, almost fiercely, "I shall get the
most I can out of life, cost what it may;" and she turned her face to
the wall.
A logical result of his teaching, but for some reason it awakened in
Mr. Ludolph a vague foreboding.
The hours dragged on, and late in the afternoon the hard-driven
physician appeared, examined his patient, and seemed relieved.
"If there is no change for the worse," he said, cheerily, "if no new
symptoms develop by to-morrow, I can pronounce this merely a severe
cold, caused by the state of the system and too sudden check of
perspiration;" and the doctor gave and opiate and bowed himself out.
Long and heavily Christine slept. The night that Dennis filled with
agonizing prayer and thought was to her a blank. While he in his strong
Christian love brought heaven nearer to her, while he resolved on that
which would give her a chance for life, happy life, here and hereafter,
she was utterly unconscious. No vision or presentiment of good, like
a struggling ray of light, found access to her darkened spirit. So
heavy was the stupor induced by the opiate, that her sleep seemed like
the blank she so feared, when her brilliant, ambitious life should end
in nothingness.
So I suppose God's love meditates good, and resolves on life and joy
for us, while our hearts are sleeping, dead to Him, benumbed and
paralyzed so that only His love can awaken them. Like a vague yet
hope-inspiring dream, this truth often enters the minds of those who
are wrapped in the spiritual lethargy that may end in death. God wakes,
watches, loves, and purposes good for them. When we are most
unconscious, perhaps another effect for our salvation has been resolved
upon in the councils of heaven.
But ambition more than love, earthly hopes rather than heavenly, kept
Mr. Ludolph an anxious watcher at Christine's side that night. A smile
of satisfaction illumined his somewhat haggard face as he saw the fever
pass away and the dew of natural moisture come out on Christine's brow,
but there was no thankful glance upward. Immunity from loathsome disease
was due only to chance and the physician's skill, by his creed.
The sun was shining brightly when Christine awoke and by a faint call
startled her father from a doze in the great armchair.
"How do you feel, my dear?" he asked.
She languidly rubbed her heavy eyes, and said she thought she was
better--she felt no pain. The opiate had not yet lost its effect. But
soon she greatly revived, and when the doctor came he found her
decidedly better, and concluded that she was merely suffering from a
severe cold, and would soon regain her usual health.
Father and daughter were greatly relieved, and their spirits rose.
"I really feel as if I ought to thank somebody," said Christine. "I
am not going to thank the doctor, for I know what a bill is coming,
so I will thank you. It was very kind of you to sit up the long night
with me."
Even Mr. Ludolph had to remember that he had in his anxiety thought
as much of himself as of her.
"Another lease of life," said Christine, dreamily looking into the
future; "and, as I said last night, I mean to make the most of it."
"I can best guide you in doing that," said her father, looking into
his daughter's face with keen scrutiny.
"I believe you, and intend to give you the chance. When can we leave
this detested land, this city of shops and speculators? To think that
I, Christine Ludolph, am sick, idle, and perhaps have endangered all
by reason of foolish exposure in a brewer's tawdry, money-splashed
house! Come, father when is the next scene in the brief drama to open?
I am impatient to go _home_ to our beloved Germany and enter on real
life."
"Well, my dear, if all goes well, we can enter on our true career a
year from next fall--a short year and a half. Do not blame the delay,
for it will enable us to live in Germany in almost royal style. I never
was making money so rapidly as now. I have invested in that which
cannot depreciate, and thus far has advanced beyond belief--buildings
in the business part of the city. Rents are paying me from twenty to
a hundred per cent. At the same time I could sell out in a month. So
you see you have only to co-operate with me--to preserve health and
strength--to enjoy all that money can insure; and money can buy almost
everything."
Christine's eyes sparkled as the future opened before her, and she
said, with emphasis, "If _I_ could preserve health and strength, I would
live a thousand years."
"You can do much toward it. Every chance is in favor of prudence and
wise action;" and, much relieved, her father went to the store.
Business had accumulated, and in complete absorption he gave himself
to it. With an anxiety beyond expression, Dennis, flushed and trembling,
ventured to approach. Merely glancing to see who it was, Mr. Ludolph,
with his head bent over his writing, said, "Miss Ludolph is better--no
fear of smallpox, I think--you need not write to your mother--greatly
obliged."
It was well for Dennis that his employer did not look up. The open
face of Mr. Ludolph's clerk expressed more than friendly interest in
his daughter's health. The young man went to his tasks with a mountain
of fear lifted from his heart.
But the thought of the beloved one lying alone and sick at the hotel
seemed very pathetic to him. Love filled his heart with more sympathy
for Christine upon her luxurious couch, in rapid convalescence, than
for all the hopeless suffering of Chicago. What could he do for her?
She seemed so far off, so high and distant, that he could not reach
her. If he ventured to send anything, prudence whispered that she would
regard it as an impertinence. But love can climb every steep place,
and prudence is not its grand-vizier.
Going by a fruit-store in the afternoon he saw some fine strawberries,
the first in from the South. He bought a basket, decorated it with
German ivy obtained at a flower-stand, and spirited it upstairs to his
room as if it were the most dangerous of contraband. In a disguised
hand he wrote on a card, "For Miss Ludolph." Calling Ernst, who had
little to do at that hour of the day, he said: "Ernst, my boy, take
this parcel to Le Grand Hotel, and say it is for Miss Christine Ludolph.
Tell them to send it right up, but on no account--remember, on no
account--tell any one who sent it. Carry it carefully in just this
manner."
Ernst was soon at his destination, eager to do anything for his friend.
After all, the day had proved a long one for Christine. Unaccustomed
to the restraints of sickness, she found the enforced inaction very
wearisome. Mind and body both seemed weak. The sources of chief
enjoyment when well seemed powerless to contribute much now. In silken
robe she reclined in an arm-chair, or languidly sauntered about the
room. She took up a book only to throw it down again. Her pencil fared
no better. Ennui gave to her fair young face the expression of one who
had tried the world for a century and found it wanting. She was leaning
her elbow on the window-sill, gazing vacantly into the street, when
Ernst appeared.
"Janette," she said, suddenly, "do you see that boy? He is employed
at the store. Go bring him up here; I want him;" and with more animation
than she had shown that day she got out materials for a sketch.
"I must get that boy's face," she said, "before good living destroys
all his artistic merit."
Ernst was unwilling to come, but the maid almost dragged him up.
"What have you got there?" asked Miss Ludolph, with a reassuring smile.
"Something for Miss Ludolph," stammered the boy, looking very much
embarrassed.
Christine carefully opened the parcel and then exclaimed with delight:
"Strawberries, as I live! the very ambrosia of the gods. Papa sent
them, did he not?"
"No," said the boy, hanging his head.
"Who did, then?" said Christine, looking at him keenly.
He shuffled uneasily, but made no answer.
"Come, I insist on knowing," she cried, her wilful spirit and curiosity
both aroused.
The boy was pale and frightened, and she was mentally taking notes of
his face. But he said, doggedly, "I can't tell."
"But I say you must. Don't you know that I am Miss Ludolph?"
"I don't care what you do to me," said the little fellow, beginning
to cry, "I won't tell."
"Why won't you tell, my boy?" said Christine, cunningly, in a wheedling
tone of voice.
Before he knew it, the frightened, bewildered boy fell into the trap,
and he sobbed, "Because Mr. Fleet told me not to, and I wouldn't disobey
him to save my life."
A look of surprise, and then a broad smile, stole over the young girl's
face--at the gift, the messenger, and at him who sent it. It was indeed
a fresh and unexpected little episode, breaking the monotony of the
day--as fresh and pleasing to her as one of the luscious berries so
grateful to her parched mouth.
"You need not tell me," she said, soothingly, "if Mr. Fleet told you
not to."
The boy saw the smile, and in a moment realized that he had been tricked
out of the forbidden knowledge.
His little face glowed with honest indignation, and looking straight
at Miss Ludolph, with his great eyes flashing through the tears, he
said, "You stole that from me."
Even she colored a little and bit her lip under the merited charge.
But all this made him all the more interesting as an art study, and
she was now sketching away rapidly. She coolly replied, however, "You
don't know the world very well yet, my little man."
The boy said nothing, but stood regarding her with his unnaturally
large eyes filled with anger, reproach, and wonder.
"Oh," thought Christine, "if I could only paint that expression!"
"You seem a great friend of Mr. Fleet," she said, studying and sketching
him as if he had been an inanimate object.
The boy made no answer.
"Perhaps you do not know that I am a friend--friendly," she added,
correcting herself, "to Mr. Fleet also."
"Mr. Fleet never likes to have his friends do wrong," said the boy,
doubtingly.
Again she colored a little, for Ernst's pure and reproachful face made
her feel that she had done a mean thing, but she laughed said: "You
see I am not in his mission class, and have never had the instruction
that you have. But, after all, why do you think Mr. Fleet better than
other people?"
"By what he does."
"That is a fair test; what has he done?"
"He saved us all from starving, and worse than starving."
Then with feminine tact she drew from him his story, and it was told
with deep feeling and the natural pathos of childhood, and his gratitude
caused him to dwell with a simple eloquence on the part Dennis had
taken, while his rich and loved German accent made it all the more
interesting to Christine. She dropped her pencil, and, when he finished,
her eyes, that were seldom moistened by the dew of sympathy, were wet.
"Good-by, my child," she said, in a voice so kind and sweet that it
seemed as if another person had spoken. "You shall come again, and
then I shall finish my sketch. When I get well I shall go to see your
father's picture. Do not be afraid; neither you nor Mr. Fleet will
fare the worse for the strawberries, and you may tell him that they
have done me much good."
When Dennis, wondering at Ernst's long absence, heard from him his
story, his mind was in a strange tumult, and yet the result of his
effort seemed favorable. But he learned more fully than ever that
Christine was not perfect, and that her faultless beauty and taste
were but the fair mask of a deformed spirit. But he dwelt in hope on
the feeling she had shown at Ernst's story.
"She seemed to have two hearts," said the boy--"a good, kind one way
inside the cold, hard outside one."
"That is about the truth," thought Dennis. "Good-night, Ernst. I don't
blame you, my boy, for you did the best you could."
He had done better than Dennis knew.