BEGUILED
Dennis returned to his room greatly perplexed. There was something in
Christine's actions which he could not understand. From the time of
their first conversation at Miss Winthrop's, she had evidently felt
and acted differently. If her heart remained cold and untouched, if
as yet neither faith nor love had any existence therein, what was the
inspiring motive? Why should deep discouragement change suddenly to
assured hope?
Then again her manner was equally inexplicable. From that same evening
she gave him more encouragement than he had even hoped to receive for
months, but yet he made no progress. She seemed to enjoy meeting him,
and constantly found opportunity to do so. Her eyes were continually
seeking his face, but there was something in her manner in this respect
that puzzled him more than anything else. She often seemed looking at
his face, rather than at _him_. At first Christine had been furtive
and careful in her observations, but as the habit grew upon her, and
her interest increased, she would sometimes gaze so steadily that poor
Dennis was deeply embarrassed. Becoming conscious of this, she would
herself color slightly, and be more careful for a time.
In her eagerness for success, Christine did not realize how dangerous
an experiment she was trying. She could not look upon such a face as
Dennis Fleet's, eloquent with that which should never fail to touch
a woman's heart with sympathy, and then forget it when she chose.
Moreover, though she knew it not, in addition to her interest in him
as an art study, his strong, positive nature affected her cool, negative
one most pleasantly. His earnest manifested feeling fell like sunlight
on a heart benumbed with cold.
Thus, under the stimulus of his presence, she found that she could
paint or sketch to much better purpose than when alone. This knowledge
made her rejoice in secret over the opportunity she could now have,
as Dennis again assisted her in hanging pictures, and affixing to the
walls ornaments of various kinds.
Coming to him one morning in the store, she said, "I am going to ask
a favor of you again."
Dennis looked as if she were conferring the greatest of favors. His
face always lighted up when she spoke to him.
"It is very kind of you to ask so pleasantly for what you can command,"
he said.
"To something of the same effect you answered before, and the result
was the disagreeable experience at Miss Brown's."
Dennis's brow contracted a little, but he said, heroically, "I will
go to Miss Brown's again if you wish it."
"How self-sacrificing you are!" she replied, with a half-mischievous
smile.
"Not as much so as you imagine," he answered, flushing slightly.
"Well, set your mind at rest on that score. Though not very merciful,
as you know, I would put no poor soul through that ordeal again. In
this case you will only have to encounter one of the tormentors you
met on that occasion, and I will try to vouch for her better behavior."
Then she added, seriously: "I hope you will not think the task beneath
you. You do not seem to have much of the foolish pride that stands in
the way of so many Americans, and then"--looking at him with a pleading
face--"I have so set my heart upon it, and it would be such a
disappointment if you were unwilling!"
"You need waste no more ammunition on one ready to surrender at
discretion," he said.
"Very well; then I shall treat you with all the rigors of a prisoner
of war. I shall carry you away captive to my new castle on the north
side and put you at your old menial task of hanging pictures and
decorating in various ways. As eastern sovereigns built their palaces
and adorned their cities by the labors of those whom the fortunes of
war threw into their hands, so your skill and taste shall be useful
to me; and I, your head task-mistress," she added, with her insinuating
smile, "will be ever present to see that there is no idling, nothing
but monotonous toil. Had you not better have stood longer in the
defensive?"
Dennis held out his hands in mock humility and said: "I am ready for
my chains. You shall see with what fortitude I endure my captivity."
"It is well that you should show it somewhere, for you have not done
so in your resistance. But I parole you on your honor, to report at
such times as I shall indicate and papa can spare you;" and with a
smile and a lingering look that seemed, as before, directed to his
face rather than himself, she passed out.
That peculiar look often puzzled him, and at times he would go to a
glass and see if there was anything wrong or unusual in his appearance.
But now his hopes rose higher than ever. She had been very gracious,
certainly, and invited intimate companionship. Dennis felt that she
must have read his feelings in his face and manner, and, to his
ingenuous nature, any encouragement seemed to promise all he hoped.
For a week after this he scarcely saw her, for she was very busy making
preliminary arrangements for the occupation of her new home. But one
afternoon she suddenly appeared, and said, with affected severity,
"Report to-mor-row at nine A.M."
Dennis bowed humbly. She gave him a pleasant smile over her shoulder,
and passed away as quickly as she had come. It seemed like a vision
to him, and only a trace of her favorite perfume (which indeed ever
seemed more an atmosphere than a perfume) remained as evidence that
she had been there.
At five minutes before the time on the following day he appeared at
the new Ludolph mansion. From an open window Christine beckoned him
to enter, and welcomed him with characteristic words--"In view of your
foolish surrender to my power, remember that you have no rights that
I am bound to respect."
"I throw myself on your mercy."
"I have already told you that I do not possess that trait; so prepare
for the worst."
She was dressed in some light summer fabric, and her rounded arms and
neck were partially bare. She looked so white and cool, so
self-possessed, and, with all her smiles, so devoid of warm human
feeling, that Dennis felt a sudden chill at heart. The ancient fable
of the sirens occurred to him. Might she not be luring him on to his
own destruction? At times he almost hoped that she loved him; again,
something in her manner caused him to doubt everything. But there were
not, as in the case of Ulysses and his crew, friendly hands to bind
and restrain, or to put wax in his ears, and soon the music of her
voice, the strong enchantment of the love she had inspired, banished
all thought of prudence. His passion was now becoming a species of
intoxication, a continued and feverish excitement, and its influence
was unhappy on mind and body. There was no rest, peace, or assurance
in it, and the uncertainty, the tantalizing inability to obtain a
definite satisfying word, and yet the apparent nearness of the prize,
wore upon him. Sometimes, when late at night he sat brooding over his
last interview, weighing with the nice scale of a lover's anxiety her
every look and even accent, his own haggard face would startle him.
Then again her influence was not morally good, and his interest declined
in everything save what was connected with her.
Conscience at times told him that he was more bent on gaining her love
for himself than in winning it for God. He satisfied himself by trying
to reason that when he had won her affection his power for good would
be greater, and thus, while he ever sought to look and suggest his own
love in nameless little ways, he made less and less effort to remind
her of a better love than even his. Moreover, she never encouraged any
approach to sacred themes, sometimes repelling it decidedly, and so,
though he would scarcely acknowledge it, the traitorous fear sprung
up, that in speaking of God's love he might mar his chances of speaking
of his own.
In the retirement of his own room, his reveries grew longer, and his
prayers shorter and less inspired by faith and earnestness. At the
mission school, Susie Winthrop noticed with regret that the lesson was
often given in a listless, preoccupied manner; and even the little
boys themselves missed something in the teacher once so interesting
and animated. From witnessing his manner when with Christine, Miss
Winthrop had more than suspected his secret for some time, and she
felt at first a genuine sympathy for him, believing his love to be
hopeless. From the first she had found Dennis very fascinating, but
when she read his secret in his ardent glances toward Christine, she
became conscious that her interest was rather greater than passing
acquaintance warranted, and, like the good, sensible girl that she
was, fought to the death the incipient fancy. At first she felt that
he ought to know that Christine was pledged to a future that would
render his love vain. But her own feelings made her so exceedingly
sensitive that it was impossible to attempt so difficult and delicate
a task. Then, as Christine seemed to smile upon him, she said to
herself: "After all, what is their plan, but a plan, and to me a very
chimerical one? Perhaps Mr. Fleet can give Christine a far better
chance of happiness than her father's ambition. And, after all, these
are matters in which no third person can interfere." So, while remaining
as cordial as ever, she prudently managed to see very little of Dennis.
As we have seen, under Christine's merry and half-bantering words (a
style of conversation often assumed with him), even the thought of
caution vanished. She led him over the moderately large and partially
furnished house. There were women cleaning, and mechanics at work on
some of the rooms. As they passed along she explained the nature of
the decorations she wished. They consisted largely of rich carvings
in wood, and unique frames.
"I wish you to help me design these, and see that they are properly
put up, and to superintend the fresco-painters and mechanics in general.
Indeed, I think you are more truly my prime-minister than my captive."
"Not less your captive," said Dennis, with a flush.
She gave him a bewildering smile, and then studied its effect upon
him. He was in Elysium, and his eyes glowed with delight at her presence
and the prospect before him. At last she led him into two large
apartments on the second floor that opened into each other, and said,
"These are my rooms; that yonder is my studio," as was evident from
the large easel with canvas prepared upon it.
They at once had to Dennis all the sacredness of a shrine.
"I intend to make these rooms like two beautiful pictures," said
Christine, "and here shall be the chief display of your taste."
Dennis could scarcely believe his ears, or realize that the cold,
beautiful girl who a few short months ago did not notice him now
voluntarily gave him such opportunities to urge his suit. The success
that a man most covets seemed assured, and his soul was intoxicated
with delight. He said, "You intimated that my tasks might be menial,
but I feel as I imagine a Greek artist must have done, when asked to
decorate the temple of a goddess."
"I think I told you once before that your imagination overshadowed
your other faculties."
Her words recalled the painted girl whom she by a strange coincidence
so strongly resembled. To his astonishment he saw the same striking
likeness again. Christine was looking at him with the laughing, scornful
expression that the German lady bent upon the awkward lover who kneeled
at her feet. His face darkened in an instant.
"Have I offended you?" she asked, gently; "I remember now you did not
admire that picture."
"I liked everything about it save the expression of the girl's face.
I think you will also remember that I said that such a face should be
put to nobler uses."
Christine flushed slightly, and for a moment was positively afraid of
him. She saw that she must be more careful, for she was dealing with
one of quick eye and mind. At the same time her conscience reproached
her again. The more she saw of him the more she realized how sincere
and earnest he was; how different from ordinary society-men, to whom
an unsuccessful suit to a fair lady is a mere annoyance. But she was
not one to give up a purpose readily for the sake of conscience or
anything else, and certainly not now, when seemingly on the point of
success. So she said, with a slight laugh, "Do not compare me to any
of those old pagan myths again;" and having thus given a slight reason,
or excuse, for her unfortunate expression, she proceeded to beguile
him more thoroughly than ever by the subtile witchery of smiles,
glances, and words, that might mean everything or nothing.
"You seem to have a study on your easel there," said Dennis, as they
stood together in the studio. "May I see it?"
"No," said she; "you are to see nothing till you see a triumph in the
portrayal of feeling and lifelike earnestness that even your critical
eye cannot condemn."
She justly feared that, should he see her work, he might discover her
plan; for, however she might disguise it, something suggesting himself
entered into all her studies.
"I hope you will succeed, but doubt it."
"Why?" she asked, quickly.
"Because we cannot portray what we cannot feel. The stream cannot rise
higher than its fountain." Then he added, with heightened color and
some hesitation, "I fear--your heart is still sleeping"; and he watched
with deep anxiety how she would take the questioning remark.
At first she flushed almost angrily; but, recovering self-possession
in a moment, she threw upon him an arch smile, suggesting all that a
lover could wish, and said: "Be careful, Mr. Fleet; you are seeking
to penetrate mysteries that we most jealously guard. You know that in
the ancient temple there was an inner sanctuary which none might enter."
"Yes, _one_ might," said Dennis, significantly.
With her long lashes she veiled the dark blue eyes that expressed
anything but tender feeling, and yet, so shaded, they appeared as a
lover would wish, and in a low tone she answered, "Well, he could not
enter when he would, only when permitted."
She raised her eyes quickly to see the effect; and she did see an
effect that she would have given thousands to be able to transfer to
canvas.
His face, above all she had ever seen, seemed designed to express
feeling, passion; and his wearing life had made it so thin, and his
eyes were so large and lustrous, that the spiritual greatly
predominated, and she felt as if she could almost see the throbs of
the strong, passionate heart.
Apart from her artistic purposes, contact with such warm, intense life
had for Christine a growing fascination. She had not realized that in
kindling and fanning this flame of honest love to sevenfold power and
heat, she might be kindled herself. When, therefore, she saw the face
of Dennis Fleet eloquent with the deepest, strongest feeling that human
features can portray, another chord than the artistic one was touched,
and there was a low, faint thrill of that music which often becomes
the sweetest harmony of life.
"And at some time in the future may I hope to enter?" he asked,
tremulously.
She threw him another smile over her shoulder as she turned to her
easel--a smile that from a true woman would mean, You may, but which
from many would mean nothing, and said, vaguely, "What is life without
hope?" and then, as matters were going too fast and far, decisively
changed the subject.
Seated at her easel she painted eagerly and rapidly, while he measured
the space over and around the fireplace with a view to its
ornamentation. She kept the conversation on the general subject of
art, and, though Dennis knew it not, every glance at his face was that
of a portrait-painter.