THE TWO PICTURES
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 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."
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.
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 to 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
should come. 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 was despatched for Dr.
Arten. Ernst, with flying feet, and wild, frightened face, soon reached
his home in De Koven 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 to Dennis, rushed through the streets as if
distracted. Their intense anxiety and warm German feeling 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, and Mr. Ludolph and Dr.
Arten, were around him. 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.
"Oh, 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 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 the
strong instinct to guard his secret, roused himself.
"Is it 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 ill. 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 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 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 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-by."
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.
"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 cast-iron 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 had 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 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 oft-repeated words,
"Cruel, cruel Christine!" the nature of the wound that had nearly
destroyed his life.
Mr. Ludolph was late in reaching his home on the evening after 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 he is 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's 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 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 conscience 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.
"I told you I was tired, and I don't feel well. I have been a month
in constant effort to get this house in order, 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
skillfully 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?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 giving
him lessons, and after working all day he would study much of the night
and paint as soon as the light permitted in the morning. 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 that Dennis was 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 vexed to find that her tendency was
to paint his stern and scornful look, which had made a deeper impression
on her mind than any she had even 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 not at
all 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. 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 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 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 her words were
belied by the hesitating manner and eager face with which she approached
and removed the covering from the canvas.
She gazed a moment and then put out her hand for something by which
to 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 into
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's toil and early work. Here were 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. Stalactites hung glittering from the vaulted roof. Stalagmites
in strange fantastic forms rose to meet them. Vivid brightness and
beauty were on every side, but of that kind that threw a chill on 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 young girl. The flow of the drapery,
the contour of the form, was grace itself, and yet all was ice. But
the face was the most 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 in spite of all its
beauty 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 other
hand hung listless, half open, and from it had dropped a brush that
formed a small stalagmite at her side.
Bending over her in most striking contrast was 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 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 was
full of peace.
Instead of the barren ice, flowers were at her feet, and fruitful trees
bent over her. Birds were seen flitting through their branches. The
bended boughs, her flowing costume, and the tress of golden hair lifted
from her temple, all showed that the summer wind was blowing.
Everything, in contrast with the frozen, death-like cave, indicated
life, activity. Near her, 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. He was pointing,
and her eyes, softened, and yet 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 emotion most unwonted, and in
low tones she murmured: "Heavenly delusion! and taught with the logic
I most dearly love. Oh, 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 artist.
"What have I done in driving him away with contempt in his heart for
me? I can no more affect 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. Oh, this world of chaos
and confusion! What is right? What is best? _What is truth?_ He might
have taught me. But the skilful hand that portrayed those wonderful
scenes may soon turn to dust, and I shall 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 of his large, truthful
eyes, and their walk was a silent one. At parting she handed him a
banknote, 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 she
entered her elegant home as if it had been a prison.