REMORSE
Christine had a peculiar experience while at West Point. She saw on
every side what would have brought her the choicest enjoyment, had her
mind been at rest. To her artist nature, and with her passion and power
for sketching, the Highlands on the Hudson were paradise. But though
she saw in profusion what once would have delighted her, and what she
now felt ought to be the source of almost unmingled happiness, she was
still thoroughly wretched. It was the old fable of Tantalus repeating
itself. Her sin and its results had destroyed her receptive power. The
world offered her pleasures on every side; she longed to enjoy them,
but could not, for her heart was preoccupied--filled and overflowing
with fear, remorse, and a sorrow she could not define.
A vain, shallow girl might soon have forgotten such an experience as
Christine had passed through. Such a creature would have been
sentimental 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 plume
themselves on the fact that one had died from love of them. But in
justice to all such it should be said that they rarely have mind enough
to realize the evil they do. Their vanity overshadows every other
faculty, and almost destroys those sweet, pitiful, unselfish qualities
which 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 not
this small vanity. She did not appreciate the situation fully, but she
was unsparing in her self-condemnation.
If Dennis had been an ordinary man, and interested her no more than
had other admirers, and had she given him no more encouragement, she
would have shrugged her shoulders over the result and said she was
very sorry he had made such a fool of himself.
But as she went over the past (and this now she often did), she saw
that he was unusually gifted; nay, more, the picture she discovered
in the loft of the store proved him possessed of genius of a high
order. And such a man she had deceived, tortured, and even killed!
This was the verdict of her own conscience, the assertion of his own
lips. She remembered the wearing life of alternate hope and fear she
had caused him. She remembered how eagerly he hung on her smiles and
sugared nothings, and how her equally causeless frowns would darken
all the world to him. She saw day after day how she had developed in
a strong, true heart, with its native power to love unimpaired, the
most intense passion, and all that her own lesser light might burn a
little 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 even
in death looked upon her with unutterable reproach. In addition to the
misery caused by her remorse, there was a deeper bitterness still.
Within the depths of her soul a voice told her that the picture was
true; that he might have awakened her, and led her out into the warmth
and 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 the
world seemed to her utter chaos--a place of innumerable paths leading
nowhere; and her own hands had broken the clew that might have brought
her to something assured and satisfactory. She was very wretched, for
her life seemed but a little point between disappointment on one side
and the blackness of death and nothingness on the other. The very
beauty of the landscapes about her often increased her pain. She felt
that a few weeks ago she would have enjoyed them keenly, and found in
their transference to canvas a source of unfailing pleasure. With a
conscious blush she thought that if he were present to encourage, to
stimulate her, by the very vitality of his earnest, loving nature, she
would be in the enjoyment of paradise itself. In a word, she saw the
heaven she could not enter.
To the degree that she had mind, heart, conscience, and an intense
desire for true happiness, she was unhappy. Dress, dancing, the passing
admiration of society, the pleasures of a merely fashionable life,
seemed less and less satisfactory. She was beyond them, as children
outgrow their toys, because she had a native superiority to them, and
yet they seemed her best resource. She had all her old longing to
pursue her art studies, and everything about her stimulated her to
this, but her heart and hand appeared paralyzed. She was in just that
condition, mental and moral, in which she could do nothing well.
And so the days passed in futile efforts to forget--to drown in almost
reckless gayety--the voices of conscience and memory. But she only
remembered all the more vividly; she only saw the miserable truth all
the more clearly. She suffered more in her torturing consciousness
than Dennis in his wild delirium.
After they had been at the hotel about a week, Mr. Ludolph received
letters that made his speedy return necessary. On the same day the
family of his old New York partner arrived at the house on their return
from the Catskills. Mrs. Von Brakhiem gladly received Christine under
her care, feeling that the addition of such a bright star would make
her little constellation one of the most brilliant in the fashionable
world.
The ladies of the house were now immersed in the excitement of an
amateur concert. Mrs. Von Brakhiem, bent upon shining among the
foremost, though with a borrowed lustre, assigned Christine a most
prominent part. She half shrank from it, for it recalled unpleasant
memories; but she could not decline without explanations, and so entered
into 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 would
vie with the music. Christine came down on her father's arm, dressed
like a princess, and, though her diamonds were few, such were their
size and brilliancy that they seemed on fire. Every eye followed Mrs.
Von Brakhiem's party, and that good lady took half the admiration to
herself.
A superior tenor, with an unpronounceable foreign name, had come up
from New York to grace the occasion. But personally he lacked every
grace himself, his fine voice being the one thing that redeemed him
from utter insignificance in mind and appearance. Nevertheless he was
vain beyond measure, and made the most of himself on all occasions.
The music was fine, for the amateurs, feeling that they had a critical
audience, did their best. Christine chose three brilliant, difficult,
but heartless pieces as her contribution to the entertainment (she
would not trust herself with anything else); and with something
approaching reckless gayety she sought to hide the bitterness at her
heart. Her splendid voice and exquisite touch doubled the admiration
her beauty and diamonds had excited, and Mrs. Von Brakhiem basked in
still stronger reflected light. She took every opportunity to make it
known that she was Miss Ludolph's chaperon.
After her first effort, the "distinguished" tenor from New York opened
his eyes widely at her; at her second, he put up his eyeglass in
something like astonishment; and the close of her last song found him
nervously rummaging a music portfolio in the corner.
But for Christine the law of association had become too strong, and
the prolonged applause recalled the evening at Miss Brown's when the
same sounds had deafened her, but when turning from it all she had
seen Dennis Fleet standing in rapt attention, his lips parted, his
eyes glowing with such an honest admiration that even then it was worth
more to her than all the clamor. Then, by the same law of association,
she again saw that eager, earnest face, changed pale, dead--dead!--and
she the cause. Regardless of the compliments lavished upon her, she
buried her face in her hands and trembled from head to foot.
But the irrepressible tenor had found what he wanted, and now came
forward asking that Miss Ludolph would sing a duet with him.
She lifted a wan and startled face. Must the torturing similarity and
still more torturing contrast of the two occasions be continued? But
she saw her father regarding her sternly--saw that she was becoming
the subject of curious glances and whispered surmises. Her pride was
aroused at once, and, goaded on by it, she said, "Oh, certainly; I am
not feeling well, but it does not signify."
"And den," put in the tenor, "dis is von grand occazeon to _you_, for it
is so unfrequent dat I find any von vorthy to sing dis style of music
vith _me_."
"What is the music?" asked Christine, coldly.
To her horror she found it the same selection from Mendelssohn that
she 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 his
eyes had an incensed look. For a moment she, too, was angry. Had he
no mercy? She was about to decline coldly, but her friends were very
urgent and clamorous--"Please do," "Don't disappoint us," echoing on
every side. The tenor was so surprised and puzzled at her insensibility
to the honor he had conferred, that, to prevent a scene she could not
explain, she went to the piano as if led to the stake.
But the strain was too great upon her in her suffering state. The
familiar notes recalled so vividly the one who once before had sung
them at her side that she turned almost expecting to see him--but saw
only the vain little animated music-machine, who with many contortions
was 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 connected
with something insignificant and commonplace. The rich, impassioned
voice of the _man_ who sang these words, and who might have taught me to
sing the song of a new and happier life, I have silenced forever."
The thought overpowered her. Just then her part recurred, but her voice
died away in a miserable quaver, and again she buried her face in her
hands. Suddenly she sprang from the piano, darted through the low-cut
open window near, and a moment later ordered her startled maid from
the room, turned the key, and was alone.
Her father explained coldly to the astonished audience and the
half-paralyzed tenor (who still stood with his mouth open) that his
daughter was not at all well that evening, and ought not to have
appeared at all. This Mrs. Von Brakhiem took up and repeated with
endless variations. But the evidences of sheer mental distress on the
part of Christine had been too clear, and countless were the whispered
surmises of the fashionable gossips in explanation.
Mrs. Von Brakhiem herself, burning with curiosity, soon retired, that
she might receive from her lovely charge some gushing confidences,
which she expected, as a matter of course, would be poured into what
she chose to regard as her sympathizing ear. But she knocked in vain
at 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 not
well--I have retired."
He turned on his heel and strode away, and that night drank more brandy
and water than was good for him.
As for Christine, warped and chilled though her nature had been, she
was 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. Through
a chain of circumstances for which she was partly to blame, she had
been made to suffer as she had not believed was possible. The terrible
words of Mr. Bruder's letter rang continually in her ears--"Mrs. Fleet
is not dying a natural death; he has been, slain."
For many long, weary days the conviction had been growing upon her
that she had indeed slain him and mortally wounded herself. Until
to-night she had kept herself outwardly under restraint, but now the
long pent-up feeling gave way, and she sobbed as if her heart would
break--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 deemed
herself; that, however, frightful the consequences of such acts, she
was really not to blame for what she did not intend and could not
foresee; more than all, if she could only have known that her worst
fears about Dennis were not to be realized, and that he was now
recovering, she might at once have entered on a new and happier life.
But there was no such friend, no such knowledge, and her wounded spirit
was thrown back upon itself.
At last, robed as she had been for the evening, she fell asleep
from sheer exhaustion and grief--for grief induces sleep.
The gems that shone in her dishevelled hair; that rose and fell as at
long intervals her bosom heaved with convulsive sobs, like the fitful
gusts of a storm that is dying away; the costly fabrics she wore--made
sad mockery in their contrast with the pale, tear-stained, suffering
face. The hardest heart might have pitied her--yes, even the wholly
ambitious heart of her father, incensed as he was that a plebeian
stranger of this land should have caused such distress.
When Christine awoke, her pride awoke also. With bitterness of spirit
she recalled the events of the past evening. But a new phase of feeling
now began to manifest itself.
After her passionate outburst she was much calmer. In this respect the
unimpeded flow of feeling had done her good, and, as intimated, if
kindness and sympathy could now have added their gentle ministrations,
she might have been the better for it all her life. But, left to
herself, she again yielded to the sway of her old and worst traits.
Chief among these was pride; and under the influence of this passion
and the acute suffering of her unsoothed, unguided spirit, she began
to rebel in impotent anger. She grew hard, cynical, and reckless. Her
father's lack of sympathy and consideration alienated her heart even
from him. Left literally alone in the world, her naturally reserved
nature shut itself up more closely than ever. Even her only friend,
Susie Winthrop, drifted away. One other, who might have been--But she
could think of him only with a shudder now. All the rest seemed
indifferent, or censorious, or, worse still, to be using her, like
Mrs. Von Brakhiem and even her own father, as a stepping-stone to their
personal ambition. Christine could not see that she was to blame for
this 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 she
resolved that her heart's secrets should not be pried into a
hair-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 simply
and solely on the ground that she had not been well, and permit no
questions to be asked.
Cold and self-possessed, she came down to a late breakfast. Mrs. Von
Brakhiem, and others who had been introduced, joined her, but nothing
could penetrate through the nice polished armor of her courteous
reserve. Her father looked at her keenly, but she coolly returned his
gaze.
When alone with her soon afterward, he turned and said, sharply, "What
does 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 some
one else."
"Nonsense! I was speaking to you. What does all this mean?"
She turned on him an indescribable look, and after a moment said in
a slow, meaning tone, "Have you not heard my explanation, sir?"
Such was her manner, he felt he could as easily strike her as say
another 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 both
beware, lest we repent at leisure."
The wily man, skilled in character, was now thoroughly convinced that
in his daughter he was dealing with a nature very different from his
wife's--that he was now confronted by a spirit as proud and imperious
as his own. He clearly saw that force, threatening, sternness would
not answer in this case, and that if he carried his points it must be
through skill and cunning. By some means he must ever gain her consent
and co-operation.
His manner changed. Instinctively she divined the cause; and hers did
not. Therefore father and daughter parted as father and daughter ought
never to part.
After his departure she was to remain at West Point till the season
closed, and then accompany Mrs. Von Brakhiem to New York, where she
was to make as long a visit as she chose;--and she chose to make a
long one. In the scenery, and the society of the officers at West
Point, and the excitements of the metropolis, she found more to occupy
her thoughts than she could have done at Chicago. She went deliberately
to work to kill time and snatch from it such fleeting pleasures as she
might.
They stayed in the country till the pomp and glory of October began
to illumine the mountains, and then (to Christine's regret) went to
the city. There she entered into every amusement and dissipation that
her tastes permitted, and found much pleasure in frequent visits to
the Central Park, although it seemed tame and artificial after the
wild grandeur of the mountains. It was well that her nature was so
high-toned that she found enjoyment in only what was refined or
intellectual. Had it been otherwise she might soon have taken, in her
morbid, reckless state, a path to swift and remediless ruin, as many
a poor creature all at war with happiness and truth has done. And thus
in 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, if
nothing else. Mrs. Von Brakhiem parted with her regretfully. Where
would she find such another ally in her determined struggle to be
talked about and envied a little more than some other pushing, jostling
votaries of fashion?
In languor or sleep Christine made the journey, and in the dusk of a
winter's day her father drove her to their beautiful home, which from
association was now almost hateful to her. Still she was too weary to
think or suffer much. They met each other very politely, and their
intercourse assumed at once its wonted character of high-bred courtesy,
though perhaps it was a little more void of manifested sympathy and
affection than before.
Several days elapsed in languid apathy, the natural reaction of past
excitement; then an event occurred which most thoroughly aroused her.