DOCTOR ARTEN STRUCK BY LIGHTNING
Hastening down into the body of the church, Dennis and Christine found
Mrs. Leonard lying on some cushions in a pew. She was scantily clad,
her sweet face scorched and blackened, and her beautiful hair almost
crisped away.
Her husband was bending over her in an agony of mingled grief and joy.
She had just been brought in from wandering aimlessly and alone quite
out upon the prairie, singing in a low, plaintive way to herself words
suggested by the sudden disaster that had temporarily robbed her of
husband, of reason, and almost of life.
Dennis afterward learned from Professor Leonard that when first aroused
they had escaped from the hotel, but, not realizing the danger, he had
stepped back a moment at her request to get something she valued very
much, and they had become separated.
"And thus at last I find the poor child," he cried, with a look of
agony.
Mrs. Leonard did not know any of them, but continued her low, plaintive
singing.
Dr. Arten, who had found his way to the church as one of the centres,
was soon in attendance, his benevolent face becoming the very embodiment
of pity. The crowd were pushed back, and with other kind ladies
Christine took charge of her poor unconscious friend, and all was done
that skill and tender love could suggest. At last, under the doctor's
opiates, her low, weird singing ceased, and she slept, her husband
holding her hand. The thronging fugitives were kept a little away, and
Dr. Arten slept near, to be within call.
A lady asked Christine to go home with her, but she thanked her and
said, "No, I would rather remain in the church near my friends."
Dennis saw that she was greatly wearied. Taking her hand, he said:
"Miss Ludolph, it is my turn to take care of you again. See, our friends
are preparing a place there for the ladies to sleep. Please go to rest
at once, for you do indeed need it."
"I am very tired, but I know I could not sleep. How strange this life
is! All day, the world, in spite of what has happened, seemed growing
brighter. Now with the night has come the deeper darkness of sorrow.
On every side pain and suffering seem to predominate, and to me there
will ever be so much mystery in events like my father's death and my
friend Susie's experience, that I know it will be hard to maintain a
childlike faith."
"God will help you to trust; you will not be left to struggle alone.
Then remember you are His child, and earthly parents do much that
little children cannot understand."
With a faint smile she answered: "I fear I shall be one of those
troublesome children that are ever asking why. All day it has seemed
so easy to be a Christian, but already I learn that there will be times
when I shall have to cling to my Saviour, instead of being carried
forward in His arms. Indeed, I almost fear that I shall lose Him in
the darkness."
"But He will not lose you," replied Dennis. "Since you are not sleepy,
let me tell you a short Bible story."
"Oh, do, please do, just as if I were a little child."
"It is in the New Testament. Jesus had sent His disciples in a boat
across the sea of Galilee, while He should go up alone on a mountain
to pray. The night came, and with it a storm swept down against the
disciples. The smooth sea was lashed into great foam-crested waves
which broke over their little ship. They tugged hour after hour at
the oars, but in vain. The night grew darker, the wind more contrary,
the waves higher and more threatening, their arms wearied, and they
may have feared that they would perish alone and without remedy in the
black midnight. But we read that 'He saw them toiling in rowing,'
though they knew it not. From the distant mountain side 'He saw
them'--marked every weary stroke of the oar, and every throb of fear.
But at last, when they were most ready to welcome Him, when none could
say, 'We should have rowed through the storm alone,' He came to them
walking safely on the dark waves that threatened them with death, and
said, 'Be of good cheer, it is I; be not afraid.' Then they gladly
received Him into the ship, and immediately the rough waves were hushed,
and the keel of the boat grated on the beach toward which they had
vainly rowed. Then they that were in the ship came and worshipped Him,
saying, 'Of a truth thou art the Son of God.'
"Now it was on the evening of that very night that these same disciples
had engaged in a scene of festivity. They had stood in the sunset on
the mountain slope, and seen their Lord feed many thousand. Then all
was peace, safety, and good cheer. Life changed as quickly for them
as for you, but did not their Divine Master see them as truly in the
stormy night as in the sunlight? Did He leave them to perish?
"He is watching you, Miss Ludolph, for He is ever the same; and before
this stormy night of your sorrow passes away you will hear His voice,
saying, 'Be of good cheer, it is I; be not afraid.'"
"Already I hear it," she said, in a low, glad voice, smiling through
her tears. "I can, I do trust Him, and the conflicting winds of doubt
and fear are becoming still. Among all these homeless people there
must be many sad, discouraged hearts. You have helped me so much; can
you not say a word or sing something that will help them?"
Dennis thought a moment, and then, in a sweet, clear voice that
penetrated every part of the large building, sang:
"Father in Heaven, the night is around us,
Terror and danger our portion have been;
We cry unto Thee, oh, save and defend us,
Comfort the trembling, and pardon our sin.
"Hearts that are heavy, look onward and upward;
Though wild was the storm that wrecked your loved homes,
Faith lifts your sad glances hopefully heavenward,
To mansions prepared with glory-crowned domes.
"Hearts that are breaking, whose lov'd ones have vanished,
Swept down in the seething ocean of fire,
E'en now they may rest where pain is all banished,
And join their glad songs with the heavenly choir.
"Hearts that are groaning with life's weary burden,
Who fear to go forward, to sorrow a prey;
Jesus invites you--'Oh, come, heavy laden';
Leave sin at His feet, bear mercy away."
After the first line there was a breathless hush; but, when he closed,
low sobbings might be heard from many of the women, and in the dim
light not a few tears shone in the eyes of manhood. Dennis's voice was
sympathetic in its character, and he had the power of throwing into
it much feeling.
Christine was weeping quietly, but her tears now were like the warm
spring rain as it falls on the precious seed. At last she said, "You
have done these people much good."
"To you belongs all the credit, for it was at your suggestion I sang."
She shook her head, and then said, "Good-night, my friend, I shall
never forget this day with its mingled experience; but I think, I hope,
I shall never doubt God again;" and she went to her rest.
The light of the next day brought to view many hard realities, and
chief among these was the bread question. Dennis was up with the dawn,
and by eager inquiries sought to comprehend the situation. Some were
gloomy and discouraged, some apathetic, and some determined, courageous,
and hopeful; and to this last class he belonged.
Most thankful that he had come out of the fiery ordeal unscathed, he
resolved to contribute his quota toward a new and better Chicago.
Young, and sanguine in temperament, he already saw the city rise from
its ashes in statelier proportions and richer prosperity. With a thrill
of exultation he heard the report that some Napoleonic business men
had already telegraphed for building material, and were even now
excavating the hot ruins.
Christine had hardly joined him as he stood at the door when a gentleman
entered and asked, "Who here are willing and able to work for fair
wages?"
"I am at your service," said Dennis, stepping forward promptly.
"You are a gentleman, sir," said the speaker, impressed with the fact
by Dennis's bearing, though his hat and coat were gone; "I need laborers
who can handle the pick and shovel."
"I will work for less, then, till I can handle these tools as well as
a laborer. There is no reason why I should eat the bread of charity
a day longer, especially when so many need it more than I."
"I said you were a gentleman; I now say you are a man, and that to me
means a great deal more," said the energetic stranger. "You shall have
two dollars a day with the rest."
He turned to Christine and said, almost proudly, "The supper you have
to-night shall be yours also."
"That is," she replied, with a smile, "I shall live on your charity
instead of that of some one else."
His face grew sad at once, but he answered, as he went away, "I could
not give you charity, Miss Ludolph."
Christine saw that she had pained him, and was much vexed with herself.
But his remark added to the hope and almost belief that she still held
her old place in his heart, and she resolved to make amends in the
evening for her unlucky speech.
With a smile she said to herself: "If he only knew that I would prefer
the coarsest, scantiest fare provided by him to the most costly banquet,
he would not have gone away with that long face. How rich life would
be if I could commence it with him, and we struggle up together! Oh,
Heaven, grant," she sighed, looking earnestly upward, "that through
these wonderful, terrible changes, I may climb the mountain at his
side, as he so graphically portrayed it in his picture!"
Mrs. Leonard still slept, and her husband in an agony of anxiety watched
at her side. At last, a little before midday, she opened her eyes and
said, in her natural tone: "Why, John, I must have greatly overslept.
Where am I?" and then, as her husband fairly sobbed for joy, she started
up and said, hurriedly: "What is the matter? What has happened?"
"Oh, be calm!" whispered Christine to the professor. "Everything depends
on keeping her quiet." Then she bent over her friend, and said: "Do
not be alarmed, Susie; you are now safe and well, and so is your
husband. But you have been ill, and for his sake and your own you must
keep quiet."
She turned inquiringly to her husband, who said, more calmly, "It is
all true, and if you can only be careful we can go back to Boston as
well as ever."
"I will do anything you say, John; but why am I in a church?"
"You were taken sick in the street, and this was the nearest place to
bring you."
"Oh, dear! I have had such strange, dreadful dreams. I am so glad they
were only dreams, and you are here with me;" and she lay quietly holding
her husband's hands and looking contentedly in his face. It was evident
she was herself again, and much better.
Dr. Arten soon after came and said, cheerily, "All right! all right!
will have you out in a day or two as good as new, and then, Miss
Ludolph, you will see how much more grateful she is to the old doctor
than you were."
"You must present your bill," replied Christine, with a smile.
"May I?" retorted the doctor, wiping his lips.
"Oh, I don't know about that," cried Christine; adding, quickly, "when
I welcome you to my own home you may."
"An old maid's hall, I suppose."
"It will be an orphan's home, at least," said Christine, softly and
sadly.
Tears filled the old man's eyes, and putting his arm around her he
drew her to him, saying, as he stroked her drooping head: "Poor child!
poor child! I did not know. But you shall never want a protector while
the old doctor is above ground. As far as possible I will be a father
to you;" and Christine knew she had found a friend as true and strong
as steel, and she buried her face on his shoulder and cried as
trustingly as his own child might have done.
"Oh, Christine!" cried Mrs. Leonard, "I am so sorry for you!"
At the voice of her old friend she at once rallied, and, trying to
smile through her tears, said, "God has been so much better to me than
I deserved that I have only gratitude when I think of myself; but my
poor father--" and again she covered her face and wept.
"Christine, come here," said Mrs. Leonard, softly, and she put her
arms around the weeping girl. "You spoke of God's being good to you.
Have you in truth found and learned to trust Him?"
"Yes," she replied, eagerly, joy and peace coming out in her face like
the sun shining through clouds and rain. Then with bowed head she
whispered low: "The one I wronged on earth led me to the One I wronged
in heaven, and both have forgiven me. Oh, I am so glad, so happy!"
"Then you have seen Mr. Fleet."
"Yes, he saved my life again and again, but in teaching me how to find
my Saviour, he has done far more for me."
"And you will not wrong him any more, will you, Christine? He has loved
you so long and faithfully."
In reply she lifted an eager face to her friend and said, "Do you think
he can love me still after my treatment of him?"
"Give him a chance to tell you," said Mrs. Leonard, with a
half-mischievous smile. "Has he not shown his feelings?"
"He has treated me more as a brother might have done, and yet he is
so very respectful and deferential--I hope--but I am not perfectly
sure--and then he seems under some restraint."
Mrs. Leonard said, musingly: "He knows that you are Baroness Ludolph.
I told him last week, for I thought he ought to know, and the fact of
your approaching departure for Europe has been no secret of late. He
thinks you are pledged to a future in which he cannot share; and in
your grateful, dependent condition he would not cause you the pain of
refusing him. I think that is just where he stands," she concluded,
with a woman's mastery of the science of love, and taking almost as
much interest in her friend's affair as she had felt in her own. To
most ladies this subject has a peculiar fascination, and, having settled
their own matters, they enter with scarcely less zest on the task of
helping others arrange theirs. Mrs. Leonard rallied faster under the
excitement of this new interest than from the doctor's remedies.
After a few moments' thought Christine said, decidedly: "All that
nonsense about the Baroness Ludolph is past forever--burned up in the
fire with many things of more value. I have been fed too long on the
husks of human greatness and ambition to want any more of them. They
never did satisfy me, and in the light and heat of the terrific ordeal
through which I have just passed they shrivelled into utter nothingness.
I want something that I cannot lose in a whiff of smoke and flame, and
I think I have found it. Henceforth I claim no other character than
that of a simple Christian girl." Then bowing her head on her friend's
shoulder she added, in a whisper, "If I could climb to true greatness
by Mr. Fleet's side, as he portrayed it in his picture, it seems to
me heaven would begin at once."
The doctor, who had taken the professor aside, now joined them, and
said: "Mrs. Leonard, you have only to take reasonable care of yourself,
and you will soon recover from this shock and exposure. I wish all my
patients were doing as well."
She replied with a smile, taking her husband's hand: "Since I have
found my old Greek here, with his learned spectacles, I am quite myself,
and I feel as if I were only playing invalid."
"You may have slept in a church before," said the doctor, with a twinkle
in his eye, "and you must do so again. But no one will thunder at you
from the pulpit this time, so I leave you in peace and security, and
to-night will be within call."
Christine followed him to the lobby of the church, when the
irrepressible joker could not forbear saying: "Now let me give you a
little paternal advice. Don't be too grateful to that young Fleet. He
only did his duty, and of course doesn't deserve any special--"
Christine, with flushing cheeks, interrupted him as if she had not
heard: "Doctor, how good and kind you are! Here you are off without
any rest to look after the sick and suffering, and you seem to bring
health and hope wherever you go."
"Yes, yes; but I send my bill in too--mind that." (Some of his poorer
patients never received any, and he, when twitted of the fact, would
mutter, roughly, "Business oversight--can't attend to everything.")
Christine looked for a moment at the face so inspiring in its hearty
benevolence, and with an impulse, so unlike the cold, haughty girl of
old, sprang forward, threw her arms around his neck, and gave him a
kiss which he declared afterward was like a mild stroke of lightning,
and said, "And there is the first instalment of what I owe you."
The old gentleman looked as if he decidedly liked the currency, and
with moistened eyes that he vainly tried to render humorous, he raised
his finger impressively in parting, and said, "Don't you ever get out
of debt to me."