"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 n.o.bler 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, pa.s.sion; and his wearing life had made it so thin, and his eyes were so large and l.u.s.trous, that the spiritual greatly predominated, and she felt as if she could almost see the throbs of the strong, pa.s.sionate 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 s.p.a.ce 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.
CHAPTER x.x.xII
BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT
Dennis went back to the store in a maze of hopes and fears, but hope predominated. Christine could not be indifferent and treat him as she did, if she had a particle of sincerity, and with a lover"s faith he would not believe her false, though he knew her to be so faulty.
"At any rate," he said to himself, "in this new arrangement I have all the opportunity a man could ask, and if I cannot develop her plainly manifested interest into something more decisive by such companionship, I may as well despair;" and he determined to avail himself of every advantage within his reach in making the most of what he deemed a rare stroke of fortune. His greatly increased salary enabled him to dress with that taste and even elegance so pleasing to a lady"s eye, and he had withal acquired that ease and grace of manner which familiarity with the best society bestows.
It is also well to tell the reader that after some hesitation Dennis had confided his feelings to his mother, and received from her the warmest sympathy. To Ethel Fleet"s unworldly nature, that he should fall in love with and marry his employer"s daughter seemed eminently fitting, with just a spice of beautiful romance. And it was her son"s happiness and Christine"s beauty that she thought of, not Mr. Ludolph"s money. In truth, such was her admiration for her son, she felt that with all her wealth the young lady would receive a greater honor than she conferred. Though Dennis wrote with the partiality of a lover, he could not so portray Christine"s character but that his mother felt the deepest anxiety, and often sighed in sad foreboding of serious trouble in the future.
From Mrs. Fleet"s knowledge of her son"s pa.s.sion, Christine, though she knew it not, received another advantage of incalculable value.
Dennis had painted an excellent little cabinet likeness of her, and sent it to his mother. In the quiet of the night she would sit down before that picture, and by her strong imagination summon her ideal of Christine, and then lead her directly to Christ, as parents brought their children of old. Could such prayers and faith be in vain? Faith is often sorely tried in this world, but never tried in vain.
Day after day Dennis went to Mr. Ludolph"s new home during the morning hours, and Christine"s spell worked with bewildering and increasing power. While she tortured him with many doubts and fears, his hope grew to be almost a certainty that he had at last made a place for himself in her heart. Sometimes the whole story of his love trembled on his lips, but she never permitted its utterance. That she determined should be reserved for the climax. He usually met her alone, but noticed that in the presence of others she was cool and undemonstrative. Mr.
Ludolph rarely saw them together, and, when he did, there was nothing in his daughter"s manner to awaken suspicion. This perfectly acted indifference in the presence of others, and equally well acted regard when alone, often puzzled Dennis sorely. But at last he concluded: "She is wiser than I. She knows that I am in no condition now to make proposals for her hand; therefore it is better that there should be no recognized understanding between us;" and he resolved to be as prudent as she. Then again she would so awaken his jealousy and fears that he would feel that he must know his fate--that anything was better than such torturing uncertainty.
As for Christine, two processes were going on in her mind--one that she recognized, and one that she did not.
Her artistic aims were clear and definite. In the first place she meant perfectly to master the human face as it expressed emotions, especially such as were of a tender nature; and in the second place she intended to paint a picture that in itself would make her famous. She chose a most difficult and delicate subject--of the character she had ever failed in--a declaration of love.
When Dennis began to work again in her presence, the picture was well advanced.
In a grand old hall, whose sides were decorated with armor and weapons, a young man stood pleading his cause with a lady whose hand he held.
The young girl"s face was so averted that only a beautiful profile was visible, but her form and att.i.tude were grace itself. The lovers stood in an angle of the hall near an open window, through which was seen a fine landscape, a picture within a picture. But Christine meant to concentrate all her power and skill on the young knight"s face. This should be eloquent with all the feeling and pa.s.sion that the human face could express, and she would insure its truthfulness to life by copying life itself--the reality. Dennis Fleet was the human victim that she was offering on the altar of her ambition.
Much of the picture was merely in outline, but she finished the form and features of the suppliant in all save the expression, and this she meant to paint from his face whenever she was in the right mood and could bring matters to a crisis.
After he had been coming to the house two or three times a week for nearly a month she felt that she was ready for the final scene, and yet she dreaded it, she had staked so much hope upon it. It also provoked her to find that she was really afraid of him. His was such a strong, sincere nature, that she felt increasingly the wrong of trifling with it. In vain she tried to quiet herself by saying, "I do not care a straw for him, and he will soon get over his infatuation on discovering the truth."
But she had a lesson to learn as well as he, for as we have intimated, unrecognized as yet, there was a process going on in her mind that in time would make strange havoc in her cold philosophy. Her heart"s long winter was slowly breaking up; her girlish pa.s.sion, intense as it was foolish, proved that she had a heart. Everything had been against her.
Everything in her experience and education, and especially in her father"s strong character and prejudices, had combined to deaden and to chill her; and had these influences continued, she would undoubtedly have become as cold and hard as some whom we find in advanced life with natures like the poles, where the ice gathers year after year, but never melts.
But in Dennis Fleet she met a nature as positive as she was becoming negative. He was so warm and earnest that when she commenced to fan his love into a stronger flame for purely artistic purposes, as she vowed to herself, some sparks of the sacred fire fell on the cold altar of her own heart and slowly began to kindle.
But this awakening would not now be that of a child, but of a _woman_.
Therefore, Mr. Ludolph, beware!
But she had yet much to learn in the hard, strange school of experience before she would truly know herself or her own needs.
Success in art, however, was still her ruling pa.s.sion. And though strange misgivings annoyed and perplexed her, though her respect for Dennis daily increased, and at times a sudden pity and softness made her little hands hesitate before giving an additional wrench to the rack of uncertainty upon which she kept him; still, she would not for the world have abandoned her purpose, and such compunctions were as yet but the little back eddies of the strong current.
One day, in the latter part of August, Christine felt herself in the mood to give the finishing touch to the princ.i.p.al figure in her picture.
The day was somewhat hazy, the light subdued and favorable for artistic work. Though she had prolonged Dennis"s labors, to his secret delight and great encouragement, she could not keep him employed much longer.
She sent for him to come over in the afternoon. "Some brackets, carvings, and pictures had come for her studio, and she wished him to put them up," she said, coolly, as he entered.
He had come glowing with hope and almost a.s.surance, for, the last time they had parted, she had dismissed him with unusual kindness. But here was one of those capricious changes again that he could not understand.
She took her seat at her easel, saying, with a nod and a smile, "I can direct you here, for I am in a mood for work this afternoon."
He bowed quietly and went on with his task. Her rather cool reception oppressed him, and the tormenting question presented itself, for the hundredth time, "Can she in any degree feel as I do?" He longed to settle the matter by plain, straightforward action.
Her maid knocked at the door, saying, "The mail, mademoiselle."
A dainty note was handed her, which seemed decidedly pleasing, and Dennis noticed as she read it that she wore on her finger a solitaire diamond that he had not seen before. His latent jealousy was aroused.
She saw that her spell was working, and smiled. Soon she said: "Mr.
Fleet, you seem very grave. What is the matter?"
He answered, curtly, "Nothing."