Barriers Burned Away · Chapter 25 (1/2)

XXV

Darkness

The next morning Christine did not appear at the late breakfast at which her father with contracted brow and capricious appetite sat alone. Among the other unexpected results of the preceding day she had taken a very severe cold, and this, with the reaction from fatigue and excitement, caused her to feel so seriously ill that she found it impossible to rise. Her father looked at her, and was alarmed; for her cheeks were flushed with fever, her head was aching sadly, and she appeared as if threatened with one of those dangerous diseases whose earlier symptoms are so obscure and yet so much alike. She tried to smile, but her lip quivered, and she turned her face to the wall.

The philosophy of Mr. Ludolph and his daughter was evidently adapted to fair weather and smooth sailing. Sickness, disease, and the possible results, were things that both dreaded more than they ever confessed to each other. It was most natural that they should, for only in health or life could they enjoy or hope for anything. By their own belief their horizon was narrowed down to time and earth, and they could look for nothing beyond. In Mr. Ludolph’s imperious, resolute nature, sickness always awakened anger as well as anxiety. It seemed like an enemy threatening his dearest hopes and most cherished ambition, therefore the heavy frown upon his brow as he pushed away the scarcely tasted breakfast.

To Christine the thought of death was simply horrible, and with the whole strength of her will she ever sought to banish it. To her it meant corruption, dust, nothingness. With a few drawbacks she had enjoyed life abundantly, and she clung to it with the tenacity of one who believed it was all. With the exception of some slight passing indisposition, both she and her father had been seldom ill; and for a number of years now they had voyaged on over smooth, sunny seas of prosperity.

Christine’s sudden prostration on the morning following the entertainment was a painful surprise to both.

“I will have Dr. Arten call at once,” he said, at parting, “and will come up from the store early in the day to see you;” and Christine was left alone with her French maid.

Her mind was too clouded and disturbed by fever to think coherently, and yet a vague sense of danger⁠—trouble⁠—oppressed her, and while she lay in a half-unconscious state between sleeping and waking, a thousand fantastic visions presented themselves. But in them all the fiery Cross and Dennis Fleet took some part. At times the Cross seemed to blaze and threaten to burn her to a cinder, while he stood by with stern, accusing face. The light from the Cross made him luminous also, and the glare was so terrible that she would start up with a cry of fear. Again, they would both recede till in the far distance they shone like a faint star, and then the black darkness that gathered round her was more dreadful than the light, and with her eyes closed she would reach out her hot hands for the light to return. Once or twice it shone upon her with soft, mellow light, and Dennis stood pointing to it, pleading so earnestly and tenderly that tears gathered in her eyes. Then all was again blurred and distorted.

Within an hour after her father left, she found Dr. Arten feeling her pulse and examining her symptoms. With a great effort she roused herself, and, looking at the doctor with an eager inquiring face, said; “Doctor, tell me the truth. What is the matter?”

He tried to smile and evade her question, but she would not let him.

“Well, really, Miss Ludolph,” he said, “we can hardly tell yet what is the matter. You have evidently caught a very severe cold, and I hope that is all. When I come this evening I may be able to speak more definitely. In the meantime I will give you something to soothe and reduce your fever!”

The French maid followed the doctor out, leaving the door ajar in her haste, and in an audible whisper said: “I say, docteur, is it not ze smallpox? Zere is so much around. Tell me true, for I must leave zis very minute.”

“Hush, you fool!” said the doctor, and they passed out of hearing. A sickening dread made Christine’s heart almost stand still. When the woman returned her mistress watched her most narrowly and asked, “What did the doctor say to you?”

The maid replied in French that he had said she must be still and not talk.

“But you asked him if I had the smallpox. What did he say?”

“Ah, mademoiselle, you make one grand meestake. I ask for a small box to keep your medicine in, zat it make no smell.”

From the woman’s lie, and from the fact that she was redolent with camphor, and that she kept as far away as possible, near the windows, Christine gathered a most painful confirmation of her fears. For a time she lay almost paralyzed by dread.

Then as the medicine relieved her of fever and unclouded her mind, thought and conscience awoke with terrible and resistless power. As never before she realized what cold, dark depths were just beneath her gay, pleasure-loving life, and how suddenly skies radiant with the richer promise of the future could become black and threatening. Never had earthly life seemed so attractive, never had her own prospects seemed so brilliant, and her hopes of fame, wealth, and happiness in her future German villa more dazzling, than now when they stood out against the dark background of her fears.

“If, instead of going forward to all this delight, I become an object of terror and loathing even before I die, and something that must be hidden out of sight as soon as possible after, what conceivable fate could be worse? That such a thing is possible proves this to be a dreadful and defective world, with all its sources of pleasure. Surely if there were a God he would banish such horrible evils.

“There is no God⁠—there can’t be any⁠—at least none such as the Bible reveals. How often I have said this to myself! how often my father has said it to me! and yet the thought of Him torments me often even when well.

“Why does this thought come so persistently now? I settled it long ago, under father’s proof, that I did not believe in Him or the superstitions connected with His name. Why doesn’t the question stay settled? Other superstitions do not trouble me. Why should that Cross continually haunt me? Why should the man who died thereon have the power to be continually speaking to me through His words that I have read? I believe in Socrates as much as I do in Him, and yet I recall the Greek sage’s words with an effort, and cannot escape from the Nazarene’s. All is mystery and chaos and danger. We human creatures are like frothy bubbles that glisten and dance for a moment on a swift black tide that seems flowing forever, and yet nowhere.”

Then her thoughts recurred to Dennis.

“That young Fleet seemed to believe implicitly in what he said yesterday, and he lives up to what he believes. I would give the world for his delusion, were it only for its comforting and sustaining power for this life. If he were very ill, he would be imagining himself on the threshold of some sort of heaven or paradise, and would be calm and perhaps even happy, while I am so supremely wretched I find that I have nothing⁠—absolutely nothing to sustain me⁠—not even the memory of good deeds. I have not even lived the unselfish life that Socrates recommends, much less the holy life of the Bible. I have pleased myself. Well, believing as I have been taught, that seemed the most sensible course. Why doesn’t it seem so now?”

Thus tossed on a sea of uncertainty and fear, Christine, in darkness and weakness, grappled with those mighty questions which only He can put to rest who said, “Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in Me.”

Dennis walked resolutely home. He felt himself adamant in his stern resolution. He at least had the deathlike peace that follows decision. The agony of conflict was over for a time, and, as he thought, forever.

From mere exhaustion he slept heavily, and on the following day with white face and compressed lips entered on his work. And work it now became indeed; for the old glamour was all gone, and life looked as practical and hard as the stones of the street. Even the pictures on the walls seemed to him but things for sale, representing money values; and money appeared the beginning, middle, and ending of the world’s creed. Like the unsubstantial mirage had vanished the beautiful, happy life of the past few weeks. Around him were the rocks and sands of the desert, through which he must toil with weary, bleeding feet till he reached the land watered by the river of life. Reason and duty, as he believed, forbade the existence of this foolish passion, and he must and would destroy it; but in his anguish he felt as if he had resolved to torture himself to death.

“And she will never know what I suffer⁠—never know the wealth of heart I have lavished upon her. I am glad she will not, for the knowledge of my love would make no more impression on her cold, proud nature than a drop of warm summer rain falling on the brow of yonder marble statue of Diana. She would only be amazed at my presumption. She feels that she shines down on me like the sun, and that I am a poor little satellite that she could blot out altogether by causing her father to turn me into the street again, which undoubtedly would be done should I reveal my feelings.”

And he was right.

“Come!” said he to himself, breaking from his painful revery, “no weakness! You have your way to make in the world, and your work to do. God will help you, and no creature shall hinder you;” and he plunged resolutely into his duties.

Mr. Ludolph was late in reaching the store that morning, and Dennis found himself secretly hoping, in spite of himself, that Christine would accompany him. His will and heart were now in distinct opposition, and the latter would not obey orders.

When Mr. Ludolph appeared, it was with a frowning, clouded brow. Without a word he passed into his private office, but seemed so restless and troubled in his manner that Dennis felt something was wrong. Why should he take such an interest in this man? Why should he care? The other clerks did not: not one save himself had noticed anything different. Poor Dennis was to learn that he had a disease of many and varied symptoms.

After something over an hour had passed, Mr. Ludolph started from his desk, took his hat and cane as with the purpose of going out⁠—a very unusual thing at that time. But, as he was passing down the store, he met Dr. Arten opposite Dennis’s counter.

“Well?” said Mr. Ludolph, impatiently.

“I will call again this evening,” said the doctor, prudently noncommittal. “Your daughter has caught a very severe cold. I hope it is nothing more than a cold, but so many troublesome diseases commence with these obscure symptoms that we have to wait till further developments reveal the true nature of the case.”

“You doctors make no headway in banishing disease from the world,” snarled Mr. Ludolph. “There is smallpox around, is there not?”

“Yes, I am sorry to say there is a great deal of it, but if you remember the history of that one disease, I think you will admit your remark to be unfair.”

“I beg your pardon, doctor, but I am anxious, and all out of sorts, as I ever am in sickness” (when affecting himself⁠—he might justly have added). “It seems such a senseless, useless evil in the world. The idea of you Christians believing a benevolent Being rules the world, and that He permits smallpox. Can it be possible that my daughter has contracted this loathsome horror?”

“Well, it is possible, but I hope not at all probable. We doctors are compelled to look at the practical rather than the theological side of the question. It is possible for anyone to have this disease. Has your daughter been vaccinated?”

“No!” growled Mr. Ludolph. “I don’t believe in vaccination. It is as apt to vitiate the system as to protect it.”

“I am sorry for that,” said the doctor, looking grave.

Keen Mr. Ludolph saw and read his physician’s expression accurately. Seizing his hand he said, eagerly: “Pardon me, doctor; you can understand a father’s feelings. Watch this case night and day. Spare no pains, and be assured I will regret no expense;” and he hastened away to his daughter’s bedside.

No prisoner at the bar ever listened with more interest than Dennis. If it had been his own case they were discussing it would not have touched him half so nearly.

But a moment before, Christine in her pride, wealth, and beauty seemed destined to go through life as in a triumphant march. Now he saw her to be a weak human creature, threatened as sorely as the poorest and humblest. Her glorious beauty, even her life, might pass away in Le Grand Hotel as surely as in a tenement house. The very thought thrilled him with fear. Then a great pity rushed into his soul like a tide, sweeping everything before it. His stern resolution to stifle and trample upon his love melted like a snow-wreath, and every interest of life centred in the darkened room where Christine tossed and moaned in the deeper darkness of uncertainty and doubt. The longing to go to her with comfort and help was so intense that it required the utmost effort of reason and will to prevent such rash action. He trembled at himself⁠—at the strength of his feelings⁠—and saw that though he might control outward action his heart had gone from him beyond remedy, and that his love, so long unrecognized, was now like the principal source of the Jordan, that springs from the earth a full-grown river, and that he could not help it.

Mr. Ludolph found little comfort at his daughter’s bedside. Sending her maid away, who was glad to go, Christine told what she had overheard. Smallpox seemed in the mind of everyone, but this was not strange since it was so prevalent in the city.

“Oh, father, what shall I do⁠—what shall I do, if this should be the case? Janette will leave me, and there will be no one to take care of me. I know I shall die, and I might as well as to be made hideous by this horrible disease. No, I would rather live, on any terms; for to die is to be nothing. Oh, father, are you sure the Bible is all false? There is so much in it to comfort the sick. If I could only believe in such a life hereafter as Susie Winthrop does, I would as soon die as not.”

“No,” said Mr. Ludolph, firmly, “your only chance is to get well. There is no use in deceiving ourselves. I have secured the services of the most skilful of physicians, and will see that you have every attention. So try to be as calm as possible, and cooperate with every effort to baffle and banish disease. After all it may be nothing more than a severe cold.”

So then in very truth this world was all. In bitterness and dread she realized how slight was her hold upon it. To her healthful body pain was a rare experience, but now her head and every bone ached, and the slightest movement caused increased suffering. But her mental trouble was by far the greatest. Often she murmured to herself, “Oh, that I had been trained to the grossest superstitions, so that I might not look down into this black bottomless gulf that unbelief opens at my feet!” and she tossed and moaned most piteously.

Mr. Ludolph returned to the store in an exceedingly worried and anxious state. As he entered he caught Dennis’s eager, questioning gaze, and a thought struck him: “Perhaps this young fellow, through his mission school, may know of some good, trustworthy woman who would act as nurse;” and coming to Dennis he explained the situation, and then asked if he knew of anyone, or could find a suitable person.

Dennis listened eagerly, thought a moment, and then said, with a flushed face and in a low tone: “I think my mother would be willing to come. She has had the smallpox and would not be afraid.”

“But would she be willing?”

“I think I could persuade her,” said Dennis.