“You cannot wish it more than I. Indeed I would have called on her, had it not been for an unfortunate accident.”
He looked at her with some surprise, as if not understanding her remark, but said, “She greatly wished to see you before she died.”
“Oh, I wish I had known it!”
“Did you not know it?” he asked, in a startled manner.
“No, but I felt grateful to her, for I understood that she offered to take care of me in case I had the smallpox. I wanted to visit her very much, and at last thought I would venture to do so, but just then I sprained my ankle. I sent my maid to inquire, but fear she didn’t do my errand very well,” added Christine, looking down.
“She never came, Miss Ludolph.” Then he continued, eagerly: “I fear I have done you a great wrong. A little time before my mother died, she wrote you a line saying that she was dying and would like to see you. I did not know you could not come—I thought you would not.”
Crimson with shame and humiliation, Christine buried her burning cheeks in her hands and murmured, “I never received it.”
“And did you send the exquisite flowers and fruit?” he asked. “Ah, I see that you did. I am so glad—so very glad that I was mistaken! I sincerely ask your pardon for my unjust thoughts.”
“It is I who should ask pardon, and for a long time I have earnestly wished that I might find opportunity to do so. My conduct has been simply monstrous, but of late it has seemed worse than the reality. Everything has been against me. If you only knew—but—” (and her head bowed lower). Then she added, hastily, “My maid has been false, and I must have appeared more heartless than ever.” But, with biter shame and sorrow, she remembered who must have been the inspirer of the treachery, and, though she never spoke of it again, she feared that Dennis suspected it also. It was one of those painful things that must be buried, even as the grave closes over the frail, perishing body.
Let those who are tempted to a wicked, dishonorable deed remember that, even after they are gone, the knowledge of it may come to those who loved them, like an incurable wound.
Dennis’s resolution not to speak till Christine should be no longer dependent on him was fast melting away, as he learned that she had not been so callous and forgetful as she had seemed. But before he could add another word, a wild, sweet, mournful voice was heard singing:
“O fiery storm, wilt never cease?
Thy burning hail falls on my heart;
Bury me deep, that I in peace
May rest where death no more can part.”
In awed, startled tones they both exclaimed, “Susie Winthrop!”
XLVIII
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
