He treated poor Bruder as a gentleman, and he, having really been one, was naturally inclined to return like courtesy. Therefore he said, “Oh, certainly, since you vish to see him. I suppose I might as vell sell him to you as any von else.”
Mr. Bruder was a man of violent impulses, and his mad excitement was fast leaving him under Dennis’s cool, businesslike manner. To gain time was now the great desideratum.
The picture having been replaced upon the wall, Mr. Bruder held the lamp so as to throw upon it as good a light as possible.
Dennis folded his arms calmly and commenced its study. He had meant to act a part—to pretend deep interest and desire for long critical study—that he might secure more time, but in a few moments he became honestly absorbed in the beautiful and exquisitely finished landscape.
The poor man watched him keenly. Old associations and feelings, seemingly long dead, awoke. As he saw Dennis manifest every mark of true and growing appreciation, he perceived that his picture was being studied by a discriminating person. Then his artist-nature began to quicken into life again. His eyes glowed, and glanced rapidly from Dennis to the painting, back and forth, following up the judgment on each and every part which he saw written in the young man’s face. As he watched, something like hope and exultation began to light up his sullen, heavy features; thought and feeling began to spiritualize and ennoble what but a little before had been so coarse and repulsive.
Ernst was looking at Dennis in rapt awe, as at a messenger from heaven.
The poor wife, who had listened in a dull apathy to the conversation, raised her head in sudden and intelligent interest when the picture was replaced upon the wall. It seemed that her every hope was bound up in that. As she saw Dennis and her husband standing before it—as she saw the face of the latter begin to assume something of its former look—her whole soul came into her great blue eyes, and she watched as if more than life were at stake.
If that meagre apartment, with its inmates, their contrasts of character, their expressive faces, could have then been portrayed, it would have made a picture with power to move the coldest heart.
At last Dennis drew a long breath, turned and gave his hand to the man, saying with hearty emphasis, “Mr. Bruder, you are an artist.”
The poor man lifted his face to heaven with the same expression of joy and gratitude that had rested on it long, long years ago, when his first real work of merit had received similar praise.
His wife saw and remembered it, and, with an ecstatic cry that thrilled Dennis’s soul, exclaimed, “Ah! mine Gott be praised! mine Gott be praised! his artist-soul come back!” and she threw herself on her husband’s neck, and clung to him with hysteric energy. The man melted completely, and bowed his head upon his wife’s shoulder, while his whole frame shook with sobs.
“I will be back in half an hour,” said Dennis, hastily, brushing tears from his own eyes. “Come with me, Ernst.”
At the foot of the stairs Dennis said: “Take this money, Ernst, and buy bread, butter, tea, milk, and coal, also a nice large steak, for I am going to take supper with you tonight. I will stay here and watch, for your father must not be permitted to go out.”
“Oh, Gott bless you! Gott bless you!” said the boy, and he hurried away to do his errand.
Dennis walked up and down before the door on guard. Ernst soon returned, and carried the welcome food upstairs. After a little time he stole down again and said: “Father’s quiet and queer like. Mother has given the children a good supper and put them to bed. Better come now.”
“In a few moments more; you go back and sit down quietly and say nothing.”
After a little Dennis went up and knocked at the door. Mrs. Bruder opened it, and held out her hand. Her quivering lips refused to speak, but her eyes filled with grateful tears. The children were tucked away in bed. Ernst crouched by the fire, eating some bread and butter, for he was cold and half-famished. Mr. Bruder sat in the dusky corner with his head in his hands, the picture of dejection. But, as Dennis entered, he rose and came forward. He tried to speak, but for a moment could not. At last he said, hoarsely: “Mr. Vleet, you haf done me and mine a great kindness. No matter vat the result is, I dank you as I never danked any living being. I believe Gott sent you, but I fear too late. You see before you a miserable wreck. For months and years I haf been a brute, a devil. Dot picture dere show you vat I vas, vat I might haf been. You see vat I am,” he added, with an expression of intense loathing. “I see him all tonight as if written in letters of fire, and if dere is a vorse hell dan der von I feel vithin my soul, Gott only knows how I am to endure him.”
“Mr. Bruder, you say I have done you a favor.”
“Gott knows you haf.”
“I want you to do me one in return. I want you to let me be your friend,” said Dennis, holding out his hand.
The man trembled, hesitated; at last he said, brokenly, “I am not fit—to touch—your hand.”
“Mr. Bruder,” said Dennis, gently, “I hope that I am a Christian.”
“Still more, den, I am unfit efer to be in your presence.”
“What! am I greater than my Master? Did not Christ take the hand of every poor, struggling man on earth that would let Him? Come, Mr. Bruder, if you have any real gratitude for the little I have done to show my interest in you and yours, grant me my request.”
“Do you really mean him?” he gasped. “Do
