Above him the gale caused two fraying limbs to appear to moan in echo of the suffering beneath.
“This then must be the end of my prayers in her behalf—my ardent hope and purpose to lead her to the truth—she to walk through honored, sunny paths to everlasting shame and night, and I through dark and painful ways to light and peace, if in this bitter test I remain faithful. Surely there is much to try one’s faith. And yet it must be so as far as human foresight can judge.”
Then a great pity for her swelled his heart, for he felt that her case was the saddest after all, and his tears flowed faster than ever.
Human voices now startled him—some late revellers passing homeward. The tears and emotion, of which we never think of being ashamed when alone with Nature and its Author, he dreaded to have seen by his fellows, and hastily wiping his eyes, he slunk into the deeper shadow of the tree, and they passed on. Then, an old trait asserting itself, he condemned his own weakness. Stepping from the sheltering trunk against which he was leaning, he stood strong and erect.
The winds were hushed as if expectant in the branches above.
“Dennis Fleet,” he said, “you must put your foot on this folly here and now.”
He bared his head and looked upward.
“O God,” he said, solemnly, “if this is contrary to Thy will—Thy will be done.”
He paused a moment reverently, and then turned on his heel and strode resolutely homeward.
A gust of wind crashed the branches overhead together like the clash of cymbals in victory.
The early spring dawn was tingeing the eastern horizon before the gay revel ceased and the mansion of the rich brewer was darkened. All the long night, light, airy music had caused late passersby to pause a moment to listen, and to pity or envy the throng within, as disposition dictated. Mr. Brown was a man who prided himself on lavish and rather coarse hospitality. A table groaning under costly dishes and every variety of liquor was the crowning feature, the blissful climax of all his entertainments; and society from its highest circles furnished an abundance of anxious candidates for his suppers, who ate and criticised, drank to and disparaged, their plebeian host.
Mrs. Brown was heavy in every sense of the word, and with her huge person draped with acres of silk, and festooned with miles of point-lace, she waddled about and smiled and nodded good-naturedly at everybody and everything.
It was just the place for a fashionable revel, where the gross, repulsive features of coarse excess are veiled and masked somewhat by the glamour of outward courtesy and good-breeding.
At first Christine entered into the dance with great zest and a decided sense of relief. She was disappointed and out of sorts with herself. Again she had failed in the object of her intense ambition, and though conscious that, through the excitement of the occasion, she had sung better than ever before, yet she plainly saw in the different results of her singing and that of Dennis Fleet that there was a depth in the human heart which she could not reach. She could secure only admiration, superficial applause. The sphere of the true artist who can touch and sway the popular heart seemed beyond her ability. By voice or pencil she had never yet attained it. She had too much mind to mistake the character of the admiration she excited, and was far too ambitious to be satisfied with the mere praise bestowed on a highly accomplished girl. She aspired, determined, to be among the first, and to be a second-rate imitator in the world of art was to her the agony of a disappointed life. And yet to imitate with accuracy and skill, not with sympathy, was the only power she had as yet developed. She saw the limitations of her success more clearly than did anyone else, and chafed bitterly at the invisible bounds she could not pass.
The excitement of the dance enabled her to banish thoughts that were both painful and humiliating. Moreover, to a nature so active and full of physical vigor, the swift, grace motion was a source of keen enjoyment.
But when after supper many of the ladies were silly, and the gentlemen were either stupid or excited, according to the action of the “invisible spirit of wine” upon their several constitutions—when after many glasses of champagne Mr. Mellen began to effervesce in frothy sentimentality and a style of lovemaking simply nauseating to one of Christine’s nature—she looked around for her father in order to escape from the scenes that were becoming revolting.
Though of earth only in all the sources of her life and hopes, she was not earthy. If her spirit could not soar and sing in the sky, it also could not grovel in the mire of gross materiality. Some little time, therefore, before the company broke up, on the plea of not feeling well she lured her father away from his wine and cigars and a knot of gentlemen who were beginning to talk a little incoherently. Making their adieux amid many protestations against their early departure, they drove homeward.
“How did you enjoy yourself?” asked her father.
“Very much in the early part of the evening, not at all in the latter part. To sum up, I am disgusted with Mr. Mellen and these Browns in general, and myself in particular.”
“What is the matter with Mr. Mellen? I understand that the intriguing mammas consider him the largest game in the city.”
“When hunting degenerates into the chase and capture of insects, you may style him game. Between his champagne and silly lovemaking, he was as bad as a dose of ipecac.”
Christine spoke freely to her father of her admirers, usually making them the themes of satire and
