Between ten and eleven supper was announced; not the prodigal abundance under which the brewer’s table had groaned, but a dainty, elegant little affair, which inspired and promoted social feeling, though the “spirit of wine” was absent. The eye was feasted as truly as the palate. Christine had stood near Dennis as the last piece was sung, and he turned and said in a low, eager tone, “May I have the pleasure of waiting on you at supper?”
She hesitated, but his look was so wistful that she could not well refuse, so with a slight smile she bowed assent, and placed the tips of her little gloved hand on his arm, which so trembled that she looked inquiringly and curiously into his face. It was very pale, as was ever the case when he felt deeply. He waited on her politely but silently at first. She sat in an angle, somewhat apart from the others. As he stood by her side, thinking how to refer to the morning in the showroom, she said: “Mr. Fleet, you are not eating anything, and you look as if you had been living on air of late—very unlike your appearance when you so efficiently aided me in the rearrangement of the store. I am delighted that you keep up the better order of things.” Dennis’s answer was quite irrelevant.
“Miss Ludolph,” he said, abruptly, “I saw that I gave you pain that morning in the showroom. If you only knew how the thought has pained me!”
Christine flushed almost angrily, but said, coldly, “Mr. Fleet, that is a matter you can never understand, therefore we had better dismiss the subject.”
But Dennis had determined to break the ice between them at any risk, so he said, firmly but respectfully: “Miss Ludolph, I did understand all, the moment I saw your face that day. I do understand how you have felt since, better than you imagine.”
His manner and words were so assured that she raised a startled face to his, but asked coldly and in an indifferent manner, “What can you know of my feelings?”
“I know,” said Dennis, in a low tone, looking searchingly into her face, from which cool composure was fast fading—“I know your dearest hope was to be among the first in art. You staked that hope on your success in a painting that required a power which you do not possess.” Christine became very pale, but from her eyes shone a light before which most men would have quailed. But Dennis’s love was so true and strong that he could wound her for the sake of the healing and life he hoped to bring, and he continued—“On that morning this cherished hope for the future failed you, not because of my words, but because your artist eye saw that my words were true. You have since been unhappy—”
“What right have you—you who were but a few days since—who are a stranger—what right have you to speak thus to me?”
“I know what you would say, Miss Ludolph,” he answered, a slight flush coming into his pale face. “Friends may be humble and yet true. But am I not right?”
“I have no claim on your friendship,” said Christine, coldly. “But, for the sake of argument, grant that you are right, what follows?” and she looked at him more eagerly than she knew. She felt that he had read her very soul and was deeply moved, and again the superstitious feeling crept over her, “That young man is in some way connected with my destiny.”
Dennis saw his power and proceeded rapidly, for he knew they might be interrupted at any moment; and so they would have been had anything less interesting than eating occupied the attention of others.
“I saw in the picture what in your eyes and mine would be a fatal defect—the lack of life and true feeling—the lack of power to live. I did not know who painted it, but felt that anyone who could paint as well as that, and yet leave out the soul, as it were, had not the power to put it in. No artist of such ability could willingly or ignorantly have permitted such a defect.”
Christine’s eyes sank, their fire faded out, and her face had the pallor of one listening to her doom. This deeper feeling mastered the momentary resentment against the hand that was wounding her, and she forgot him, and all, in her pain and despair.
In a low, earnest tone Dennis continued: “But since I have come to know who the artist is, since I have studied the picture more fully, and have taken the liberty of some observation”—Christine hung on his lips breathlessly, and Dennis spoke slowly, marking the effect of every word—“I have come to the decided belief that the lady who painted that picture can reach the sphere of true and highest art.”
The light that stole into Christine’s face under his slow, emphatic words was like a rosy dawn in June; and the thought flashed through Dennis’s mind, “If an earthly hope can so light up her face, what will be the effect of a heavenly one?”
For a moment she sat as one entranced, looking at a picture far off in the future. His words had been so earnest and assured
