Thus she kept him hot and cold by turns—now lifting him to the pinnacle of hope, again casting him down into the valley of fear and doubt. What she wanted of him was just what she had not—feeling, intense, varied feeling, so that, while she remained ice, she could paint as if she felt; and with a gifted woman’s tact, and with the power of one loved almost to idolatry, she caused every chord of his soul, now in happy harmony, now in painful discord, to vibrate under her skilful touch. But such a life was very wearing, and he was failing under it. Moreover, he was robbing himself of sleep in the early morning, that he might work on his picture in the loft of the store, for which he asked of poor Mr. Bruder nothing but ice.
Mrs. Bruder worried over him continually.
“You vork too hart. Vat shall we do for you? Oh, my fren, if you love us do not vork so hart,” she would often say. But Dennis would only smile and turn to her husband in his insatiable demand for painted ice. At last Mr. Bruder said, “Mr. Fleet, you can paint ice, as far as I see, as veil as myself.”
Then Dennis turned around short and said, “Now I want warm rosy light and foliage; give me studies in these.”
“By de hammer of Thor, but you go to extremes.”
“You shall know all some day,” said Dennis, entering on his new tasks with increasing eagerness.
But day by day he grew thinner and paler. Even Christine’s heart sometimes relented; for, absorbed as she was in her own work and interests, she could not help noticing how sadly he differed from the vigorous youth who had lifted the heavy pictures for her but a few short weeks ago. But she quieted herself by the thought that he was a better artistic subject, and that he would mend again when the cool weather came.
“Where shall we go for the two hot months?” asked her father the morning after the Fourth.
“I have a plan to propose,” replied Christine. “Suppose we go to housekeeping.”
“What!” said her father, dropping his knife and fork, and looking at her in astonishment. “Go to all the expense of furnishing a house, when we do not expect to stay here much more than a year? We should hardly be settled before we left it.”
“Listen to me patiently till I finish, and then I will abide by your decision. But I think you will give me credit for having a slight turn for business as well as art. You remember Mr. Jones’s beautiful house on the north side, do you not? It stands on ⸻ Street, well back, surrounded by a lawn and flowers. There is only one other house on the block. Well, Mr. Jones is embarrassed, and his house is for sale. From inquiry I am satisfied that a cash offer would obtain the property cheaply. The furniture is good, and much of it elegant. What we do not want—what will not accord with a tasteful refurnishing—can be sent to an auction-room. At comparatively slight expense, if you can spare Mr. Fleet to help me during the time when business is dull, I can make the house such a gem of artistic elegance that it will be noted throughout the city, and next fall some rich snob, seeking to vault suddenly into social position, will give just what you are pleased to ask. In the meantime we have a retired and delightful home.
“Moreover, father,” she continued, touching him on his weak side, “it will be a good preparation for the more difficult and important work of the same kind awaiting me in my own land.”
“Humph!” said Mr. Ludolph, meditatively, “there is more method in your madness than I imagined. I will think of it, for it is too important a step to be taken hastily.”
Mr. Ludolph did think of it, and, after attending to pressing matters in the store, went over to see the property. A few days afterward he came up to dinner and threw the deed for it into his daughter’s lap. She glanced it over, and her eyes grew luminous with delight and triumph.
“See how comfortable and happy I will make you in return for this kindness,” she said.
“Oh, come,” replied her father, laughing, “that is not the point. This is a speculation, and your business reputation is at stake.”
“I will abide the test,” she answered, with a significant nod.
Christine desired the change for several reasons. There was a room in the house that would just suit her as a studio. She detested the publicity of a hotel. The furnishing of an elegant house was a form of activity most pleasing to her energetic nature, and she felt a very strong wish to try her skill in varied effect before her grand effort in the Ludolph Hall of the future.
But in addition to these motives was another, of which she did not speak to her father. In the privacy of her own home she could pursue that peculiar phase of art study in which she was absorbed. Her life had now become a most exciting one. She ever seemed on the point of obtaining the power to portray the eloquence of passion, feeling, but there was a subtle something that still eluded her. She saw it daily, and yet could not reproduce it. She seemed to get the features right, and yet they were dead, or else the emotion was so exaggerated as to suggest weak sentimentality, and this of all things disgusted her. Every day she studied the expressive face of Dennis Fleet, the mysterious power seemed nearer her grasp. Her effort was now gaining all the excitement of a chase. She saw before her just what she wanted, and it seemed that she had only to grasp her pencil
