If once more she could have him about her as when rearranging the store, and, without the restraint of curious eyes, could play upon his heart, then pass at once to her easel with the vivid impression of what she saw, she might catch the coveted power, and become able to portray, as if she felt, that which is the inspiration of all the highest forms of art—feeling.
That evening, Dennis, at Mr. Ludolph’s request, came to the hotel to try some new music. During the evening Mr. Ludolph was called out for a little time. Availing himself of the opportunity, Dennis said, “You seem to be working with all your old zest and hope.”
“Yes,” she said, “with greater hope than ever before.”
“Won’t you show me something that you are doing?”
“No, not yet. I am determined that when you see work of mine again the fatal defect which you pointed out shall be absent.”
His eyes and face became eloquent with the hope she inspired. Was her heart, awakening from its long winter of doubt and indifference, teaching her to paint? Had she recognized the truth of his assurance that she must feel, and then she could portray feeling? and had she read in his face and manner that which had created a kindred impulse in her heart? He was about to speak, the ice of his reserve and prudence fast melting under what seemed good evidence that her smiles and kindness might be interpreted in accordance with his longings. She saw and anticipated.
“With all your cleverness, Mr. Fleet, I may prove you at fault, and become able to portray what I do not feel or believe.”
“You mean to say that you work from your old standpoint merely?” asked Dennis, feeling as if a sunny sky had suddenly darkened.
“I do not say that at all, but that I do not work from yours.”
“And yet you hope to succeed?”
“I think I am succeeding.”
Perplexity and disappointment were plainly written on his face. She, with a merry and half-malicious laugh, turned to the piano, and sung:
“From Mount Olympus’ snowy height
The gods look down on human life:
Beneath contending armies fight;
All undisturbed they watch the strife.”
Dennis looked at her earnestly, and after a moment said, “Will you please play that accompaniment again?”
She complied, and he sang:
“Your Mount Olympus’ icy peak
Is barren waste, by cold winds swept:
Another height I gladly see,
Where God o’er human sorrow wept.”
She turned a startled and almost wistful face to him, for he had given a very unexpected answer to her cold, selfish philosophy, which was so apt and sudden as to seem almost inspired.
“Do you refer to Christ’s weeping over Jerusalem?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She sat for a little time silent and thoughtful, and Dennis watched her keenly. Suddenly her brow darkened, and she said, bitterly: “Delusion! If He had been a God He would not have idly wept over sorrow. He would have banished it.”
Dennis was about to reply eagerly, when Mr. Ludolph entered, and music was resumed. But it was evident that Dennis’s lines had disturbed the fair sceptic’s equanimity.
XXXI
Beguiled
Dennis returned to his room greatly perplexed. There was something in Christine’s actions which he could not understand. From the time of their first conversation at Miss Winthrop’s, she had evidently felt and acted differently. If her heart remained cold and untouched, if as yet neither faith nor love had any existence therein, what was the inspiring motive? Why should deep discouragement change suddenly to assured hope?
Then again her manner was equally inexplicable. From that same evening she gave him more encouragement than he had even hoped to receive for months, but yet he made no progress. She seemed to enjoy meeting him, and constantly found opportunity to do so. Her eyes were continually seeking his face, but there was something in her manner in this respect that puzzled him more than anything else. She often seemed looking at his face, rather than at him. At first Christine had been furtive and careful in her observations, but as the habit grew upon her, and her interest increased, she would sometimes gaze so steadily that poor Dennis was deeply embarrassed. Becoming conscious of this, she would herself color slightly, and be more careful for a time.
In her eagerness for success, Christine did not realize how dangerous an experiment she was trying. She could not look upon such a face as Dennis Fleet’s, eloquent with that which should never fail to touch a woman’s heart with sympathy, and then forget it when she chose. Moreover, though she knew it not, in addition to her interest in him as an art study, his strong, positive nature affected her cool, negative one most pleasantly. His earnest manifested feeling fell like sunlight on a heart benumbed with cold.
Thus, under the stimulus of his presence, she found that she could paint or sketch to much better purpose than when alone. This knowledge made her rejoice in secret over the opportunity she could now have, as Dennis again assisted her in hanging pictures, and affixing to the walls ornaments of various kinds.
Coming to him one morning in the store, she said, “I am going to ask a favor of you again.”
Dennis looked as if she were conferring the greatest of favors. His face always lighted up when she spoke to him.
“It
