Her father watched her closely, and with much satisfaction.
“After all, her wound is slight,” he thought, “and new scenes and circumstances will soon cause her to forget.”
Furtively, but continually, he bent his eyes upon her, as if to read her very soul. A dreamy, happy expression rested on her face, as if a scene were present to her fancy even more to her taste than the one her eyes dwelt upon. In fact she was living over that evening at Miss Winthrop’s, when Dennis had told her that she could reach truest and highest art—that she could feel—could copy anything she saw; and exhilarated by the fresh morning air, inspired by the scenery, she felt for the moment, as never before, that it might all be true.
Was he who gave those blissful assurances also exerting a subtle, unrecognized power over her? Certainly within the last few weeks she had been subject to strange moods and reveries. But the first dawning of a woman’s love is like the aurora, with its strange, fitful flashes. The phenomena have never been satisfactorily explained.
But, as Mr. Ludolph watched complacently and admiringly, her expression suddenly changed, and a frightened, guilty look came into her face. The glow upon her cheeks gave place to extreme pallor, and she glanced nervously around as if fearing something, then caught her father’s eye, and was conscious of his scrutiny. She at once became cold and self-possessed, and sat at his side pale and quiet till the ride ended. But he saw from the troubled gleam of her eyes that beneath that calm exterior were tumult and suffering. Few in this life are so guilty and wretched as not to have moments of forgetfulness, when the happier past comes back and they are oblivious of the painful present. Such a brief respite Christine enjoyed during part of her morning ride. The grand and swiftly varying scenery crowded her mind with pleasant images, which had been followed by a delicious revery. She felt herself to be a true priestess of Nature, capable of understanding and interpreting her voices and hidden meanings—of catching her evanescent beauty and fixing it on the glowing canvas. The strong consciousness of such power was indeed sweet and intoxicating. Her mind naturally reverted to him who had most clearly asserted her possession of it.
“He, too, would have equal appreciation of this scenery,” she said to herself.
Then came the sudden remembrance, shrivelling her pretty dreams as the lightning scorches and withers.
“He—he is dead!—he must be by this time!”
And dread and guilt and something else which she did not define, but which seemed more like a sense of great loss, lay heavy at her heart. No wonder her father was perplexed and provoked by the sad change in her face. At first he was inclined to remonstrate and put spurs to her pride. But there was a dignity about the lady at his side, even though she was his daughter, that embarrassed and restrained him. Moreover, though he understood much and suspected far more—more indeed than the truth—there was nothing acknowledged or tangible that he could lay hold of, and she meant that it should be so. For reasons she did not understand she felt a disinclination to tell her troubles to Susie Winthrop, and she was most resolute in her purpose never to permit her father to speak on the subject.
If Mr. Ludolph had been as coarse and ignorant as he was hard and selfish, he would have gone to work at the case with sledgehammer dexterity, as many parents have done, making sad, brutal havoc in delicate womanly natures with which they were no more fit to deal than a blacksmith with hairsprings. But though he longed to speak, and bring his remorseless logic to bear, Christine’s manner raised a barrier which a man of his fine culture could not readily pass.
She joined her father at a late breakfast, smiling and brilliant, but her gayety was clearly forced. The morning was spent in sketching, she seeming to crave constant occupation or excitement.
In the afternoon father and daughter drove up the river to the military grounds to witness a drill. Mr. Ludolph did his best to rally Christine, pointing out everything of interest. First, the grand old ruin of Fort Putnam frowned down upon them. This had been the one feature wanting, and Christine felt that she could ask nothing more. Her wonder and admiration grew as the road wound along the immediate bluff and around the plain by the river fortifications. But when she stood on the piazza of the West Point Hotel, and looked up through the Highlands toward Newburgh, tears came to her eyes, and she trembled with excitement. From her recent experiences her nerves were morbidly sensitive. But her father could only look and wonder, she seemed so changed to him.
“And is the Rhine like this?” she asked.
“Well, the best I can say is, that to a German and a Ludolph it seems just as beautiful,” he replied.
“Surely,” said she, slowly and in half-soliloquy, “if one could live always amid such scenes as these, the Elysium of the gods or the heaven of the Christians would offer few temptations.”
“And among just such scenes you shall live after a short year passes,” he answered, warmly and confidently. But with anger he missed the wonted sparkle of her eyes when these cherished plans were broached.
In bitterness Christine said to herself: “A few weeks since this thought would have filled me with delight. Why does it not now?”
Silently they drove to the parade-ground. At the sally-port of the distant barracks bayonets were gleaming. There was a burst of martial music, then each class at the Academy—four companies—came out
