Part 10

It was the first time this aspect of the affair had presented itself to him, and while it seemed a thing too hideous to contemplate, he felt sure that it was true. But although his indignation and despair broiled and seethed in his heart, he ministered to the child with a touch skilled and tender as a woman's; then he gave the nurse exact directions for the night and took his departure.

When he again passed the library the door had swung to and no sound came to him from behind the closed portal. He passed quickly, quietly out of the house and into the street, out into the dark, moaning night. Rain and sleet were falling; the wind buffeted him and strange sounds from the shivering trees and their bare, wailing branches came to him. All the black face of the night seemed possessed of a wild and witch-like fierceness. Voices shrieked and hissed at him. The woman--the one woman in the world--the woman that he loved--what was life to him now and all that it contained? Was the future that stretched before him less black than this tempestuous night? Alone in the storm and the darkness he felt himself a part of the tumultuous elements about him.

In the library the firelight lay warm and red over the furnishings, and fantastic shadows lurked here and there about the room. The wind when it arose in its fury could be heard like the sobbing of some unhappy spirit.

Max stood before Geraldine, his soul in his eyes and a great tenderness in his musical, well-modulated voice.

"You must have known that I love you, Geraldine," he said; "love and adore you." He extended his hands to her, pleading, passionate. "Geraldine!"

But Geraldine, sitting there wrapped in the red firelight, did not stir nor move. The color had gone from her face, her eyes were bright and her eyelids burned hot and dry. She saw the dark, dominating figure beside her, she heard the pleading and she understood; yet she remained silent and motionless before him.

He bent over and took her hand in his. "Geraldine," he whispered, close to her white face, "come to me."

Then the blood beat into her face and flushed it crimson red. Her tense muscles relaxed and she arose and stood before him. The warm firelight enfolded them, and the wind came to them in wailing sobs; but silence lay between them, and Geraldine was alone--alone as it comes to us all to be sometimes--many times, perhaps. No word of her aunt's warning came to her now; no thought of her uncle's unspoken wish was with her; the world, with its perplexities, was forgotten; life that had already grieved and distressed her was lost in oblivion and she was in the silence, the vastness, the grandeur of self--alone--and her pure heart, her woman's heart knew its own. There are voices that come to us sometimes, other than those that come over the vibrations of air waves. The deep, still voice of truth needs no material means through which to speak. A wordless message came to Geraldine, as she stood silent and alone; it called to the depth of her soul, and smote upon the sweet, vibrant chords of her womanhood.

"Max," she said, "I cannot--cannot--"

"Geraldine--oh, Geraldine!"

"I cannot, Max--I do not love you."

He looked at her then as one looks at a rare and beautiful gem, and a desire to possess her such as he had not felt before arose within him; and even the dark-faced girl that at one time he had fancied stood unseen beside him in the firelight was forgotten.

"Geraldine, it cannot be--you do not understand." He seized her hands and his eyes burned upon her compellingly, as he sought by the superior force of his will to dominate and control her. "My love, be kind; you would not cast me off, ruin my life--"

"I cannot, Max," she said. Her voice faltered and her eyes looked compassionately into his. "I do not love you."

How many women he had loved, or professed to love, and not one of them had answered him as he was answered now. What sort of woman, then, was this one, whom persuasion could not influence and passion could not sway? By what standard had her life been fashioned? What was its center and controlling power? With all that he had seen of life, could it be that he had failed in his judgment of womankind? Was there something in the nature of a woman, a good woman, that he had never known?

His thoughts had found a new channel and he was at their mercy. Was there something in human nature, in life, deeper, truer, stronger than he had ever known? He turned from the firelight and the trembling girl on the hearth and walked across the room. The bare branches of a sweet-brier outside tapped against the window-pane. The blinds were drawn, but he could hear the tapping, and in fancy see the bare, brown branches at the mercy of the wind. He sat down by the window and bowed his head and covered his eyes with his hand.

Had he all this time been dealing with the outer sham of life, deluded in the belief that he was living in the very heart of it? Had he been surfeiting himself with the husks, believing that he was feasting on the rare, sweet-flavored kernel?

For a time Geraldine remained by the hearth, then she crossed the room and stood beside him and laid her hand gently on his arm.

"Max," she said, "we have been friends, good friends--in our friendship we have been true to each other, we must be true to each other still, and true to ourselves--to the best that is in us. I cannot give you what you ask. Shall I be false and give you less? You desire a woman's heart, her life and love--shall I defraud you of this? Some day, perhaps, you will be glad that I have been true to myself--and to you, Max."

When Max stepped out into the night the wind had grown less boisterous; now and then a fitful gust went by like a wanderer in the night. The cold had become keener; overhead the clouds had rifted and a few stars kept watch with the night.

Geraldine lay awake long after she had sought her rest. The low moaning of the wind came to her in her upper room, and from her window she could see the rifted clouds and scattered stars. From a child she had looked from this same window at the face of the night, and the feeling had grown up with her that the great enfolding darkness was guarding and protecting her. Her trust and her simple faith had been as natural as her breathing or her existence. All her life before Faith and Trust had pillowed her head at night, and gently touched her eyelids, and whispered sweet dreams to her; but to-night dark, foreboding Doubt became her companion, and she tossed restlessly on her bed and looked down the long vista of years and saw herself alone, forgotten and unloved. With maidenly reserve and a woman's pride she had endeavored to shut out and debar from her thoughts one whom she believed had ceased to care for her, even as a friend; but when she had stood alone in the presence of her conscious self, the pleading of the man beside her had not seemed so real, so vital to her as did the vibrations of the wordless, evanescent message that came to her above the sobbing wind and the spirit of the tumultuous night.

Mrs. Mayhew noticed her heavy eyes and swelled lids the next morning, and Geraldine told her of Max's proposal and her rejection of him. Mrs. Mayhew had felt sure that Geraldine was to face this question, and in her heart she was glad of the girl's decision; yet her happiness came first, and it was evident that she was not happy, and she felt sure that there was something that Geraldine had not disclosed; yet she understood the fineness of the girl's nature too well to desire to force her confidence. And Geraldine could not speak of that about which she felt no woman has a right to speak. And so a barrier, subtle, thin as gauze, yet impenetrable, hung like a curtain between them. And Mrs. Mayhew, with rare wisdom, realizing that her girl had grown into a woman, was content to let her alone with her woman's secrets.

When Mr. Mayhew came home from his office that day his mood was not exactly a happy one. He had seen Max and knew the outcome of his proposal. He was both surprised and displeased; but he concealed the fact from Max and hinted that a woman's "no" often means "yes," and he determined to see Geraldine and speak plainly to her. When Max first spoke to him about Geraldine he had begun to look upon her as he might upon a commodity that had lain for years almost forgotten, but which had suddenly become of great value. Now, with her own hand she had shattered his plans for her, and refused one of the best fortunes in Edgerly.

After dinner he asked Geraldine to come to him in the library. He was seated near the fire reading when she entered the room. She did not disturb him, but went over and stood by the window and watched the sweet-brier as it tapped gently now against the window-pane.

Mr. Mayhew lowered his paper and looked at her, and his mind became reminiscent. He was impressed anew with Geraldine's likeness to her father; and this man seemed to come out of the shadowy past and confront him. Noble he had been, high-minded, conscientious and--poor. A musician, his artist's soul pure as the divine strains of his melodies, he seemed like one whom chance had placed in a wrong world, or a wrong age. Then his mind ran over the different members of the Vane family; scholars, musicians, professional men, high-minded and noble, but could anything excuse their poverty?

Geraldine turned and met his gaze. He arose and placed a chair for her.

"I wished to speak to you," he said direct, "I wish to speak about Max."

"Yes," she said, and her manner was gentle and womanly.

He was conscious of thinking that she had good blood in her veins; her voice and manner proclaimed it; and all she lacked was a fortune such as Max could give her.

"You understand, Geraldine, that Max has all the comforts of life to give the woman he marries."

"Yes, I know."

"The truth sometimes sounds harsh when spoken plainly, Geraldine; but you are aware, that however loved and welcome you have been beneath my roof, that you are a dowerless girl. It was my desire that you be given every advantage that a girl of wealth receives, and your aunt has seen that my wishes were carried out. Now you are offered a home and fortune that will give you the comforts and luxuries of life to which you have been accustomed. Can you afford to lose this opportunity?"

"I cannot marry Max Morrison."

He met her eyes; they had been dark and sweet like pansies; now they were wide and blue. He felt the hopelessness of argument. He knew the Vanes; they appeared yielding and docile, but he knew them to be flint and steel where a principle was concerned. He arose, impatient to be away.

A few days later it was known that Max Morrison had enlisted with a company of volunteers, and was going to the Philippines.

*CHAPTER XIV*

*A FRIEND IN NEED*

Mr. Thorpe went to Colorado for his health. A cousin of his, a brother of Pauline's, lived there, and Mr. Thorpe had a standing invitation to come and try the effect of the climate on his health. Pauline accompanied him; she had become so used to caring for him and watching over him as a mother watches over an ailing child, that she could not bring herself to part with him now, when she believed his condition to be more critical than it had ever been before. Then, too, she knew that all was not well between him and his wife, and, knowing this, she had no desire to remain with Mrs. Thorpe.

The pastor who was called in Mr. Thorpe's place was an unmarried man, and had no use for the parsonage, and Mr. Thorpe, by courtesy of the church committee, had been permitted to retain the use of it. But now, left alone, Mrs. Thorpe felt the necessity of finding a home for herself.

Some years previous she had, by the death of an uncle, come into possession of a small legacy. This her husband had insisted that she keep intact against a day of need.

On the Flat side of the church-crowned incline there was a small cottage set in a bit of ground, somewhat back from the rambling street. On either side of it were smaller houses, with ill-kept yards in which neglected children played and where untidy women talked across broken down fences and quarreled over petty grievances. Mrs. Thorpe had often noticed this cottage on her way to and from the Flat. The fact that it stood a little back from the street had given her the impression that the builder of it had desired more privacy, was more retiring, perhaps, than were those who had built their houses against the street; and she had planned in her mind how flowers and shrubs might be grown in the yard and vines trained over the windows and the place made to take on a homelike appearance, if the owner desired it. Now, confronted with the problem of finding a home for herself, her thoughts went directly to this cottage.

Alone in the world, broken-hearted, strong in spirit, yet all at sea as to the future, the thought of a cottage on the Flat was not distasteful to her. Perhaps her work lay there; she meant to work, and it made little difference to her what the work should be or where it took her. She knew that the place was for sale, and when she found that the price was within the limit of her possessions she hesitated no longer, and the cottage became hers. Deep within her heart she knew that she was influenced by the fact that from its location she could see the church--might almost feel that she lived within the shadow of it--the church that her husband had loved. In the morning she would see it, as she had so often seen it from the parsonage, with the sun rising over the hills and mantling it with roseate splendor; and in the evening she could see the long shadow of the church spire; and on the Sabbath she could hear the bell as it called the worshipers to its altars. Full well she knew that she loved the church, knew that she must always love it and reverence that for which it stands. The fact that it is profaned by the hollow-hearted and ungodly does not change its sacred character nor destroy its spiritual significance, any more than the making "my Father's house a place of merchandise" destroyed the spiritual significance of the Temple.

Sometimes in her ever-vivid imagination she saw the whole Christianity-professing world as an Edgerly, and the poor, the ignorant and the unfortunate in the world as this great Edgerly's Flat; and always the church-crowned prominence with its prosperous, complacent money-changers between. And always she was glad that henceforth her home was to be on the Flat side, with those who needed her. Had her Master ever chosen to walk in the high places with the great ones of earth?

It was a day in early winter when Mrs. Thorpe had her possessions moved from the parsonage to the cottage on the Flat. She engaged the services of a strong woman to assist her with her work and in putting her new home in order. When this was done she paid the woman her hire and allowed her to go; her income would not warrant her keeping a servant nor a companion; she would live alone, and frugally.

When sorrow, or pain, or disappointment knocks at our door we struggle and strive, sometimes we faint and fail, yet always the knowledge comes to us that we may be strong if we will. There is no time nor place nor circumstance in life stronger than the central force within us.

Since her husband's departure Mrs. Thorpe's time had been taken up with work that pressed upon her; many cares and real labor claimed her time and strength. But now all was done, her house was in order and she was alone, sitting with empty hands--alone--beside her silent hearth. The wind blustered noisily outside, foretelling the ravages of winter, and sleet and rain came spasmodically against her window-panes. And here in the solitude of her new home old memories crowded round her and ghosts of her former self trooped through the silent rooms. She recalled how she had tried in the early days of her married life to penetrate the future, the sealed and silent future. Merciful love of the Infinite One, who turns the pages of life's book one at a time!

A sudden gust of wind came furiously against her window. She arose and walked about the room and pressed her face against the window-pane and looked out into the darkness. A white, transparent face it was, with eyes too large and dark for their setting. Then she came back and stood before her fire, a slender, girlish figure with clasped hands and bowed head. A sigh arose to her lips and ended in a quivering sob. She sank upon her knees beside her chair and buried her face in her hands.

"Maurice!" she cried, "Maurice--it is all false and untrue--this trouble that parts us. There is no evil, no pain, no sickness in God's world--Maurice--God's power is absolute; there is no other. God is supreme--love will conquer."

It was not the heart of the mortal woman, loyal and loving though it was with human affection; but the soul of her diviner self that was crying in the silence for its own. And never yet has the soul called in vain. Yet, is it not true that the Mount of Calvary is the mount of answered prayer? It was here that the great love-born prayer for humanity was consummated; a consummation attained by the adorable surrender of the finite to the Infinite.

Mrs. Thorpe had prayed; back in those haunted, troubled days she had dared to pray that all forms of suffering might be heaped upon her, that she might become an outcast in the world, if by this means she might know God. Now she felt the living presence of the Infinite enfolding her, and her life merged into the great Life. Had she not been all the way to Calvary?

When she arose from her knees she sat quietly, bravely before her open fire, and listened to the wind and rain without. After a time she experienced a feeling, vague, indefinite at first, that something was required of her, someone needed her. She could not tell who it was, nor where, but the feeling grew upon her that she was needed by someone in trouble. After a time this unvoiced conviction become so persistent that she arose and took her hood and rain-coat from the closet.

"It may be Mrs. Boyd," she thought. "Her baby is sick; I will call over and see."

At the door the wind caught her and the rain dashed into her face; but she pulled her garments more firmly about her and faced the storm. At her gate she paused for a moment in the face of the gale. "What is it," she questioned, "that is drawing me out into the night and the tempest?"

No one had sent for her, she had spoken no word to anyone, yet the feeling was so strong within her that she persisted, and made her way to her neighbor's door.

Mrs. Boyd met her garrulously: "And are you out in the storm, Mrs. Thorpe? Lonesome? Well, no doubt, no doubt; it's hard living alone for a woman, and a bad night to keep one's own company."

"I came to inquire about the baby," Mrs. Thorpe said. "How is he to-night?"

"The baby's better, thank you, Mrs. Thorpe. He's sleepin' natural to-night."

"I am glad to know it," Mrs. Thorpe replied. "I had a feeling of uneasiness about the little fellow; but if I am not needed I will go back at once, for I think the storm increases."

Again out in the dark, windy night, she questioned her purpose. What was it that had impelled her to go out into the night and the storm?

The part of the street that lay between this house and her cottage was scarcely more than a foot-path, and she was following it somewhat uncertainly when she stopped short and drew back in sudden fright.

There was something directly in front of her, flapping in the wind, like the dark wing of some great bird or evil spirit. For a moment she wavered, trembling and irresolute, then her unflinching spirit asserted itself and she approached the object. Now she could discern that it was a garment that was flying in the wind, and as she drew near to the object it moved, partly arose, and fell back again.

"Who is this?" asked Mrs. Thorpe, now close to the prostrate form. "Are you hurt or ill?" She stooped and laid her hand upon the object. "Are you ill?" she repeated. "Can I assist you? Why are you here?" She was down beside the creature now, and a moan and a bitter cry greeted her.

"Why am I here--why--why am I here--" It was a woman's voice.

Mrs. Thorpe took hold of her.

"Do what you can to help yourself," she said, "and I will assist you." But she soon saw that the burden was too great for her strength, and the unfortunate creature was down on the ground again. She was about to go back and ask Mrs. Boyd to assist her when she saw the figure of a man approaching. As he drew near she spoke to him.

"Would you be so kind as to lend me your assistance?" she said. "I found this unfortunate creature here in the street. I fear she is ill."

The man stood close beside her in the darkness.

"Mrs. Thorpe!" he said, "Mrs. Thorpe, what are you doing here in the night and the storm?"

With a glad cry she held out her hands to him.

"Dr. Eldrige! How fortunate that you happened this way. I found this poor creature here; she must be ill, I think. Help me now and we will take her into my house."

The doctor took the woman in his arms and helped her, half carrying her to the cottage door. Mrs. Thorpe turned the key in the lock, pushed open the door, and the light from the room streamed out and fell upon the woman's face. And then Mrs. Thorpe's questions were answered. She knew why old memories had crowded upon her; she knew why she had gone to the source of Power for strength, and why she had gone out into the wild night storm. The face was the dark, passion-stamped face of Margaret McGowan.

The doctor crossed the room and laid his burden on the couch as Mrs. Thorpe directed him. Then he straightened himself and looked into Mrs. Thorpe's face.

Never in her life had she seen a face so haggard, so deadly white and set. The time may come to a human heart when sympathy is as keenly craved as is food and drink to a man stranded in the desert. For one long minute the doctor held Mrs. Thorpe's eyes with his, and she read in their awful depths the tragedy of his life. Ah, these heart tragedies! Faith, hope, love--faithless, hopeless, forsaken! Not a word was spoken; the man turned to be alone, and the vibrating silence lay between them. But who can know what message may have gone out from the man's tortured soul? Dr. Eldrige's thought held to the wronged woman suffering and cold on the cot, but the soul of his manhood went out to that other woman shielded in the warm firelight. What, after all, are our material concepts of life where the realities of being are concerned? Who places our limitations upon us and makes our communication with a loved one dependent on time and space?

Both the doctor and Mrs. Thorpe turned to the prostrate form on the couch. "We must attend to her without delay," the doctor said; and they drew off her rain-soaked shoes, and warmed her aching feet, and removed her wet garments, and wrapped her in warm flannels. And Mrs. Thorpe brewed her a steaming cup of tea; and after the girl had drank this they assisted her to a bed and made her as comfortable as possible for the night. Then the doctor prepared to take his departure.

"I will send you someone to stay with you through the night, if you like," he said to Mrs. Thorpe.

"Not unless you think it necessary," she replied. "I am not afraid; believe me, I am not afraid." And so he left her alone with her patient.

The girl fell into an uneasy sleep and Mrs. Thorpe drew a chair to her bedside and sat beside her. And watching by this erring girl who had been so often in her thoughts, Mrs. Thorpe realized how small had been the measure of her faith; for she had not dared to believe that the opportunity to repay Margaret for the wrong she had done her would ever come to her.