Part 11

After a time Margaret fell into a deep slumber, and Mrs. Thorpe left her and sought her rest. The next morning she found her tossing restlessly on her pillows. Her eyes, wide open now, were staring and bloodshot; the blood was leaping wildly through her veins and fever burned in her face. She laid her hand on the girl's forehead.

"Margaret," she said, "my poor Margaret."

A wild laugh greeted her, then a moan and a cry of pain. Mrs. Thorpe talked to her and soothed her as best she could, and when she grew quieter she prepared a plate of tempting food for her and brewed a cup of coffee to a deep, rich brown and flavored it with the cream she had reserved for her own morning beverage.

During the day Dr. Eldrige called in and inquired about her.

"You are doing all there is to be done for her," he said to Mrs. Thorpe. "Stimulating food and good care are all that she needs. If you could keep her with you--if she could be kept away from her temptations--there is good in the girl, Mrs. Thorpe, or at least there once was good in her."

Mrs. Thorpe looked at him with her eyes misty, unfathomable.

"No one understands the truth of what you say better than I do, Dr. Eldrige; I shall keep her with me--always, perhaps."

As the day wore away and evening came on, Margaret began to realize her condition and she recognized Mrs. Thorpe.

"I thought it was a dream," she said, "all a dream, and I dreaded to awake; and now I do not understand. Where am I? And why are you here, Mrs. Thorpe? How came we beneath the same roof--you who are good--and I who--thank God--if there is a God--I who am bad?"

Mrs. Thorpe looked into the girl's face. What should she say to her? What could she tell her? How could she win her?

"You have been ill for a time, Margaret, and I have been caring for you," she said.

"Where am I? Who brought me here, and why have you been caring for me?"

"This is my home. I found you in need and brought you here. I am very glad to have you, Margaret; and you were ill, you know." But Mrs. Thorpe noticed that there was a hard and sullen look on the girl's face. She did not speak for some time, and then she said:

"I do not know why you brought me here, Mrs. Thorpe. Perhaps you expect me to thank you for what you have done for me. You have saved my life, no doubt. There was a time when I was worth saving--and you could have saved me--but now I had rather have died in the street than to have taken one favor from your hand."

Mrs. Thorpe stepped to the girl's side and slipped an arm about her.

"Margaret," she said, "you have an old grievance against me, and justly, too. But girl, girl, do you think that I, too, have not suffered for that day's ignorance and folly? Do you think that the condemnation that the past has brought is more bitter upon you than it is upon me? Do you think that the stain of your sin is upon you alone? Margaret, Margaret, hear me. As we stand before God, I do believe I am the guiltier woman of the two." Mrs. Thorpe's voice choked with sobs and her face was wet with tears. "I sent you, passionate and misguided, to your sin; you but did the thing I drove you to. In the sight of our fellow men the condemnation is upon you; but how blind and ignorant is the judgment of men! Yet this I will say: I never meant to harm you, Margaret. I had no slightest thought of what it meant to you and your mother. I was ignorant, and oh, I, too, was passionate and misguided! But now that I have found you again, now that I have you here in my home while you need me and I need you--and I do need you, Margaret--stay with me, stay here with me."

"Stay with you? Stay here with you? Little you know what it is you ask, Mrs. Thorpe--little you know! I must get back--yes, back."

"I will not let you go, Margaret. I will never let you go."

The girl's anger and passion flamed into her face.

"You don't know what it is you ask," she said. "I tell you, you don't know--I'm not a woman that you want here."

"Margaret, I do want you. I want you to feel that this is your home; and oh, my child, I want you to know that I am your friend--always and always your friend."

The girl's eyes were furious, yet piteous, like the eyes of an animal at bay; her passion had burned almost to frenzy.

"Know, then," she hissed, close to Mrs. Thorpe's face, "know, then, what it is that I must have! I tell you, I am a ruined woman--I must have--"

But Mrs. Thorpe put out her hand.

"Hush, Margaret," she said. "Do you think that I do not know? I do know, and, believe me, I know what you suffer! But oh, my child! How many, many who were dire distressed pressed close to the Healer's side--and never one was turned away."

Margaret scanned Mrs. Thorpe's face with a look that was terrible--keen as a lightning flash. For a moment the transfiguration of hope, desire, faith, lay in the dark depth of her eyes. Her face relaxed; the frenzy and passion died out of it and left it quivering with a new-born anguish. She threw herself prostrate on a couch and burst into a paroxysm of tears.

A woman's tears--a fallen woman's tears! The sacred pages that are so few, yet hold the record of all that guides the human family from the beginning to the end, had space for this, a fallen woman's tears. The sins, blood-red, that have been made like wool; as scarlet, that have become white as snow, washed in the fountain of penitent tears! And beating in divine cadence, sounding forever through the centuries, are the words of the great Forgiver of men:

"Go thy way and sin no more."

*CHAPTER XV*

*NEITHER DO I CONDEMN THEE*

Mrs. Thorpe beguiled Margaret into leading a quiet life. She prevailed upon her to go out but little, and never allowed her to go alone. There were days when the old rebellion arose within the girl and her abnormal craving grew all but intolerable, when bodily pain and mental anguish rendered her less woman than monster.

But into the work of helping to readjust this unfortunate girl's life Mrs. Thorpe brought her dauntless courage, her understanding of the Truth and her faith in the supreme Power. There were no halfway places in this woman's character; there were no doubts in her creed, no cringing fears in her belief. The power of God is a power to save once, every time and forever. To doubt once, to admit one fear, to let go for one instant the everlasting principle of Truth, is to hurl oneself from the mountain peak, to cast oneself from the pinnacle of the Temple.

The winter was a severe one. The great banks of snow piled higher and higher during the short winter days; and when the days began to lengthen the cold grew more keen and cutting. There was suffering on the Flat as there had been winters before. Mrs. Thorpe went among the people with words of cheer, and such material aid as she could render. The ladies of the church and the Edgerly Benevolent Society soon found her out, and her little home became a distributing point between Christian Edgerly and the suffering Flat. The Society soon learned that Mrs. Thorpe knew where the need was greatest, and what the needs of the individual were; she knew which shivering child the little scarlet coat that some mother's darling had outgrown would fit; she knew where the shoes that had become too shabby for a child of fortune to wear would be most welcome, and which pair of cold, pinched hands should have the half-worn, fur-topped mittens; she knew where there was sickness and where the larder was empty; she knew also where the needy ones could be trusted with funds and where they could not.

And the Benevolent Society, finding that she knew all these things, found it a great relief to leave their offerings with her. It saved the painful harrowing of their feelings that personal contact with these people brought, and also gave them a comfortable sense of the works being well done. And in simple truth, was not this, to gain the feeling of conscious comfort that comes from the doing of a good deed, the primary object of their charity?

Mrs. Thorpe willingly took this work upon herself. It was a joy to her that she was able in any degree to lighten the burdens of these people, and her zest and interest in the work grew from day to day; yet from the depths of her heart she grieved over it.

"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves and your children." Were these Christian women of Edgerly the daughters and the children of the daughters that the prophetic vision saw down the stretch of the centuries?

Margaret became interested in the work of distribution. It may be that it was the interest and spirit with which she entered into this work that saved her. Mrs. Thorpe saw that little by little the girl's thoughts were turning from self, away from the dark record with its paralyzing effect, to another's need, another's suffering, another's pleasure. Sometimes among the garments that were sent to them there would be one that must be altered in some way, or buttons be replaced, or stitches taken. With forethought and tact Mrs. Thorpe kept Margaret employed; kept her hands at works of kindness and her mind filled with thoughts of others.

Among the members of the Benevolent Society there was one who took an active interest in the relief work, one who cared to go among the people and know them. This was Geraldine Vane, who had become a frequent visitor in Mrs. Thorpe's home. The trouble that had come to Geraldine had turned her thoughts from her own favored life and made her more thoughtful of others, and in Mrs. Thorpe she had found a friend such as many a girl craves, a woman older and more mature than herself.

And there was something in Margaret, this passionate girl with her turbulent, troubled past, that appealed to the favored child of chastity and gave her a broader, more sympathetic outlook; gave her that peculiar knowledge the lack of which Mrs. Mayhew had once deplored. The two girls were of about the same age; they had grown to womanhood in the same town, but circumstances had forced their paths far apart. Now the threads of their lives, so different in form and color, were weaving together the pattern of a unique friendship.

Together these two visited a poor home one day, where death had entered. A little child lay dead, and they performed the last services for the little sleeper and prepared her for her rest. Together they stood by the poor little grave and heard the minister's words and saw the earth heaped above the little form. Mrs. Thorpe remained in the home, where another child lay ill. When they returned from the grave they found Dr. Eldrige Jr. ministering to the sick child. Mrs. Thorpe saw the doctor's face grow cold and grave as he greeted Geraldine, and she noted the reserve that the girl drew about herself. Yet, after the greeting was over she saw in the man's eyes a look such as a thirsty traveler might direct toward a stream of water which was beyond his reach. And on Geraldine's face there was a shadow which she had noticed there before, the shadow of a long endurance.

Some days later Mrs. Thorpe met the doctor again. He had finished his round of calls and was on his homeward way when he overtook her near her gate.

"Come in with me and rest a bit before the long climb up the hill," she said.

"Always a long, hard climb to the top of the hill," he replied. And Mrs. Thorpe, seeing that he hesitated to accept her invitation, said:

"Margaret and Geraldine have gone across the Flat to see a sick child; they will not be back for some time, I think."

Then, without further words, he opened the gate for her and accompanied her to the house. She gave him a chair by the fire and stirred up the coals in the grate, then she removed her wraps and seated herself by the fire. There was no uncertainty in her mind as to why she had asked him to come in; she knew exactly what it was she wished to say to him; but she felt that kind Providence must aid her in finding a way to say it. Since that night, when in the tragic silence a bond of sympathy had sprung up between them, she had learned a fact which she was desirous of communicating to him.

She had a personal liking for this man, and a great admiration for the manner in which he was devoting his time and skill to the relief of the unfortunate. Then, too, she had not forgotten that he had been her friend in the days of her sorest perplexity; and she knew as well as did he that his judgment and prompt action had once saved her reason. And then, when all her skies were black, at that time in her affairs when she knew not whether in all this world she had more than one thing left her, when of all she had believed she had, she was sure of just this one thing--the love of God--at this time she knew that Dr. Eldrige had by his actions, rather than by words or arguments, defended her against the malevolence of his father, and with his quiet scorn had removed the venom from the wild, improbable reports that the older man had circulated, and had maintained before her friends and acquaintances that these unreasonable tales were a disgrace, not to the one lone woman, but to the community which countenanced and repeated them.

When her friends came back to her and life began to flow again on the old level, a word dropped by one or another, a statement or a half confession from friend or casual acquaintance, revealed to Mrs. Thorpe the sincerity of this man's quiet, unostentatious friendship. Now the knowledge came to her that his life had been robbed of its happiness and all its sweetest harmonies had given place to discord. And she longed to tell him that which she knew to be a fact, that it was his own unskilled touch that was producing the discords.

"You are finding plenty of work here this winter, Mrs. Thorpe," he said. "The good you are doing is inestimable."

"An appreciation which might easily be returned, Dr. Eldrige. I know whose name is a household word over all this Flat."

"Yet the lives of these people are hard," he said; "hard and pitiable, for all your efforts and mine."

"But not so hard as they might otherwise be; and as for that, many lives are hard--every life that lives and labors under false impressions is hard."

He glanced at her as though to catch the import of her words, and then he knew that there was something in her thought more than her words signified; but he waited for her to continue.

"A mistaken idea is quite as capable of causing unhappiness as the sternest reality," she said.

"There is something you wish to say to me, Mrs. Thorpe. Why do you disguise your meaning? Can we not be frank with each other?"

"Thank you, Dr. Eldrige; I hope that our friendship is not so poor a thing that it cannot stand a straightforward word. This, then, is what I wish to say: I believe your standards to be excellent and your sense of justice fine and true, yet in your estimate of another you have allowed yourself to be influenced by outside appearances; and while I can see your point of view, yet I know you are condemning as good and true a woman as ever lived, for something she did not know existed."

Mrs. Thorpe saw the man's face harden, his brows contract, and pain, keen and sharp, flash in his eyes; and when he spoke there was severity in his voice.

"She knew the man's character," he said.

Mrs. Thorpe's eyes, level, unflinching, met his.

"What is your authority for your statement?" she asked.

The doctor arose and came over to Mrs. Thorpe's side.

"Mrs. Thorpe," he said, "can it be--can it be possible that she did not know?"

"She did not know, Dr. Eldrige; she has told me that she did not know."

"She has told you--Geraldine has told you?"

"Geraldine has told me that she did not know the man's character; that she never dreamed of the thing that you and I know. Mrs. Mayhew has told me that at one time she tried to enlighten the girl, but she confesses that she did not handle the subject fearlessly as she should. I, myself, told Geraldine the truth as I know it; but it was not until after Max had gone."

The doctor resumed his seat; he rested his elbow on the arm of his chair and covered his face with his hand.

Mrs. Thorpe arose and left the fireside and went over to the window; her eyes wandered far across the frost-covered Flat, but her heart was with the man sitting in silence before her fire--her whole heart was with him--his happiness--his future--his life. Had she made possible for him that condition of life which she knew to be so perfect, so near to Heaven?--knew because it had once been hers. Then she felt his presence near her and turned and faced him. He took her hands in his.

"You are the best friend I have ever known," he said; "a better friend than I deserve. Your loving kindness has made you dear to me--dear as friend can be to friend."

She looked into his face, strong, steadfast beneath the flush of happiness that illumined it.

"If I have been able to help you to your happiness this will make me glad all my life," she said. Then a gleam of humor lighted up her face. "I do not know whether you can ever make your peace with Geraldine or not," she said, "but I thought it right that you should know the truth."

He flushed with the confusion of a schoolboy.

"But to know the truth," he said; "just to know what you have told me, this has changed the face of all the earth for me. I can never thank you."

"We are even, then," she said, "for I have never tried to thank you for your many kindnesses to me."

Dr. Eldrige left the house as Margaret and Geraldine were seen coming up the street. He lifted his hat to Margaret as he passed her at the gate, and spoke to Geraldine, who was passing on.

"Miss Vane, permit me to join you," he said, and together they ascended the long hill. The setting sun blazed redly upon the church and its lingering rays shed a glory over the man and woman toiling up the long incline. When the summit was reached they paused for a few moments before the glorified church; then they passed on and down on the other side. When they parted at the door of Geraldine's home Dr. Eldrige had received permission to call later in the evening.

When he called again he found Geraldine in the library beside the fire, very much as he had seen her that other night, and his heart smote him for the injustice he had done her. She arose to meet him; he came over to her, and the love of his life, so long held in subjection, now ruled supreme. He held out his arms to her and she came straight into them.

"Geraldine, I have wanted you so--longed so for you."

"And I have loved you always, Allen Eldrige," she said.

The walk home in the winter sunshine brought a glow to Margaret's cheeks, but there was a look of pathos in her dark eyes; the slumbering fire of her spirit was burning there. She assisted Mrs. Thorpe with the evening meal, and in the fruitful silence that often means more than words, they sat together over their biscuit and tea. After supper Margaret drew her chair before the fire and remained silent with her thoughts. Mrs. Thorpe busied herself with her ever-ready work, but she spoke no word to intrude upon the girl's thoughts. When Margaret spoke at last, her voice was quiet and even.

"Mrs. Thorpe," she said, "I cannot allow this to go on. This restful life has meant much to me; it is hard for me to leave it, but I have been idle too long. I must get to work again."

Mrs. Thorpe understood the import of the words, and more; for there was more in tone and manner, in pause and silence, than the words conveyed.

There was little doubt that Margaret was done with the old life. The fierce, consuming struggle was over. The battle against her seeming foes, ever alive, alert, ever ready for open attack or covert sting, had been fought. There is much that one person can do for another in the struggle toward righteousness; there is the handclasp of comradeship, the countenance of faith, and, more potent than these, there is the force of thought held supreme and infallible. Yet when the test comes, when the enemy, grown strong, or snarling and impatient of delay, or crawling, insidious, in the dim shadows, makes a stand and demands its victim, then forever anew, and always alone, the old battle with the Serpent must be fought. Then the kingdoms of the world and all that they contain must be perceived, measured, weighed, balanced and judged for exactly what they are. The delusions of mortal sense have not lost their subtle deception since the days of the talking snake; and with undeviating certainty comes the time, even as it came to the first man and woman, when choose we must. Yet saving power of the Infinite, though we have lost our Eden, even as our first parents lost theirs, the Kingdom of Heaven is neither visionary nor transitory, but forever remains.

Margaret's Eden was gone; she had stepped out of her purity into darkness and evil, and the Angel with the flaming sword stood forbidding on one hand, and on the other the Beasts that had sought to destroy her. But into her life had come the understanding that there is but one real power--the Power of Eternal Good.

"What is it you have in mind to do, Margaret?" asked Mrs. Thorpe.

"I have not decided upon anything, but I must work; I cannot remain idle."

"You have not been idle, Margaret; and there is work, quantities of it, not remunerative but humane, for both of us here on the Flat."

The firelight rose and fell and fitful shadows lingered about the room, and again there was silence. Margaret was again the first to speak.

"I am not fit for the work here, Mrs. Thorpe, even if I were at liberty to devote myself to it. My past stands between me and the Master's work."

It was the first mention that had been made of the past since that day, months before, when the anguish of her remorse had swept over her like the devouring billows of the sea; when her tears had flowed sufficient, if tears have efficacy, to wash away every crimson stain.

"If he who is without sin casts the first stone, Margaret, you need have no fear of the condemnation of men. Tune up the fine, invisible instrument of your better nature and let the words of the Divine Man ever sound there: 'Neither do I condemn thee.'"

Margaret slipped from her chair, and on her knees buried her face in Mrs. Thorpe's lap; and her form shook and quivered with the passion of her sobs.

"Mrs. Thorpe," she said, "I want my mother--my poor, broken-hearted, forsaken mother--mother--mother--and little, suffering Jamie!"

Mrs. Thorpe laid her hand caressingly on the girl's dark hair, and her own face was wet with tears.

"Tell me about your mother, Margaret. Where is she now, and what is she doing?"

"I have not seen her for over a year. I knew then that she never wished to see my face again--oh, poor mother! But a longing to hear from her came over me, and I asked Geraldine to-day if she had seen her. She told me that mother has given up sewing again, and that she goes out to service wherever she can get a day's work, and be with Jamie at night."

"We will go and see her, Margaret, you and I. It will gladden her heart to see her Lassie again, and it will do you good, too. We will go to-morrow, and I am sure we shall find some way to assist her."

"Now go to your rest, my child, and never doubt that all good belongs to you and yours."

*CHAPTER XVI*

*MRS. THORPE'S WORK*

"The work of men--and what is that? Well we may, any of us, know very quickly, on the condition of being wholly ready to do it.

"But many of us are for the most part thinking, not of what we are to do, but of what we are to get; and the best of us are sunk into the sin of Ananias, and it is a mortal one--we want to keep back part of the price; and we continually talk of taking up our cross, as if the only harm in a cross were the weight of it--as if it were only a thing to be carried instead of to be crucified upon.