Part 15

He had been so sure of his standards, so certain of the infallibility of his ideals. He felt that if the voice of the Lord had spoken to him, as it spoke to Moses from the burning bush it could not have brought to him more conviction than the ideals of his early manhood had afforded him--yet he had failed, his life was a wreck, a derelict stranded on the shore of time.

His mind had been so filled with the convictions that had come to him with the stamp and seal of his forefathers upon them that he had not grasped the possibilities, nor realized the demands of the vital, ever-present and progressive forces about him. And as one who starts upon a race bound and handicapped from the start, the inevitable had come upon him. But these underlying causes that had made shipwreck of his hopes and a tragedy of his existence had been to him as an unwritten book, unseen and unknown. And always when his mind had gone back over the past he had seen only the strewn and broken wreckage of his hopes, and the future was black with a dumb agony that he had no heart to face.

But one of the facts of this creation of ours and of the eternal verities that govern it is that sincerity never seeks in vain; when the sincerity of the soul asks, divine Love does not, could not, fail to respond. We must understand that there are many phases of mortal thought that parade under the mantle of sincerity which have little or no relation to that which is truly sincere. Sometimes we, as untutored children, ask for that which we would instantly cast from us were our requests granted; many times we beg and plead for that from which our very souls would shrink and cower; and very many times our motives are so obscure and our desires so warped and misshapen that we have no logical conception of that for which we ask. But the eternal fact remains: Man never yet asked for bread and was given a stone, never yet asked for an egg and was given a scorpion.

Now the man's life, bare to the quivering quick, stripped of every hypothesis, analysis and subterfuge of philosophy, was asking, sincerely asking, why he had failed. His self-righteousness slipped from him and lay like a cast-off garment at his feet; prejudice, which had held him in so firm a grip, retreated and slunk back into the dim, illusory creation where its multiform delusions have their inception; pride, humbled and forsaken, trailed its glittering pageant out of the range of his vision.

The branches of a tree outside the cave swayed in the wind and brushed against the rocks with a soft, rustling sound, and the birds called across the cavern and circled about the man's motionless figure. But outward conditions, location, surroundings and lapse of time were for the time no part of Mr. Thorpe's experience. The sun crept up in the heavens until it reached the meridian. The dog, the man's only companion in his rambles, came to his side and thrust his nose against the canvas bag, but receiving no attention, stretched himself again patiently beside his master.

When Mr. Thorpe raised his eyes from the stones at his feet he was not surprised at that which he saw. That which he beheld was exactly that which he raised his eyes expecting to see. On one side of the cavern there stood a grim, relentless form, heavy-browed and strongly built. There were iron bands about the waist and thighs and iron circles on the ankles, arms and wrists. One hand held an iron sword, the other an iron pen. And branded deep into the forehead in letters of red-hot iron was the word INTOLERANCE. On the opposite side of the cavern stood a figure of less massive proportions, of easy grace and supple bearing, clothed in a simple, clinging garment of white. In one outstretched hand was held a burning torch, and in the other a pen of light, tipped with a diamond point. Glittering gems upon the forehead fashioned the word FREEDOM. From out of the past they came, years, centuries, ages were upon them.

Now on the stones of the cavern walls each figure began to write, carefully, silently, remorselessly, until slab after slab stretching away into the dim recesses of the cave was filled with the history of the past. Every word that the iron pen recorded stood out clearly and distinctly, and there was no choice but to read. The silent spectator felt his senses shrink and quiver and his heart grow sick as the record passed before him, but he was not spared. His body grew rigid and every sense was in revolt, but the iron-bound hand did not waver nor relent. So vivid was the record that all the awful carnage and bloodshed, torture and persecution were as though actually transpiring before his tortured gaze, and the air was filled with the shrieks of the dying and groans and invectives of the tortured and tormented. But the physical horror of it did not compare with the agony of noble minds and fearless souls whose mental anguish the iron-bound hand did not hesitate to record.

The silent man, alone with these strange creations of his brain, fell to tracing the work of this iron-bound monster back to its birth or beginning. And as he pondered and questioned, it came to him with a distinct shock that the first intolerance was that which opposed itself to God's creation in the Garden of Eden. Its first form was that of a sinuous serpent; its voice that of the subtle testimony of the senses! He found also that this monster had assumed a form, and found a voice in every age in which mortal man had lived. And it came to him straight as an arrow and as keen to his highly-wrought senses that the relentless iron pen was writing, along with the other records, the history of the Church, the Church which had seemed to him to be infallible, which had come to him fraught with the faith of his ancestors, steeped in the blood of martyrs, and which held within its sacred teachings the only possible redemption for mankind, the Church for which he had labored. But he was not yet spared; remorse and contrition were having their way with him, and the sweat of agony was on his brow. For the first time in his life he entertained a doubt as to a literal hell; for what could a quenchless fire do to the physical body, compared to this which the bigotry and intolerance of his life were uncovering before him?

It was a relief to turn from this mental gloom, this verge of madness, from all this record of pain and woe, the history of the world's wrongs, to turn and behold the supple figure in white, writing with the diamond's flashing point. Here was a record of God's creation, untouched by mortal sense; a story of man untempted and woman unbeguiled; all things the image and reflection of the one God. Only that which is good and true and pure, that which is noble and righteous, was recorded by the flashing pen; the freedom which God gives to man can write no other record.

The events of the ages passed as a panorama before the solitary observer. From the bookshelves of the world were selected volumes written by a master hand, books that had stood the test of time and lived through the years. And the fact stood out with distinctness that the souls of the men who wrote them were not shackled, they were not slaves to another's will, nor bound by another's power, but that the minds that conceived them stood in absolute freedom before God. He was made to feel the throb and pulse of freedom, unbound and unfettered, that surged through the life of the artists that have painted the world's famous pictures and fashioned its works of art. He saw man expanding beneath the touch of the Infinite, answerable to the Infinite only.

Then the world's greatest singers stood before him, those to whom had been given the gracious gift of melody. And he knew that the possessor of this gift had arisen over difficulties, through trials and endeavor, until he reached the height where for him there sounded the supreme harmonies of the universe, and that he stood alone, exultant in the freedom of his power.

The flashing pen went back over the past and noted the world's reformers, men of staunch and steadfast character, who have stood for righteousness, for purity and truth, men who resisted despotism, put down superstition, stamped out ignorance and made possible the progress of science, even though their footsteps were stained with blood and led to the dungeon and the guillotine.

And this record of light, traced with the diamond's point, made it clear beyond question that in the small things as well as the great, only that which has been done in the freedom of the soul has made the world better. It is soul-freedom that has uplifted, transformed and glorified life. Every act of charity, of love, of Christian kindness, the cup of water given in the Master's name, the garment to the naked, the bread to the hungry, the visit to the prison if of any worth, of any efficacy or power, have been done in the freedom of the soul, prompted by the heart-spirit, the desire of the individual unhampered by another's will.

Now before the smitten man there rolled the long years, uncompromising and relentless as he believed the Judgment-day to be, the years in which he had held a fair, frail woman, soul and body in subjection to his wishes, dominated and controlled her by the superior force of his will. He had held to the belief that he had chosen to live apart from this woman that he loved because of her infidelity to the Church; now he was face to face with the conviction that he had deserted her because she had not subscribed unconditionally to scholastic theology.

Mr. Thorpe was aroused from his trance-like condition by the whimpering of his dog. The animal thrust his nose against the canvas bag and looked pleadingly into his master's face. Mr. Thorpe put out his hand and patted the dog's head; he gave him a biscuit from the bag and poured some water from the bottle for him to drink. Then he arose, stretched his stiffened limbs and walked to the entrance of the cave. The sun was nearing the horizon; the day had passed. He gathered his papers together, took up the untasted food and made his way back to the tent.

Pauline, who lived with her brother, and who still exercised a watchful care over her cousin, had been watching for him, and saw him when he came into sight. She was surprised at his appearance; his shoulders were squared to meet the bracing wind, and he swung along with the stride of a strong man, physically and mentally vigorous.

*CHAPTER XXI*

*THE LAW OF LIFE*

June was drawing to a close. The sun rode high in the heaven, and at evening seemed loath to leave the verdant earth in darkness. From the rows of neat cottages on the Flat came the scent of perfume-laden flowers. The garden beds, bathed in the glowing sun and watered from heaven, grew and throve; and the vines and shrubs lately planted vied with each other in growth and beauty.

Mrs. Thorpe had spent the day as usual in the school. All day she labored among the children, and at evening sent them glad and happy to their homes. There was something about her patience and loving kindness that touched the hearts of those about her; her presence was an inspiration, as well as a help and comfort.

At the close of school this June day Margaret asked Mrs. Thorpe to go with her to tea.

"You refused last night and the night before," she said.

"And I think it better for me not to go to-night, dear. I have some exercises to look over and some work to prepare for to-morrow. Another time, perhaps, but not to-night." And so Margaret left her and went her way alone.

The work that required her attention was examined and preparations for the morrow completed, and still Mrs. Thorpe lingered in the empty room. She walked back and forth through the room where all was silent save the sound of her footsteps; but she was not lonely; she loved the quiet of the deserted room and the memories that lingered about it. She loved the children among whom she worked, and she was hopeful and ambitious for them. She longed to see them in the way of honor and virtue, in the way of self-respect and independence; and she believed that this way lay before them. Her life was full of hopes and plans for their future, and she worked willingly, gladly, whole-heartedly, for the fulfillment of these plans.

Yet this woman had never tried to deceive herself. She knew that there was a room in her heart silent and empty, where memories, sad and silent, lingered among the shadows. She was not unhappy because of this; her happiness lay in accepting it and fashioning her life superior to it.

There had been a time when she believed that, like the chords of a harp, the sweetest strains of her life had been broken. She recognized the generally accepted view that if the union between a man and a woman be broken, the lives affected by the dissolution must necessarily be crippled and their usefulness impaired. But this view of life had gradually changed as she came into a larger, more scientific view of life. Now she believed that nothing but a violation of the life Principle could mar a life or rob it of its legitimate rights. She had come to understand that there is a Law back of Life, a Law to which all the children of creation must conform, and that nothing but an infringement of God's law can hurt or destroy in all His holy mountain. And the natural deduction followed that all relationships between individuals must be honest, sincere and pure. And that any law, written or unwritten, that fosters or favors the domination or control of one person over another is a mortal law, and invariably an immoral one. Man in the image and likeness of God is governed by righteousness and not by his fellow men.

Mrs. Thorpe was no longer a frail woman; her physical development had come about gradually and naturally. Her form that had remained slender and girlish long after her girlhood days had passed, was now rounded out into full contour of womanhood. Her eyes that had been too large and bright for her colorless face, now blended harmoniously with her soft, warm color. No stimulants nor artificial means had been employed to bring about this change; it had come naturally with her changed attitude toward life, her scientific understanding of life harmonious, as the reflection of the Infinite. Where once she had been irrational, ignorant and ill, now she was sensible, wise and well; the one following the other in natural sequence in the physical as well as in the mental condition.

Yet she was always frank with herself; she missed the love and companionship that had once been hers. She walked over to one of the windows and seated herself on the window-seat. The wind came in softly and touched the tendrils of brown hair about her face. She looked far off to the distant blue hills. "Maurice," she called, softly; "Maurice." Deep in her heart she knew that the old relationship could never exist between them again. They were both children of the one God, answerable to Him only. It was a violation of this law of life, a conception derived from tradition, and tainted with paganism that had brought about their downfall. "But oh, Maurice," she whispered, "I love you, love you!"

The flowers outside the window nodded and swayed in the gentle wind, and a bird whose happy secret lay concealed within reach of her hand, twittered, unafraid, on a swaying bough; and the twilight settled down about her.

When Mrs. Thorpe arose she shook herself free from the memories that had clung about her, and walked out into the semi-darkness. Wholesome and whole-souled, she was little given to retrospection or introspection, but chose to live her life in the fruitful present.

As she neared her home she saw that a light was burning inside.

"It is Jamie," she thought. Dear little Jamie; how many times he had remembered her, and lighted her home and laid her fire.

With a light heart she ascended the steps and entered the house. She glanced through the rooms to the little kitchen, where she expected to see the boy fixing the fire, or laying the table, perhaps.

"Jamie," she called, gently. "Jamie."

There was no response from the room beyond, but from a seat near her a man arose and confronted her--a man bronzed and bearded, who showed the impress of mountain life and contact with nature.

The light in the room was dim, but the recognition was instantaneous.

"Evelyn! Evelyn, my wife!" His arms were about her, and she lifted her face to his, as she had done on their bridal morn.

"Evelyn," he whispered, "can you forgive--forgive the wrong--the cruel years?"

She put out her hand and laid it against his face.

"There is nothing to forgive, Maurice--nothing to forgive--love is everything."

"And I have loved you, Evelyn; you have been near me, with me always."

"Always, Maurice."