Part 2

"Yes; one year after this one takes her through. Mrs. McGowan has great hopes for the future. A relative some place in the country has promised to secure Margaret a position as a teacher when she finishes the school here. For years Mary supported herself and her family by taking in sewing, but her eyesight began to fail, and she decided to try a change of work; so I offered her the position here. And Jamie, the cripple, consented to stay alone while Margaret was at school. I wish there was someone to take Margaret's place to-day."

An impulse came to Mrs. Thorpe to do the work herself that day and let Margaret go, but she remembered that she was a member of a church committee that was to meet that afternoon to transact some business for the church, and she felt that it would be hardly right for her to fail to meet with them.

So during the day Margaret swept and dusted and cooked and served, and no one knew of the disastrous thoughts that surged through her heart and brain.

Mrs. Thorpe called at the little house where Mary lived, but she found her reticent and little inclined to talk of family affairs.

"Margaret will go into the factory," she said. "There is no other way at present."

When Mrs. Thorpe told her husband of this he was surprised at the mother's decision; she had seemed so anxious about the school. But he thought that after all Margaret might have given up the school of her own accord. Perhaps he had overestimated the girl; some way she had not seemed so bright and winsome that day as he had believed her to be.

It happened a few days later that Mr. Thorpe was called to see a poor parishioner who lived on the outskirts of the town. In order to reach this house he was obliged to pass through a neighborhood commonly known as the Flat. This was a disreputable district on the other side of the hill from Edgerly. When the town was in its infancy this Flat district was bought by a man named Bolton, who tried to throw the balance of power and interest on this side of the hill. To this end he erected a number of houses for tenants, built a saloon and hired the right sort of a man to run it. He also built a theatre. The Bolton stamp never left the Flat, and in time it came to be peopled by the lowest of the poor class. The saloon still did a flourishing business, and the theatre, known as the Flat theatre, answered for such plays and entertainments as more cultured and Christian Edgerly would not tolerate.

As Mr. Thorpe was returning from his call he saw a man and woman standing in the shadow of the theatre. The moon was full, and by its light he recognized the woman as Margaret. The man's face was turned from him, and he could not so readily make out his identity. But he knew it boded no good to Margaret to be there at that hour. He stopped, hesitated a moment, and caught the sound of voices. The girl spoke rapidly, and he thought she seemed in an ill-conditioned mood. The man's voice was more even and conciliatory. He drew the girl's arm through his and together they entered the theatre. The light from a lamp at the door fell upon them as they entered, and Mr. Thorpe recognized the man.

"Max! Max Morrison!" he exclaimed under his breath. He went on his way, thoughtful and troubled.

It must be true that he had overestimated Margaret, but he would speak to his wife, and see if her woman's tact could not devise some way to save the girl from the evil that threatened her.

*CHAPTER III*

*UNDERCURRENTS*

The seasons passed as seasons have a way of passing. The spring gave place to effulgent, luxurious summer; the summer slipped into autumn, and winter followed on, with bluster and storm. It was spring again at the parsonage. There was the song of birds, the hum of insects, and the rare perfume wafted from the garden.

One sweet spring evening Mrs. Thorpe stood again at her open window. A hush seemed to have fallen over the earth, and the silent moon and stars looked benignly down. A rush of emotion, restful, worshipful, swept over her. If only she might escape the stress and turmoil of life, and become a part of the quiet and calm that belong to nature!

The year had been one of honest effort, faithful, loyal service. Twice every Sabbath, morning and evening, Mr. Thorpe had stood in the pulpit and expounded the truths of the Gospel as they had been revealed to him. Mrs. Thorpe, capable and willing, had been drawn into church, charitable and benevolent work, until her hands were full of work, and her life full of care; and her thoughts were vastly more troubled than they had ever been before. She realized that where once her thoughts had been vague, half-formed, that now, full-fledged and forceful, they were overmastering her. The mysteries that had once hung about her, dim and misty, now arose like walls of blackness, forbidding and awe-inspiring; and the things that she had once gazed upon with curious eyes now shocked and terrified her.

When she started in her life's work, her ideas of religion and the truths of life were but dream-like, shadowy conceptions; reflections, as it were, from the theories and dogmas of her elders and so-called spiritual leaders. There are many people who never get beyond these reflections, these traditions of religion, these second-hand conceptions. To some natures they are satisfying; they ease the mind, point a way to safety for the future, and afford a solace in time of trouble.

Mrs. Thorpe, however, was one who was destined to abide but a very short time in the consolation afforded by this kind of religion. Yet, when she attempted to step out from the creeds that cramped and dwarfed her soul, to thrust from her theories and premises that depressed and antagonized her, she found no other ground on which to place her feet, and felt herself naked and alone, without a garment of righteousness with which to clothe herself, and without compass or guiding star. She doubted, and in agony condemned herself for her doubts; later she rebelled, yet with her own hand she would have torn her rebellious heart from her bosom, had it been in her power to do so, and cast it from her as an unclean thing, an enemy to her peace, a treachery to her soul. She believed it treason to allow her mind to wander into fields of religious research other than those that had been carefully explored and marked as safe; and to her consciousness she pleaded guilty of the charge.

Before her, life stretched barren and desolate, and not even in her dreams could she find a light to guide her feet. She longed for peace, and believed the fault all hers that she had not found it; she lacked wisdom, and believed the power to attain it had been denied her.

And as she stood alone in the sweet spring night, her thoughts and emotions became complex, conflicting and tumultuous. Strange, alien thoughts flashed before her vision, and, like things alive, seemed to glow and quiver in the darkness. She covered her face with her hands. "God has hidden His face from me," she whispered, "I have never known Him."

Now before her in a fleeting vision she saw her Savior, but it was not the man Jesus as she had thought of him, with his crown of thorns and his nail-pierced hands beckoning to her, asking for her adoration and worship; but in this vision he came as a friend and teacher, one who has solved and proven all of life's problems, and stood ready to help her with all that troubled and perplexed her. He offered her not redemption through his death, but life through the understanding of God's love.

But so foreign was this vision of a Christ, to her orthodox conception of Him, that for a moment she was overwhelmed by it; then instantly she felt her strange thoughts to be intruders, vagaries of her brain, and her first impulse was to refuse them audience, to resist and destroy them. She had no intention of countenancing for a moment a thought that cast any shade of disapprobation on the work in which she and her husband were united, or which differed in any manner from the way in which they were working.

She turned and walked back and forth through the room. "This unrest always attacks me when I am tired and undone," she thought. "These troublesome thoughts will leave me when I am rested and myself again."

She went back to the window and breathed deep of the sweet night air. Something deeper than her consciousness, more potent than her faith, greater than her understanding, was striving for recognition within her. The heart of all things, the force and strength of the universe, the science of Life itself was unfolding before her; but she steeled her heart against it. Her mind had not yet burst its chrysalis; she was still a child of earth.

When Mrs. Thorpe found herself beset by the strife and unrest of her inner life, she turned instinctively to a strong, true friend that she had found. This was a Mrs. Mayhew, the wife of one of the deacons of the church. She was a woman older than Mrs. Thorpe and possessed of rare tact, and the sympathy that soothes and comforts without conscious effort.

This woman's life was a busy one; heart and hands were full. She had wealth at her disposal, and social duties made their demands upon her; church work appealed to her, and her family of children knew her as their counselor and best friend. If there were past chapters in this woman's life that caused her to be especially tender and sympathetic toward the young wife of her pastor, and yet gave her the wisdom to know that the trouble lay too deep for mortal hand to touch, she made no sign and spoke no word, but in the silence her heart spoke to the troubled heart of her friend. And Mrs. Thorpe never named her trouble, or by the slightest word disclosed the doubts that came to her. Whatever help she received she imbibed from her friend's personality and gleaned from her quiet, well-balanced life.

Unable to rid herself of her troubled thoughts, the next day Mrs. Thorpe dropped in upon this friend. And during the call she discussed the church choir with Mrs. Mayhew's niece, Geraldine, who was the church organist.

"I think we should have some new music," Mrs. Thorpe said. "Since Max Morrison has consented to sing in the choir, with his strong tenor voice we can undertake some things which we could not before. I am glad that Max has promised to help us. So much depends on the choir. People will go where they can hear good music."

Geraldine made some suggestions regarding the new music, and Mrs. Mayhew readily agreed with Mrs. Thorpe that the choir has much to do with the success of the modern church.

At the service the next Sunday morning Mr. Thorpe gave a strong, scholarly address. But it was not the sermon, neither was it the strong tenor, nor the new music that caught Mrs. Thorpe's attention. She was coming to regard the service hour on Sunday as the hardest time of the week. For strive, struggle and pray as she would, she could not always bring herself into a proper frame of mind; could not keep the spirit of worship.

Sometimes a thought from her husband's sermon would flash out before her, confront her and torment her. At this stage of her life the thought, "I do not believe," never confronted her boldly and openly; but always there was the subtle insinuation, "Do you believe?" Sometimes her soul's agony was caused by the attitude of the people, lavishly dressed, ostentatiously worshipful. Then instead of worship in her own heart she would be possessed by scathing scorn. But this morning it was the songs that caused her undoing. Her husband took his place in the pulpit and the choir sang the opening hymn; and a line, a thought from the song attacked Mrs. Thorpe:

"Lord Jesus, look down from thy throne in the skies, And help me to make a complete sacrifice."

Mrs. Thorpe felt herself without rudder or sail, her bark at the mercy of a stormy sea. Her mind was chaotic:

"The Lord Jesus Christ then was sitting comfortably, contentedly upon His throne in the skies! What wonder that His people are straying in many forbidden paths? What wonder that they are wandering, scattered and lost? Are they not as sheep without a shepherd? If He is the Savior of men, why is He not among His people--oh, his people who so sorely need Him?"

The thought brought the tears to her eyes; but the next thought choked them abruptly:

"If He had taken Himself to His shining throne in Heaven, what right had she or this concourse of people to conjure Him to come down?"

Instead of the submissive attitude of one desiring to make a "complete sacrifice," a wild, unreasoning rebellion arose within her; but a stoical calm covered every emotion. But she was not yet to be let off the rack; the worst was to follow. The sermon was devoted to the work and needs of missions, and the pastor made a strong appeal for funds with which to carry on the Master's work. After the sermon the first lines of song rang out with a pleasing melody:

"I have read of a beautiful City, Far away in the Kingdom of God: I have read how its walls are of jasper, How its streets are all golden and broad."

Mrs. Thorpe's sense of humor, which sometimes leaped suddenly into life and overmastered all her troubled thoughts and melancholy broodings, now came near finishing the tragedy of the service hour. Those "Streets all golden and broad--" If it was gold the world needed--and her husband had told them so emphatically that it was--why just a section of the street up there--only think what could be accomplished with a block--"all golden!"

But perhaps her humor was not of a healthy sort this morning; for her heart was cold as ice, and she feared that she might shriek aloud in fiendish glee.

During the weeks that followed she found her work difficult to perform; all her tasks were irksome. But with a desperate courage, and a resolution born of her will, she held herself to the minutest details of every task that came to her. As the weeks slipped by a peculiar strained look grew upon her face. Her husband noticed that the bloom was fading from her cheeks and an unattractive pallor taking its place, and the thought came to him that perhaps his wife was burdened with too many cares.

"Are you not so well as usual, Evelyn?" he asked her one day.

A nervous flush covered, for the time, the tired look on her face.

"Not so well, perhaps, just of late," she replied. She raised her eyes to his, and he noticed a strange expression in their depths.

But with a sort of supreme despair she clung to her work, and devoted herself to her various duties. Yet she found herself little by little obliged to give up much that she had undertaken, for there were days when pain and physical weakness overcame her.

One evening after his usual hour of study, Mr. Thorpe laid aside his books and went in search of his wife. She was indisposed and had kept her room during the day. He found her noiselessly walking back and forth through the room, with her hands pressed close against her temples. She wore a loose gown, which fell in long folds about her, and revealed her tall and ghost-like in the dim light. Mr. Thorpe stood for a moment and regarded her in silence. Her face was haggard, and her eyes were set in dark circles. Her movements were slow and mechanical, as though her body was a thing apart from the spirit which impelled it. Her whole attitude and appearance suggested the embodiment of an overmastering pain.

Mr. Thorpe stepped to her side. "Evelyn, my dear," he said, "you are in great pain. Why did you not call me? You should have help; direct me and I will bring you some remedy."

"I have tried many remedies," she said. "I do not believe anything will relieve me. A headache has to have its own time."

She assured her husband that there was nothing that he could do to relieve her, and begged him to retire and leave her alone.

In the small hours of the night she crept to her bed, pale and worn, like some wounded thing that has been engaged in deadly combat with a foe. The pain had burned itself out, and the sleep of exhaustion came to her.

The severity of his wife's attacks alarmed Mr. Thorpe, and he begged her to lay down still more of the burden of her work. But she was not ready to do this, and continued her self-appointed tasks with all the strength at her command. Yet there was something in look and manner, something indescribable, unlike her real self, that caused Mr. Thorpe a vague feeling of apprehension for the future.

It was at this time that Mr. Thorpe's cousin, Pauline, came to make her home at the parsonage. She was a middle-aged woman, strong and vigorous and possessed of a goodly share of common sense and plain practicality. Having missed making a home for herself, she very sensibly made herself at home wherever she was.

"I love the Lord with all my heart," she was wont to say, "and I can work for him quite as well in one place as in another."

There was something in her strong and wholesome personality that caused one to trust her instinctively. And gradually, as Mrs. Thorpe was obliged to lay them down, she assumed the household cares; and cheerfully from day to day she took upon herself the burden of the work, and managed the girl in the kitchen with more tact and discretion than Mrs. Thorpe had ever been able to command.

"I do not believe that life holds any problems for Pauline," was Mrs. Thorpe's mental comment, "or that she has any doubts or fears with which to contend."

Now Mr. Thorpe pleaded with his wife and tried to induce her to lay aside all her cares in order that she might regain her health. But she insisted that she was not ill, and that she should not fail in her work; and she devoted herself with renewed zeal to her outside duties. Yet the days came closer together when she was obliged to keep her room, and not infrequently her bed for the day.

At such times Mr. Thorpe had fallen into the way of summoning the family physician, Dr. Eldrige.

The old doctor would shake his head and declare it to be a case of "nerves." And one day when Mrs. Thorpe's suffering was unusually severe, he said to Mr. Thorpe in his characteristically blunt, brusque manner:

"If you wish to keep that wife of yours out of the grave or the lunatic asylum, you will have to put a stop to this eternal gad and go she persists in."

Mr. Thorpe's face paled.

"I have tried to induce my wife to give up her work," he said, "but she clings to it persistently."

"Well, she will not cling to anything in this world much longer unless she changes her course," was his gruff rejoinder. He saw the pain in Mr. Thorpe's face, and noted the look of fear that leaped into his eyes; but it did not affect him. Other people's troubles never caused him a moment's concern. He often assured himself that a man who ministered to the ills of the human family needed a level head and a good hard heart to go with it.

Pauline, who overheard the conversation, made no mention of it to Mrs. Thorpe, but said:

"I cannot understand how Dr. Eldrige holds his popularity. He seems a rough, unfeeling man."

"He has the reputation of being the best physician in town," Mrs. Thorpe replied. "I always feel that I dare not be ill any longer after I have faced him. I have heard, too, that he treats his patients most skillfully when he is partially under the influence of liquor."

"I do not see how you and Maurice dare trust him, Evelyn. The human organism at the mercy of a half-drunken man! This, to me, seems like a terrible thing."

"You lose sight of the main facts, Pauline, and cavil at minor things. We of the human family must have a physician; with our sensitive bodies, our nerves so finely adjusted to feel the slightest discord, and to sting and quiver with pain, we must have a physician. Providence sends our ills, and it takes a skillful physician to correct them, and so if only he be skillful, there is nothing else that counts."

This was not the first time that Pauline had detected a strain of covert bitterness in Mrs. Thorpe's speech, and the tone in which she spoke more than the words alone troubled her now. In her philosophy all that which she could not understand was "Providence," and to yield to the iron Hand of it was the whole duty of a Christian. Yet there was a tone of pleading, rather than anything dictatorial, in her voice as she replied:

"We can trust the hand of Providence, Evelyn, whatever of pain and sickness comes to us."

There was a slight uneasiness in Mrs. Thorpe's manner and her breath fluttered in her throat:

"It is hard to be quiet under the rod, sometimes, Pauline."

"God knows what is best for us, dear. You do not believe that one moment's pain or suffering comes to you without His knowledge and consent."

At just this time Mrs. Thorpe's mental condition was such that every word of Pauline's was to her soul as red hot steel to the quivering flesh. Her breath fluttered and caught; there was a haze before her eyes. She felt herself possessed of two distinct personalities. She heard her answer to Pauline:

"Yes, I try to trust Him." But the second personality, forceful, insistent--what wildness, what frenzy was this?

"There is no God! There is no power in Heaven above, nor in Hell below, nor on this earth, that has a right to create a man and then by slow degrees to torture him to death! To rot the flesh from living bones, to crush and pollute and deform! It is not true! If this is God--cursed be God! If this is the Christ--"

With a strong effort, a quick, nervous movement, she recovered herself. She felt a wild impulse to fly from the room, from the house, but most of all from herself.

Pauline was by her side, with her cool hand on her forehead.

"What is it, Evelyn?" she asked. "Are you ill?"

"Only a spell of giddiness, I think, and my head feels badly. I will go to my room and lie down for a time."

*CHAPTER IV*

*SHADOWS AT THE PARSONAGE*

Mr. Thorpe was called to his old home by the death of his brother. This brother had gone to California the year before for his health, had died there and was brought home for burial.

During their school days and college life, spent together, the boys had been very near to each other. There was a bond between them other than the bond of blood. A similarity of tastes and ambitions had brought about a congeniality and comradeship such as many times fails to develop between the offspring of the same parents. Both men had studied for the ministry and entered into the work at about the same time. But when George, the elder, was in the prime of his manhood a fatal malady had fixed itself upon him; a malady inherited, it was said, from his mother, who had laid down her burdens in the prime of her womanhood.

It was now nearly two years since Maurice Thorpe with his bride had left the home of his youth. It was a sad return. Among familiar scenes, old memories, well remembered faces, he bowed his head in grief and sorrow, and saw the clods close in upon the narrow earth-bed of this loved one, this gentle man of God, whose life had been dedicated to humanity. Something valued, something prized and loved was gone from life. Whatever the years might hold hereafter, this dear one was gone; his God had taken him. But there were no doubts or sacrilegious questionings in Mr. Thorpe's mind. His God was his sovereign, supreme of will, infallible in justice. Nor did the thought ever penetrate the well-kept fabric of his belief that there could be aught of ignorance in his conception of God; or that the Infinite in its length and breadth and depths was not wholly within the compass of his vision.