Part 4

"I think that you in your turn have misunderstood me, Dr. Eldrige," she said. "I deplore my own condition, certainly, but a menace to human happiness lies in the fact that the whole race is heir to the sufferings of the individual. Mine is not an isolated case. I am but one of the great world-wide family that is bound on the altar of human suffering."

Now the doctor saw that Mrs. Thorpe was discussing a subject broader than her own personal disability, and the first inkling of the truth came to him; and with it there came also an illumination of the woman's character. He saw her love for humanity and her compassion for its woes; and with keen perception he was able to understand something of her futile efforts toward an adjustment of existing conditions that might, to her own mind, seem fair and just. And great as was his concern for her physical condition, he now felt this to be of small importance compared to his desire to help her out of her mental dilemma. But the difficulty was as real to him as it was to her, yet there was this difference: it was a difficulty that he admitted, accepted, and dismissed from his thoughts, while with her he saw that it was rending the very fibre of her life and distorting her mental vision. But keenly as he realized the situation, he found no word of help to offer her, and so he said:

"I fear we shall find our task an arduous one, and unprofitable as well, if we undertake to account for humanity's burden."

"Whether we can account for it or not," she replied, "we, the children of a common Father, are sordidly indifferent to it. We go about our affairs during our waking hours with a sort of a pitiful gratitude toward the monster Disease, if by good fortune we have escaped him; we go to our rest at night, and if we are free from the fell hand, we sleep, while thousands and thousands of creatures, divinely made, are wrestling with mortal pain."

The doctor's eyes were upon her; not a movement, nor an expression of her face escaped him. He saw that the pupils of her eyes were dilated, and that a peculiar light burned within them; and he noticed that it was necessary for her to make a greater effort in order to control the nervous energy that possessed her. There was a ring of reckless protest in her voice as she continued:

"Is this a haphazard world, Dr. Eldrige, where men escape by chance, or are overwhelmed by circumstance? Is there no overruling power, no fixed law to which men may conform, and by which they may be governed and protected, even to the extent that our man-made laws govern and protect those who conform to them? I have been over this ground so many times; I have questioned and reasoned and studied, and yet I have learned--nothing at all."

Her hands fell to her sides with a nervous movement, but her face was averted now, as though she would not have him see its expression.

The doctor thought of what his father had said about the limitations the Lord has placed on human knowledge. He did not for a moment admit that there was a grain of truth in the theory, in fact he believed it to be one of his father's queer jests; yet the thought came to him that the woman before him seemed an actual demonstration of such a theory. But his answer was far from the thought and was intended to turn her mind to a more practical consideration of the subject.

"There are many laws of Nature that are intended to protect mankind. Our safety lies in obeying them; if we disobey, a penalty must be paid, and though the penalty may seem severe, or even, to us, unjust, this should but teach us to be the more obedient and circumspect."

"Do you believe that physical disability is always the result of a broken law of Nature?" The question was direct, incisive, and her eyes were upon him, demanding the truth.

He answered her truthfully, yet because of his own lack of knowledge, evasively:

"Not a direct result always, perhaps; some maladies are constitutional, inherited from some ancestor, it may be."

"Yes, it may be," she replied. She seemed quieter now, but there was an unmistakable accent of scorn in her voice.

"It may be. I have observed that where it comes to a question that concerns humanity high and low, the world over, it is very likely to be all guesswork with us."

There was a moment's silence, and her ever-varying mood changed again, and when she spoke her words came rapidly and there was a gleaming fire in her eyes.

"And if we do inherit our diseases, to whom are we indebted for this heritage? We may say to some ancestor, and if there is any uncertainty about it we make him as remote as possible. But where did he get it, where did he get this thing that has been fought and battled through all the years of its existence, yet has proven itself invulnerable? Give me the origin of disease. Who conceived it? Who created it? What is its mission--? this thing that is stronger than man--stronger than his Maker--" Her voice had sunk almost to a whisper. "If there are two powers in this world, and this cruel, monstrous thing we call disease is the stronger of the two, what folly for man to struggle or resist. Oh, to know--to _know_--if only one could _know_!" Her voice fell and broke in a gasping sob, and she covered her face with her hands.

Dr. Eldrige did not betray by word or look that Mrs. Thorpe had disclosed to him the trouble that was preying on her mind, and he did not forget his professional duties. He had gained the knowledge that he desired to possess, yet the fact that this woman had allowed her mind to dwell on subjects of a religious nature until her health suffered and her reason was threatened was of no particular importance to him unless he could use his knowledge for her benefit; and now the question confronted him: had he the wisdom and tact to do this?

"Mrs. Thorpe," he said, "you have allowed your mind to dwell too long on this subject. As your physician I advise you to put this thing wholly from you."

But he saw her face grow white and her eyes dilate, and he thought best to change his tactics. He dropped his professional manner, or rather it seemed to slip from him. Before such need as this he felt that a mere physician must stand helpless and disarmed; but the man within him was ready to give in friendship's name all that could be given. Yet, the realization of his own lack of knowledge again arose before him and seemed almost to jeer and jest at his ignorance. But with scarcely a moment's hesitation, although fighting for the mastery of his own discordant thoughts, he decided to try once more to give this woman before him something practical and tangible for her mind to dwell upon.

"There are some things in this world that we cannot know," he said. "Perhaps it was intended that we should not know them. This we do know, that a pursuit of knowledge concerning them cannot benefit us, cannot fail to do us harm. And there is consolation, or at least exculpation, for us in the fact that this is God's world. He created it, he is responsible--we are not. We have only to take life as we find it, and make the best we can of it; we have no right to burden ourselves further."

In thus making it appear as though it is the Infinite One, and not finite man, who is responsible for the world's discords, Dr. Eldrige Jr. did not express a sincere conviction, but he felt that it would be a great indiscretion to enter into any argument or discussion with Mrs. Thorpe at this time, and he sincerely hoped that she might catch some suggestion from his words that would tend to quiet her troubled mind. Yet, despite his good intentions, he was conscious of a haunting thought that for a deadly malady he was giving a medicine whose only virtue lay in its being smooth to the taste.

Mrs. Thorpe saw the flaw in his logic, and to her distorted vision it seemed like a fault in the Infinite plan; but she said no more. She was already sick at heart over what she considered her indiscretion. And she felt guilty of a sort of infidelity to her husband for having given voice to heresies that she knew would displease and offend him, and a thousand troubled thoughts surged through her brain. The glow had left her face and it now appeared pale and cold, and her eyes that had burned with so bright a light seemed dull as though covered with mist. Her voice, too, had lost its life and ring.

"You have been very kind to me, Dr. Eldrige," she said, "and I thank you."

The doctor arose to take his departure. "I have advised you both as a physician and a friend," he said, "to rid your mind of this unhappy train of thought, and I will add, find something to take up your time and attention; let it be amusing, entertaining, frivolous if you like, but give it your entire attention."

Mrs. Thorpe had arisen and stood confronting him. She now extended her hand to him, and her unfathomable eyes looked into his.

"You are my friend, Dr. Eldrige," she said. There was the conviction of a statement in the words, yet a catch in her voice and the intonation made it seem almost a question.

The doctor was quick of perception; instantly he understood her unworded request. He took her hand in his.

"I am your friend," he said, in a voice of utmost respect and sincerest sympathy. "And before God I will help you in any way that I can."

After the doctor left her, Mrs. Thorpe stood at her window and looked out at the somber autumn day. A gray mist hung in the air and red and yellow leaves lay in heaps in the corners of the yard. With her old habit still strong upon her, Mrs. Thorpe fell into reverie.

"Nature nursed the tiny leaves into life," she mused; "gave them form and color and permitted them to sport in happy freedom through all the days of summer, and now at the approach of winter she has bedecked them in gorgeous array."

And then the very subject that the doctor had so painstakingly warned her against presented itself to her in every form and shape that it was possible for it to assume.

"There is no pain nor suffering in this changing process," she thought; "even when disintegration sets in there is no reason to believe that a leaf or plant or flower feels the downward process to which it is subjected. This heritage of suffering, the realization of corruption and pollution, has been reserved for man--man, who of all the creatures of God's creation has been made the most susceptible to pain and woe. The vine flings its blood-colored leaves to the breeze, oblivious of time or change. The great trees reach their arms to the sky and stand secure in their native strength. How complete is the harmony between all growing things and Nature's laws that govern them."

When thinking deeply Mrs. Thorpe often experienced the strange phenomenon of having her thoughts suddenly, and without her conscious will, revert to some irrelevant circumstance or event apparently forgotten. Vividly before her now there flashed the vision of a little girl, who in her childish mind firmly believed that there were two Gods, a good one and a bad one. She gave a low shriek and covered her face with her hands.

"I have been worshiping the bad God!" she whispered.

Pauline, who was busy in an adjoining room, thought she heard a peculiar sound, and came into the room. She found Mrs. Thorpe reclining in an easy chair near the window.

"Are you feeling well, Evelyn?" she asked.

"As well as usual, I think," Mrs. Thorpe replied. Then she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. It was another bitter drop in her cup, the bitterest one of all, perhaps, that she could not prevent wild impulses and strange fancies from flitting through her brain. She might be obliged to yield her body to this unknown power that no man could explain or trace to its origin, but with all the force of her nature she fought against yielding her brain and will as well.

There was with her a continual sense of discord and irritation; small, trivial things upset her mental balance and rendered her trying and exacting with those about her. Secretly, she resented the close companionship of Pauline; she chaffed over the way many small tasks were performed, and often felt hurt and miserable, and all sorts of unhappy fancies dwelt in her mind.

Those were dark days at the parsonage. Daily the pastor knelt in prayer and implored the gracious Father to restore health and strength to the dear one suffering under His hand.

Mrs. Thorpe grew more frail and her health continued to decline during the winter. She would sometimes sit for hours thinking or dreaming, her hands folded idly in her lap, her eyes on the glowing fire. But no hint of the trend of her thoughts ever escaped her. Whatever problems presented themselves to her, she found their solution alone or not at all; from whatever premise she reasoned, she reasoned alone, without a hint or help to guide her, and her conclusions were always the deductions of her own brain, but flavored and colored, no doubt, by the writers, ancient and modern, sacred and secular, whose convictions and beliefs she had read, measured and weighed.

There were two reasons for her rigid silence. One of these was the natural proclivity from the days of her childhood to keep within her own heart the things that troubled and puzzled her. The other reason was much more complex, and added materially to the burden that she carried. Her husband, scholarly, thoughtful, gentle and reverent, was, she knew, flint and steel where the doctrines and dogmas of his church were concerned, and would, she believed, yield up his life as readily as any martyr of old had ever done, rather than yield one principle of his faith or compromise one conviction.

Her domestic relations had been particularly happy; her husband's faith and confidence in her were complete. And dear to her as the breath to her nostrils was his love and approbation. And the more surely she felt the structure of her life, her aims and purposes, her hopes and aspirations falling in ruins about her, the more passionately she clung to this, the one thing that was left her, beautiful and unimpaired. What was all that she had suffered, or all that she could suffer while her husband's faith in her remained, compared to what must follow should he learn that she had withdrawn from him spiritually, forsaken the principles that were strong within him as the fibres of his life, repudiated the sacred tenets of his church? A sort of prayer had worded itself in her brain that she be not spared in bodily pain nor mental suffering, that no portion of the burden she bore be removed, if thereby, in life or death, her husband must know that she had proven faithless to the principles of his faith.

*CHAPTER VII*

*MRS. THORPE'S MOUNTAINS*

The ice king reigned. Ice bound, snow covered, the world lay white and still in the embrace of winter. Nature had closed her laboratory and turned the key; all the wonderful things in her store-rooms were waiting and resting. The tiny rootlets were deaf to the moaning wind; the stern and sturdy trees tossed their branches to the sky and defied the storms in their rage to tear from them the life force which they guarded; the ice-locked lakes and rivers joined in the great white stillness.

It was the time of year when the Star appeared in the East and wise men journeyed far to visit the Child; the time when the shepherds were aroused by the heavenly visitants, and angels proclaimed that the world's Redeemer was born and that the good tidings were for all men. Nevertheless, at this anniversary of the Redeemer's birth there were hearts in Edgerly in which rankled bitterness and envy, and where burned hatred and despair. Children, poorly clad, pale and thin, shivered along the streets of the city, and men and women faced the biting blast and dreamed of the return of the season that should warm and comfort them.

But these things were not in Maurice Thorpe's mind when he prepared his Christmas sermon. His purpose was to give to his people at this most blessed season something that would comfort them and bring peace, even the peace that had been proclaimed to their hearts.

The sweet hush of the Sabbath brooded over the church and lay like a benediction over the parsonage. The winter sunshine, warm and mellow, sifted through the windows and added to the warmth and glow of Mrs. Thorpe's apartment. In her clinging crimson gown, which brought into strong relief her white drawn face and luminous dark eyes, she appeared almost as though she might be a being from some other world.

"The morning is fine," said Mr. Thorpe, "and the air will do you good. It has been a long time since you attended church, Evelyn. Make yourself ready and go with me to-day."

Mrs. Thorpe avoided her husband's eyes. Could she trust herself to go? Dare she trust herself to refuse? Mr. Thorpe overruled her excuse of illness and insisted that going out would do her good.

Without further protest she yielded to his wishes and accompanied him. It was the Sunday before Christmas. The air was crisp and keen and brought a freshness and a bit of color to their faces as they climbed the incline to the church.

The solemn strains of the organ began in a hushed minor key and increased in volume and tone until they rang and vibrated through the farthest corner of the room. The melody was now pleading and plaintive, like a voice filled with passionate longing, and again solemn and grand as the longing glided into fulfillment, and at last triumphant, victorious--

"All is well with the world."

Geraldine Vane, a little lower than the angels, her blue eyes like stars and her yellow hair like a halo of light, put her own heart-pulse into the music. In the anthem that followed, Max Morrison's strong, clear voice rang out the joyful message:

"Peace on earth, good-will, good-will to men."

The congregation joined in singing a song and the words burned themselves into Mrs. Thorpe's brain and caused her heart to quiver and her soul to writhe--

"Not all the blood of beasts on Jewish altars slain, Could give the guilty conscience peace, nor wash away the stain. But Christ the heavenly lamb takes all our sins away. A sacrifice of nobler name and richer blood than they. My soul looks back to see the burden Thou didst bear While hanging on the cursed tree, and knows his guilt was there."

The Reverend Maurice Thorpe then stepped forward and gave the waiting audience his text:

"For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whoso believeth on Him should not perish, but have everlasting life."

The pastor's voice was musical and cultured and the words of the text as he uttered them met with a magnetic response from the audience. This silent applause, this outpouring of the commendation of his hearers was as manifest to Mr. Thorpe as though it had been demonstrated by visible signs or audible words; as manifest and more satisfactory, for the sense of exultation which it gave him was perceived by no one save himself.

Sensitive and responsive, he always knew in what spirit his people received his text. He read their faces as an open book, and took his keynote from them. It was this intangible method of getting at the hearts of his people that made it possible for him to comfort and satisfy them, while preaching the most orthodox doctrine and restricted creed.

Mrs. Thorpe's battle began with the text. She kept her eyes withdrawn from the pastor's face and she endeavored to keep her mind from dwelling wholly on what he was saying. She thought of the long line of snow-capped homes that led up to the church; and about her heart there clutched a hardness cold and unyielding as the frost king's embrace of the earth. Each building and frost-hung shrub and white-branched tree reared itself into a mountain of ice and snow. And Mrs. Thorpe felt that just such a range of ice-bound mountains, relentless, forbidding, impassable, lay between her and the love of God.

The pastor, with nice discernment, was able to give his voice just the proper pitch and volume to cause it to fill the room; every word was carefully articulated, clear and distinct:

"From the beginning, man, the crowning work of God's hand, manifested a disposition to disobey, and this disobedience plunged the world into a chaos of sin and disorder. From the earliest record we see man demonstrating his evil nature, his tendency to sin and all unrighteousness.... The priests of old endeavored to cleanse and purify from sin. Moses was chosen the deliverer of the Lord's ancient people; David in his day was called to rule over them; Solomon was given wisdom with which to direct them; Jeremiah threatened them with destruction; and Habakkuk exhorted them to a renewal of righteousness and prayed the Lord to be merciful to them. But the downward tendency was inherent within them and the record of man is one long record of sin and unfaithfulness....

"From time to time, owing to the wickedness of the people, it became necessary to visit punishment and destruction upon them. And many sacrifices were offered to God for the sins of the people. Lambs were slain and offered upon consecrated altars; goats and bullocks were sacrificed and altars ran red with the blood that was shed to wash away the still more crimson stain of men's sins. But there came a time when a long-suffering God could not thus be appeased; there came a time my friends, my brothers, _there came a time_ when the blood of goats and bullocks was not sufficient to wash away the sins of man; was not sufficient to appease the wrath of Almighty God. When this time came, the only begotten Son was given into the hands of men to be crucified....

"A child, a little, helpless child, was cradled in a manger and ministered to by His Virgin mother. No man has trod nor can ever tread the pathway of pain and suffering that lay before this child, given to die for the sins of men. No man can drink the cup that He drank, or suffer the anguish that He suffered. He must die upon a cross, scorned and reviled by the world He came to save.... In the blood of His own beloved Son God wiped out the sins of the world, and so great is the corruption in which the children of men are steeped, that had one drop in the bitter cup, one sigh of anguish in the Garden, one nail that pierced the defenseless hand of the Christ been spared, the God of righteousness and justice would not have been appeased. This, then, this sacrifice sealed in blood, is the price of your salvation and mine, and there is no other way under heaven whereby men may be saved. Our pardon has been bought with the innocent blood of a crucified Savior."

Mrs. Thorpe felt her breath coming in short, quick gasps. Her cheeks were a scarlet flame and a white line was drawn about her mouth. How could men live and praise and exult under this carnage of blood! Where should she fly--how escape? Was there no way out of this--_this_--THIS! Was it inevitable, irrevocable, that she must reap the benefit of this awful carnage, this slaughter of a world's Redeemer? Who had at her birth, yea, before she was born, laid upon her sins for which another was called to suffer--who had dared to do this? If a blood sacrifice was required for her conscious sins, then her blood it should be--not another's--not innocent blood for culpable sin!