Part 6

"I believe, have always believed, and my torment is that I must continue to believe that there is a God of justice some place--some how, some where--_He lives_! I have lain in my bed at night and heard the voice of the wind and it has whispered to me: 'There is a God;' I have seen the tender grass come forth in the spring and every tiny blade proclaimed Him; I have seen the rush of the storm, black, ominous, fearful, and behind it I have seen His face; and all the stars at night have broken into a song of praise to Him. And after this can I bow down to a conception, a mere idea of God? Can I worship simply because others have worshiped? Our Bible and our Christ tell us of a wonderful life; a great Heart touched with the feeling of our infirmities; One in whom the great, throbbing heart of the universe, the secret of all things, is embodied. Where is this great Master-Spirit, drawing all men to Him, healing their infirmities and cleansing them from sin? Have you seen Him in the hearts of those who attend our church, living in comfort and luxury--while over on the Flat--Mrs. Mayhew--over on the Flat--can you bear to think of it? Have you seen aught of His healing power? How many can you count among the members of our church who are suffering from some infirmity? How many are every whit whole?

"I have longed for the touch, the presence, the realization of the _God that lives_ as I have never longed for earthly possessions. I have prayed in my heart that I might be deprived of every earthly joy, every pleasure, every comfort, that I might be an outcast on the face of the earth, that I might know the anguish in the Garden, that I might feel the nails in my hands, if by this means I might have in my life and soul a realization of the Infinite, might feel and know the Divine presence."

Mrs. Thorpe's face was white and drawn and a red light was in her eyes. Mrs. Mayhew was by her side, her cool hand on her brow.

"Geraldine," she said as her niece passed the door, "bring me a glass of water, please, Mrs. Thorpe has become faint."

With the first return of consciousness Mrs. Thorpe thought of her husband. Had she not compromised his honor? Put to hazard his position, perhaps? She looked into Mrs. Mayhew's face:

"I have betrayed my weakness," she said; "I have shown you my unworthiness. It was not my intention to do this; over and over I have promised myself that no word that might cast dishonor on my husband's calling or cause him pain should ever pass my lips."

Mrs. Mayhew with quick intuition, understood all that her friend did not say, quite as well as that which she uttered. She read the story of repression and self-subjugation, and the heroism that hid her trouble and despair rather than cause another pain. And she also had a glimpse of the love this woman bore her husband, and of the fineness of her nature that even for the sake of this love, could not tamper with her soul's conception of truth. Her face was warm with sympathy:

"Dear troubled soul," she said, "I am your friend, not to distress and embarrass you, but if I can, to aid and comfort you."

During the remainder of the day Mrs. Mayhew endeavored to keep the conversation free from all topics that might distress her guest, and to limit the flow of talk to a circle of light and pleasant thought.

Mr. Thorpe came in time for dinner. Between him and Professor Vane there was much of common interest. Professor Vane was a teacher in a theological seminary; and the two men discussed the world of theology, the Church and its mission, the seminary and its work.

"I cannot account for the diversity of opinion I find among theological students," Professor Vane said. "There are scarcely two of them who see the questions of creed and doctrines in the same light. What the outcome of all of these new lines of thought will be it is difficult to predict."

There was a spirit of resentment, righteous he believed it to be, in Mr. Thorpe's mind toward these new lines of religious thought. He believed that the Leviathan of doubt, and the subtle Serpent of false belief had threatened the sanctity of his own home. And he was strong in the belief that it was time for men of integrity and conviction to strike these monsters, to crush and destroy them.

"It is my opinion that these digressions and irregularities must prove disastrous," he said. "We must have a creed and a doctrine, and I do not hesitate to say, that men who cannot conform to them have no call to preach the Gospel."

Professor Vane did not answer at once, and Mrs. Thorpe who had listened in silence, waited anxiously for his reply.

Mrs. Mayhew believed she knew what was in her brother's mind. She recalled a frail little woman tortured with pain, whom her brother used to carry in his arms, and lift from one position to another. This woman, his wife had been restored to health and strength, and the joy of living, by a digression from accepted creeds and doctrines. A system of Christian healing had restored her.

"How far we have a right to judge another's conception of God is a mooted question," Professor Vane said thoughtfully. "If I err I hope it may be on the side of charity."

"On the side of charity, yes," said Mr. Thorpe; "but I can see little love or justice in allowing doubts and fallacies to intrench themselves in the consciousness of another." He could not quibble over this question, nor fail to express himself fearlessly, even though he should strike a blow nearer Professor Vane's heart then the students under his care. He was strong in the belief of his own just purpose.

Mrs. Mayhew with quick perception read his design. She knew that he had never reconciled Mrs. Vane's recovery with any grain of spiritual truth. But she saw the blood surge into Mrs. Thorpe's face, and she knew that his well aimed blow had struck where he had not meant that it should.

She laid her hand on Mrs. Thorpe's shoulder, "Let us leave the gentlemen to their theology," she said, "Come with me and watch the children go to bed; it will do you good to see them."

One by one the little garments came off and little white slips went on. Shoes were untied, and stockings removed, and little pink toes peeped out.

A visitor in the nursery at bedtime was an unusual occurrence, and unusually good order prevailed; yet Charley insisted on getting into his gown feet first, as he considered it unmanly to have it put over his head, and Mabel refused to be comforted because nurse unbuttoned Mattie's pinafore first. The three-year-old baby insisted on disrobing without assistance from anyone, and cried lustily because he could not untie his little red shoes.

But finally all troubles were overcome, the little hearts were comforted and all was quiet. Then by each little white bed a white-robed figure knelt with clasped hands and lisped a childish prayer.

Mrs. Thorpe kissed each child a happy good-night, and wished them sweet and pleasant dreams. But Mrs. Mayhew noticed that there was a strange expression on her face, and that the troubled look had not left her eyes since their talk in the morning.

When they returned to the parlor they found that Mr. Thorpe had taken his departure.

"A messenger came for him a few minutes after you left us," explained Professor Vane. "He was called to the bedside of a dying woman. He told me that he had been expecting the summons for many days."

"Mrs. Ritchie, I presume," said Mrs. Mayhew. "Poor soul! we cannot regret that the end has come for her at last. She has suffered a great deal."

Mrs. Mayhew sent Mrs. Thorpe home in the carriage, as Mr. Thorpe was not expected until late; he might be away all night.

Mrs. Thorpe explained his absence to Pauline, whom she found awaiting her.

"You are looking very tired, Evelyn; are you ill?" Pauline asked.

"No, Pauline, not ill; only very, very tired. I will go to my room at once."

"Very well; I will hear Maurice when he comes and let him in."

As Mrs. Thorpe arose to go to her room Pauline noticed that she shuddered as though a cold draught had struck her.

"What is it, Evelyn, are you cold?"

"I'm so tired, Pauline," she said, and sank down in her chair again. "And Maurice's being called away was something of a shock, you know."

Pauline went over to her. "Yes, I know," she said. "And I know you are tired; you look all worn out. Shall I go to your room with you?"

"Oh, no, thank you; that is not necessary. I shall be all right when I am rested again. Good-night, Pauline." And she started again for her room.

"Good-night, Evelyn. There is a light in your room. I hope you sleep well."

As Mrs. Thorpe entered her dimly lighted room a cold, dizzy sensation again came over her. She sank into her easy chair and the events of the day passed before her. Suddenly she sat upright and gazed with horror at the sight which greeted her. She tried to shriek, but her tongue was silent; she tried to fly, but her feet were motionless. She closed her eyes, but it was not with her natural vision that she saw the outline of phantom forms and ghoulish faces that filled the room.

"She is ours at last! She will never resist us again." It was not a voice that she heard; there was not a sound in the room; the silence was oppressive. Over and over, around and about, circling, advancing, retreating, the forms filled every foot of space, and yet she was sure that the room was empty save the furnishings; the chairs, the bed, the table, these stood out clearly and distinctly. She felt the rush of bodies, the bustle and strife among the myriad forms as they jostled each other in their struggle to be near her; yet there was not a breath of air stirring in the room; all was motionless and quiet. Then a space above her cleared, the air seemed to open and the somber form and sable wings that she had seen so often descended upon her. She was conscious of wondering how it could be that she had met this phantom so many times and denounced and driven it from her. She felt so stupid now, so numb and powerless; yet the horror had never been one half so great. She felt the claw-like fingers clutch her shoulder and the blood gushed forth in a crimson stream, yet there was no sensation of pain, only the grim and awful horror of it. She felt herself borne away, the multitude of forms and faces following in her wake. What a ghastly burden she was! Blood oozed from every pore and left a crimson trail behind. Her phantom carrier went tirelessly on and on, through space and over distances until it reached an abyss, wide, deep and black. Over this, with fluttering wings, it paused. And could it be--broiling, seething, writhing below--oh, could it be--was it true? She must be wild--her vision blasted--her senses gone. She had heard the wail and moan of suffering children, the call of lost souls; she had seen the world circled with the maimed, the bruised and the broken hearted, but this--oh, this which she now saw and heard! How could it be that the abyss contained that which greeted her vision! The carrier, with poised wings, now let go its grasp upon her shoulder and slowly, yet with deadly certainty, she slid down into the abyss--to become one of them!

It was past midnight when Mr. Thorpe left the stricken home where he had been called. He had performed the last sacred rites for the dying woman; he had knelt at her bedside and committed her soul to the keeping of Him who gave it. It had been a painful scene and he was tired and depressed when he reached home. He entered his wife's room and found her in her easy chair in a dead faint. He hastily summoned Pauline and sent a message for Dr. Eldrige. Mrs. Thorpe was ill, very ill. Dr. Eldrige, fussing and fuming, declared that her nervous system was a complete wreck. There was little that he could do for her. Proper nourishment, careful nursing, and, above all, perfect quiet. These were the only remedies in a case of this kind.

To his son he said: "The thing I predicted has happened; the woman's mind is gone. She is mad as a March hare, and it is my opinion that much learning or effort toward learning has made her so."

Dr. Eldrige Jr. recalled his last interview with Mrs. Thorpe. Evidently she had not followed his advice. He was not surprised at this, for he had not really expected that she would. He felt, too, that the advice that he had given her at that time was very much like giving to a patient in the full flush of fever remedies intended to prevent fevers generally in their incipient stages. He resolved, however, to satisfy himself whether there was anything that could be done for her now. The manner in which he obtained his father's consent to call upon her was typical of the method by which he managed to have his own way when he especially desired it, and yet get along smoothly with his irascible parent.

"If this woman has brought about her own destruction, as you believe," he said, "while doing what we can for her professionally, we can also study her condition for the benefit of science. I wouldn't mind calling on her myself."

"You are a likely limb, my boy. If you could get some of the foolishness out of your head you might make your mark in the world yet. To-morrow you can go and tell those pious people at the parsonage that your old dad is indisposed and sends you in his place."

When Dr. Eldrige entered the sick room the next day Mrs. Thorpe fixed her eyes intently upon him. Never in his experience had he felt the compassion, the depth of sympathy for a fellow being that her appearance kindled within him. Every expression of her face, every movement, every muscle was blended in physical pain and mental horror.

Love and compassion, as well as other emotions strong and deep, are not limited to the mind in which they have their inception; neither are they bound nor fettered, and they cannot fail to effect in some degree the being that has called them forth. Dr. Eldrige Jr. advanced to the bedside and quietly regarded the sufferer.

Mrs. Thorpe, who seemed to have taken no notice of anyone before, now raised herself to a sitting posture and, as a child reaches out its hands to a parent, she extended her hands to him.

"Take me out of this," she said, and there was fear and pleading, piteous and frenzied in her voice. Her eyes, in which no light of reason glimmered, wandered apprehensively about the room and back to the doctor's face. "Oh, do help me!" she gasped. "Take me out of this!"

The doctor's mind was working rapidly; with quick perception he detected that all reason was not gone, for it was evident that Mrs. Thorpe recognized him; yet he could not doubt that her mind was unbalanced to the extent that she believed herself in some place or condition the horror of which was unspeakable. If a condition, he must find some way to work upon what remained of her intellect, until, in her mind this condition was changed; but if it were a place or surroundings, his task might be less difficult, but it must be performed quickly. Without more than a moment's hesitation he extended his hands to her in return.

"Certainly," he said in a brisk, cheerful voice, "certainly I will take you out. That is exactly what I came for." He bent over her and took her in his arms as though she were a little child. Then to the nurse he said:

"Show me the nearest bed outside this room."

The nurse opened the door, crossed the hall and swung open the door of the room opposite. It was Pauline's room, and as usual it was in perfect order and spotless. The doctor said no word to his patient, but laid her quietly upon the bed. She rested her head on the pillow with her hand under her cheek and her eyes wandered curiously about the room. Then her eyelids fluttered drowsily, fluttered and closed. The doctor held up his finger commanding quiet and the nurse remained motionless where she stood. A little clock on the mantel ticked off the minutes; there was no other sound in the room and the sufferer fell quietly asleep. It was the first sleep that had come to her since her illness, and her condition, which the older doctor had pronounced hopeless, at least so far as her reason was concerned, dated its improvement from this time.

*CHAPTER IX*

*EASTERTIDE*

The Reverend Maurice Thorpe had not been so successful in his work as he had hoped to be; not so successful as the beginning of his pastorate had promised. Of late he felt that his work was falling below par. The fine touch, the artistic setting, the convincing logic that had once been his were slipping from him. He could not feel that his ardor had cooled nor his interest waned, but his faculties seemed to have lost their keenness and his tongue its cunning. His health was not up to the desired standard and his wife's illness had been a severe strain upon him. There had been a time when he felt that there was nothing left in this world for him unless his wife regained her physical and mental powers. Now he felt that perhaps he had not been properly reconciled to the will of Providence, and he prayed for greater grace and threw himself heart and soul into his work and resolved to regain, if possible, that which he had lost.

At his request special preparations were made for an elaborate Easter service. He wished this to be a service that would arouse the people, something that would interest them and induce them to come again. The music has so much to do with the success of the modern church that the pastor planned always to keep in touch with his choir. The song service must be fitted to the sermon, either to emphasize the beauty of the text, or else to soften and subdue the undressed truth which must sometimes be spoken.

Geraldine Vane was a capable and willing worker in the choir. The plans for the Easter service were arranged, the parts assigned and the practicing began.

In this work Geraldine and Max Morrison were thrown much together. There were some disreputable stories afloat about the man's character, but no one seemed to regard them very seriously; and his voice was so great an attraction that the choir was glad of his help.

When on his way to choir practice Max had fallen into the way of calling for Geraldine, and he often spent an evening in the Mayhew home. And as time passed he began to feel more than a casual interest in this girl with the shell-tinted face and golden hair. The Mayhew children, too, amused and interested him. He liked to talk to them, to ask them questions, and hear their naive answers and innocent speeches.

During the winter his acquaintance with Geraldine had ripened into a more intimate friendship. Their love for music and their proficiency in the art formed a bond between them. Geraldine, a veritable St. Cecelia, her figure swaying with the rhythm of the music as her fingers flew over the ivory keys, and Max with his bow calling forth the sweet, weird melody of the violin, would feel their pulses quicken as the blended melodies throbbed and sighed and quivered.

It was at this time that Dr. Eldrige Jr. condemned the woman he had loved from her girlhood and stepped aside and gave his rival possession of the field. Fine and true to the heart's core himself, he would not seek nor desire the love of a woman who demanded less than this in manhood. Nor was it in his nature to wage a warfare for a woman's love. This priceless, this sacred thing, must come, if at all, freely and naturally as the beauty and fragrance of nature comes to waiting earth.

During the preparation for the Easter service Max and Geraldine were thrown together even more man usual. And it was at this time that Mrs. Mayhew felt an indefinite fear, a vague alarm concerning their friendship. She went to her husband with her half-formed conjecture.

Mr. Mayhew was a practical man of affairs, shrewd and sagacious.

"I see no cause for alarm," he said. "We have known Max from his boyhood, and although his career has not been entirely exemplary nor his character spotless, for a young man of wealth to-day he is not a bad sort. And as to his fancying Geraldine, I see no reason to object if he should. There's many a girl gets a worse husband than Max will make. With a girl like Geraldine for a wife Max might settle down and make a model husband."

Mrs. Mayhew rarely opposed her husband. She believed that, owing to his position, his contact with men and his conflict with the world, his judgment must be better than hers. She realized in a way that her judgment was a thing of the heart and lacking in that worldly wisdom that her husband possessed. She remembered many times when she had taken his advice against her own convictions and afterwards found that she had not been the loser thereby. Yet, being a fair-minded woman, she sometimes came to a place where another's judgment could not answer for her; where her impulse and desires prompted her to act from the dictates of her own heart.

Geraldine's father had died before the girl was born and her mother had yielded up her life at the birth of her child. Mrs. Mayhew had taken the little one and reared her as her own and loved her as her own. But aside from this love and watchful care there was a feeling of responsibility different from that which a mother feels for her own children; their welfare and happiness she is responsible for as for her own flesh and blood. She was responsible for Geraldine as a child of another birth and branch.

The girl had been loving and affectionate, willful and passionate at times, yet always ready to confess her faults. Mrs. Mayhew had seen her through the unsettled period of adolescence and knew that at the present time she was a true-hearted woman, looking into the future, trusting and unafraid. Had there ever been a time since she held her in her arms, an infant of a day, when she had needed a guiding hand and love and care more than at this present time?

Mrs. Mayhew resolved that, let the consequences be what they might, Geraldine should have some enlightenment as to Max Morrison's real character.

It was a few days before Easter. Outside there raged a storm of rain and sleet such as the Middle West often sees in the early spring. The snow had disappeared, except here and there a dark-hued bank by the roadside or in some well-filled corner. Out in the country the fields and meadows lay bare and brown, awaiting the magic touch of spring--Nature's resurrection.

But within the Mayhew home a warm radiance covered all. The interview took place in Geraldine's room. The room was typical of the girl. An air of purity and daintiness was lent by soft, white draperies; yet everywhere there was a suggestion of ease and restfulness. Conspicuous, but not prominent, a pair of cherubs were enfolded in a shimmering gauze of drapery. A picture of the Virgin with the Christ Child in her arms hung above the mantel and on the wall opposite, the tender, loving face of the Savior. And beneath the Christ face hung the picture of a sweet, calm-eyed woman and a manly, dark-browed man--the parents that the girl had never known.

Mrs. Mayhew was perfectly familiar with the room, but with her mission in mind she was aware that it impressed her in a different manner from its wont. A mind less pure than Geraldine's could not have planned and fashioned it. This quality of mind and heart was apparent in all that the girl did. Suppose she were robbed of this chastity of thought and the evil things in the lives of others thrust upon her vision. Could she ever be just the same girl again? Mrs. Mayhew had eased her mind with like sophistry before, but now she felt that the hand of necessity was upon her.

Geraldine sat before her fire, a piece of needlework in her hands. Mrs. Mayhew drew her chair to the grate and produced her own bit of work. She cast about in her mind for some way to lead up to the subject upon which she wished to speak, but finding none, she broached it abruptly.