Part 7

"Geraldine, do you know you are very unsophisticated for a girl of your age? That you know very little of the evil there is in the world?"

"Do you think I would be better if I knew more, Aunt Agnes?"

"It is not a question of your being better, Geraldine; I think the trouble is that you are too good already. Do you believe your friends to be as good as you are?"

"Why, Aunt Agnes! Am I any better than you are, or Mrs. Thorpe, or my girl friends? Why do you say such things to me?"

"Because I must say them, my dear; you must know more about your friends. You are not more virtuous, perhaps, than the ones whom you have mentioned; but you are as a creature of another world compared to Max Morrison, for instance."

The seashell color in Geraldine's face deepened to flame, but ignoring the display of feeling she had been too unguarded to suppress, she met her aunt's eyes full and true.

"Is there anything objectionable about Max that I should know?" she asked.

Mrs. Mayhew knew that there was no turning back now. She wished to be honest with the girl and at the same time as charitable as possible toward others. She must show Geraldine that, desirable and praise-worthy as purity and chastity are, and obligatory as they are in a woman, she should not expect to find these qualities in this man, nor hardly in the degree that a pure-hearted girl possesses them, in any man, and that it would not be wise nor just, perhaps, to condemn Max for a lack of them. She recalled her husband's attitude on the subject, and although it did not break her resolution to be frank with the girl, it tempered it appreciably; and a queer blending of her conscientiousness and her husband's practicality were the result. A distorted vision pictured itself impishly before her. Being a woman, she should cleave virtuously to the good, but be willing to fall on her knees at the marriage altar and accept the bad! She felt that the magnitude of the question was crushing her, and that its complexity would be her undoing. The longer she hesitated for the words in which to express her meaning, the more helplessly lost she became, and Geraldine was waiting for the answer to a direct question.

"To allow you to believe that Max is virtuous as you understand virtue would not be justice to you, Geraldine," she said.

"Please be quite frank, Aunt Agnes. What is it you wish me to know?"

"None of us are perfect, my dear, and very few of us are good. It is a hard world to live in. Not many young men go through the trying period of early manhood unscathed, and it comes to us women sooner or later to know these things."

Geraldine did not speak, and silence fell between them. Mrs. Mayhew noticed the steady, even stroke of the girl's needle and her quiet composure.

Had her words failed to make an impression, or was Geraldine too strong and firm to show her feelings, or was it that she did not care?

But she found no answer to her questions and the silence continued. Mrs. Mayhew was relieved when the children came and tapped at the door. Geraldine bade them enter and they flocked in, frolicking and laughing, and filled the room with their chatter.

When they were all gone and Geraldine was alone she stood, a white figure among her white draperies, and looked out at the storm and listened to the sleet and rain against her window-pane. The color burned into her cheeks again and a shadow lay in her eyes. She was beginning to believe the world a rather difficult place in which to live, and life not so bright and joyous as she had thought it to be.

Easter morning dawned gray and cold, but the sun, seeming to repent its sullen mood, broke through the clouds and shed a warm radiance over the cold, soaked earth.

The great church with its arched ceiling and taper windows seemed impressed with its own solemnity and its silence was intense and worshipful. The banks of lilies, emblems of peace and purity, seemed to harmonize with the spirit of the place; for their fragrance and beauty were far removed from all that is plain and common and their golden hearts were untouched by humanity's woes. Above the bank of lilies and ferns hung a picture of the Christ with a halo about His head. The painter's art showed in pose and expression, in every line and detail. The eyes were pathetic and beseeching, as they must have been when those most heart-rending words the world has ever known--the prayer in the garden--were uttered. The brow was calm with the peace of Heaven and the mouth, so fine and true, was yet sensitive and pleading. If this Friend of man could speak, what would be His message to the worshipers gathered there? If those eyes could see the nodding plumage of the forests' songsters adorning the heads bowed in worship; if those ears could hear the rustle of costly garments--Easter outfits--while over on the Flat little children shivered, bare-footed and garbed in rags; if those finely penciled nostrils could breathe the incense from the lilies' golden hearts, while from meagre, unkept homes vile odors arose--what, in truth, would be the message from the Christ this Easter day? If those hands were alive, those hands that carried healing, health and blessing in their touch, what would their mission be? Would not the crippled boy stand erect and walk? the tortured shoulders of the rheumatic straighten? the blind eyes of a parishioner's daughter open? and the deaf ears of the white-haired sexton hear, as they had not heard for twenty years, the Resurrection message?

But the eyes saw not, the ears heard not, the lips spoke no word and the hands bestowed neither health nor blessing. Was it then only a painted Christ that dwelt in the costly church? Only a painted Christ that confronted the Easter worshipers? Was there in their midst no heart touched by the feeling of their infirmities?

The song service was all that those that had planned and executed it had hoped for. The house was crowded; pews that had been dusted and cared for for months without occupancy were filled. The seats in the back of the church were filled also. Many of the poor came to feast their eyes on the lilies--conclusive evidence that, buried in their hearts, hidden from sight, perhaps, and struggling for existence, other lilies bloomed.

The song service was artistic, exquisite; not a flaw or discord marked the time or tone as the perfect blending of trained voices rose and fell with the pulse and throb of the music.

The pastor delivered his carefully prepared sermon with its rhetorical wording and euphonious flow, with more dignity and enthusiasm than had characterized him for many months past.

During the service Geraldine Vane, on her raised seat in the choir, turned and looked into the steel-gray eyes of Dr. Eldrige, Jr., who occupied a pew in front. It was but a flash, a passing glance, but the color deepened in her cheeks regardless of her endeavor to keep her attention on the pastor's words, and there came to her again something of the great difficulty of life's problems.

After the service Max Morrison joined her near the door and she stood beside him, bewitching in her Easter gown, and about her the sweet incense of the lilies she carried.

Then she became aware of another presence and looked again into the eyes of young Dr. Eldrige. But she read no friendly greeting there; the recognition was cold and formal and he passed on out of the church.

The warning that Mrs. Mayhew's words contained had assumed dimensions gigantic in Geraldine's mind, while their palliative qualities robbed her of all sense of proportion. A half-suspicion possessed her, a harrowing doubt assailed her; many questions besieged her and she found herself in a state far from conducive to a peaceful state of mind or a tranquil spirit. But she walked down the street beside the tall figure of Max Morrison and she held her head proudly and endeavored to still the contending voices within her.

Mr. Thorpe felt a keen sense of satisfaction as he descended the church steps and took his way homeward. The service had been all that he could desire. No doubt there would be mention made of it in the papers during the week and it would give his church an enviable reputation. But this elation, gratifying as it was for the time, was doomed to be short-lived; before the day was done there was a reaction. The spirit of worship had waned and left a sense of chill and despondency. Mrs. Thorpe noticed the droop of her husband's shoulders, the worn look on his face, and her heart cried out against whatever it might be that gave him pain.

The Easter sun sank behind the tree-tops and its last rays lay warm and tender over the church and parsonage and over the meanest hovel on the Flat. Great Illuminator which seeks not the place of its shining and respects not one person above another--typical of the love of God.

*CHAPTER X*

*THE DISCERNMENT OF TRUTH*

Mrs. Thorpe was sitting one day in the familiar seat by the window, and her thoughts were centered on the conditions about her. Outside the vine was putting forth new buds and tender leaves; a bird on a swinging bough was singing his mating song; the grass was growing green on the incline that led up to the church. The winter had not destroyed the heart and life of that which it had blasted outwardly, and Nature was emerging into newness of life.

A world of growing things, abundant, forceful, alive, are springing from the brown, fructuous earth; spring is pregnant, alive with a power beyond human conception. Boundless, limitless, infinite Power!

Now questions that at first seemed to come to her timid, elusive, quivered before Mrs. Thorpe's mental vision and insinuated themselves into her consciousness. Was this material evidence before her eyes the substance and reality of that which she saw, or was there something hidden from her mortal vision, something in this scene before her which her senses could not recognize? Here before her was the seed-bed, the seed and the form of the fruitage; but were these the reality, or were they but the fleeting forms of matter, and the divine Idea the only reality? Which is real, the plant and the flower, or the life of the plant and the flower? These questions that had come to her haltingly, falteringly, gradually assumed larger proportions until they included herself, the universe, and all that the universe contains. Time, place, conditions, and all material relations shifted and changed, and she saw God's world, and God's power controlling it; a just and majestic God asking only conformity to the perfect conditions he has created.

Now all of Mrs. Thorpe's preconceived knowledge vanished and melted away. Every structure that she had built had been founded on shifting, undulating sand, upon her belief of life in matter. The ideas and conceits of her childhood, the ardor and energy of her young womanhood, and all the strain of recent years all passed before her, and all were empty, vain, human and finite. She saw mortals bowed and broken, guided by finite wisdom and helped by finite power, trying to do God's work; struggling and agonizing, trying to aid Infinite strength, and to supplement Infinite wisdom.

She saw man--upright, holy, divine--yet dominated by his false beliefs and his conceptions of evil, believing himself the sinful, unclean thing that his distorted vision pictures him to be; ignorant, misguided, toiling in pain and sorrow. Christ, ah, Christ! Who would not be a Christ, a Savior of men; who would not sacrifice this stage of life, yea, die a thousand deaths, if by pain and sacrifice he might show this bruised and broken people the perfection of life, and the harmony of the condition in which Infinite love has placed them?

Every cord that held her to the moorings of her old belief gave way, and Mrs. Thorpe found herself alone on a shoreless, fathomless sea; no sail was in sight, no hand reached out to her. Adrift--alone--there was no measuring of time or space. But she was not afraid, for the science of Being had been revealed to her. Alone--yet he whose voice stilled the sea, he whose voice stills human passion, fear, pain and suffering was with her, and she walked upon the water with this Man of Galilee.

In their blindness and error men have produced that which is not beautiful, and which is not good, but there are no blemishes in God's world, and there are no iniquities. The God of love has put beauty, and grace, and joy, and gladness into everything that He has created.

Now Mrs. Thorpe saw before her all that has been, all that is, and all that is to be; and her eyes were not holden to the emblems and symbols through which the solution of God's world was hers. "Neither death nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature," shall be able now to separate her from the love of God.

The peace that passeth understanding is like a calm on mighty waters, like the strength of rugged forests, like the blending of many melodies. Mrs. Thorpe fell on her knees and buried her face in her hands. But this attitude was not taken to humble herself before the God that she had found; this Deity that was revealed to her was the great and perfect Whole, and herself she recognized as the spiritual image and likeness of God.

"There is a Spirit in man and the inspiration of the Almighty giveth him understanding." "The inspiration of the Almighty;" there is no other source of supply, no other way to understand than to let the Spirit speak to the "Spirit in man." Mrs. Thorpe's mind was emptied of worldly wisdom; the tablets of her heart were renewed clean as an unwritten page. Freed from the thought of her material selfhood, and her intellectual beliefs, she was receptive, ready and waiting in the hands of the Master of men.

The preparation of the clay that is to be molded into a work of art is of first importance; and when this preparation is completed the artist begins his work of bringing beauty and grace out of a pliable, yielding mass ready to his hand. When a piece of ground is to bring forth a harvest of golden grain or succulent fruit the ground must first be prepared. There must be an upheaval; the weeds and tares must be uprooted; the plow-share and the harrow must do their work; the soil must be torn and broken and turned up to the mellowing sun, and then the seed is sown.

Upon her knees Mrs. Thorpe was not denied the knowledge that her years of suffering were years of preparation; that the anguish and pain wrought by her great desire had not been in vain. When she arose to her feet she knew that she had found the Kingdom of Heaven; it was within her.

A flood of sunshine lay over the room; each familiar object was in its place, yet all was changed. She stepped to the window and looked out, and the transfigured earth, and air, and sky greeted her; yet even in this first newness of her joy she knew that this change which glorified all things was in her own heart. And that which tongue has never named and pen has never described descended upon her and enfolded her like a garment; and henceforth and forever she was secure from harm; she had come into her own. She felt her heart overflowing and exulting; the vigor of the spring was in her veins, the unseen growth of the vine was expanding her soul, and the birds' song filled her with joy.

Then like a flash, like the cut of a knife, the sting of a lash, a black, evil thought darted into the radiance. The phantoms--where were they? The dark visage, the black wings, the hissing, shrieking voice--where were these? She looked fearfully about her with dilated eyes; but all was quiet, and there was neither form nor shape visible. The room lay bathed in sunshine, and there was a soft balminess in the air. Yet for one awful moment she felt that she was losing this wonderful thing that she had found, she was afraid--led into the wilderness and tempted. Then with a supreme courage she put it to the test; she stood upright and looked over her shoulder. The space behind her was empty! Trembling, agonized, yet in ecstasy, she looked again--the space was empty! Not even in dimmest outline, half-hidden, elusive as her enemy sometimes appeared, did he now show his face; not the faintest flutter of wings was discernible; no whisper came to her. She turned and walked across the room and back again to the window. She could not yet be satisfied that she was free; the sickening horror, the awful dread had not left her, and she turned and looked again over her right shoulder, where her phantom most often appeared, then over her left shoulder, where it sometimes surprised her by lurking. The space was empty! Now she felt that if she longer held her peace the very furnishings of the room must cry out. "Father, Spirit, God of Truth," she cried, "Love has liberated me!"

Had a miracle been wrought for her deliverance? Mrs. Thorpe had always known that it was her imagination, her own distorted fancy against which she battled and fought. A phantom is not a reality, however real it may appear. The truth is always true, however distorted our view of it may be. When Mrs. Thorpe fixed her mind on the central Truth of creation, and spiritually discerned it, she realized that all the doubts and fears that had held her were but distortions of her material sense. All of her questionings and perplexities, vain fancies and evil imaginings were obliterated; her mental conception was changed, the hallucination dispelled, and she was free.

Free! Men have been freed from the dungeon and from chains; reprieves have come at a moment when prisoners were to meet at the hands of their fellow men a violent death; floods and flames have been faced and deliverance miraculously given. These are physical horrors, relieved by physical causes. Mrs. Thorpe's deliverance was from a mental foe, one who would destroy not only her physical frame, but who would twist and warp and dethrone her reason as well; her deliverer was the royal Truth of life. Now indeed she had burst her chrysalis, she was no longer a worm of earth, but clothed with the spirit of immortality, she saw God's creation, not as human weakness has interpreted it, but as a loving Father designed it.

Pauline, ever watchful and alert, was the first to notice a change in Mrs. Thorpe. She noted the returning vigor and observed the unusual buoyancy of spirit. There was also a consideration and thoughtful kindness in her manner that Pauline had never noticed before. A great deal of charity must be manifested toward one who is ill and in pain, unpleasant manners and disagreeable ways must be overlooked. Pauline had had the tact and patience to do this; she was not one to judge a sick woman unkindly. But now there was a winsomeness about this woman whom she had long looked upon as her charge, an optimism that she found it difficult to adjust to Mrs. Thorpe's former attitude.

*CHAPTER XI*

*A SUMMER'S VACATION*

Mr. Thorpe noticed the change in his wife and rejoiced in her recovery. Her quiet manner and uniform cheerfulness brought to his mind the early days of their wedded life, and he felt that perhaps the many prayers that he had offered for her recovery had reached the throne of mercy.

But the pastor's own cares were pressing him sorely. All that he had gained by the Easter service he had lost, and more. His congregation grew smaller each succeeding Sabbath, and with bitterness and despair he admitted that he was not obliged to look outside of himself for the cause. He felt his strength slipping from him, and in some way that he could not analyze nor comprehend, and his mental capacity seemed dwarfed and contracted. Thoughts of beauty and grandeur flitted through his brain, but when he tried to fix them there, to put them into words or on paper they eluded him, mocked and evaded him.

When spring merged into summer a council of his church convened and voted him a vacation for the summer months. This was gratefully accepted; for he felt that a season's rest, a long vacation in which to recuperate and regain his lost powers would put him in condition again for his work in the autumn.

Mrs. Thorpe was to accompany him, and they planned to spend the summer with an uncle who lived in a small village in an adjoining state. This uncle was a retired minister, who for forty years had preached the Gospel. Now with his wife still beside him, he was spending what was left of his life in well-earned peace and quiet. He sent an earnest invitation to his nephew to come to him and spend his vacation in this quiet, restful village.

After the vacation was arranged, and the invitation accepted, Mr. Thorpe threw himself with all of his remaining strength and energy into the preparation of a farewell sermon. He desired this to be of high excellence, and especially adapted to the occasion; he wished to say something that would appeal to the hearts of his people, and cause them to remember him, and to be ready to welcome him back in the autumn. For days he worked on this sermon, comparing words and phrases, seeking just the shade of meaning he desired, harmonizing sentences, and striving for an agreeable rise and flow of language.

Mrs. Thorpe, who had attended church for several Sundays, accompanied her husband on this last Sunday morning. She walked beside him now with easy grace, and mingled with her friends and seemed not to notice their wondering looks and incredulous glances; she met them without self-consciousness, neither shrinking nor boasting.

When the pastor entered the pulpit, and the deep, sweet tones of the organ sounded, her soul glad and worshipful, left every care and material thought. Then she heard her husband's voice in prayer, praying for his people, and for the great world of humanity. But she did not follow the prayer closely; her new conception of God's creation enabled her to know that the Lord's blessing was already upon these people, that they needed only to realize and accept it. She saw toiling millions begging for a blessing that has been theirs forever, and that can never in any manner possibly cease to be theirs.

For his text the pastor had taken, "To him that overcometh," and he dwelt largely on the reward ready for those who are able to endure to the end.

As the sermon progressed, Mrs. Thorpe was reminded of her old troubled conception of the Father and His children in the field. She did not wonder that this idea had once possessed her; for was not this the very interpretation of life that her husband was presenting? But now before her vision she saw a kind and compassionate Father, and man in His spiritual likeness.

She had found that the propensity of mortal man to worship images of belief that he himself has created, rather than to hold as his own that which God has created for him, and has bestowed without limit or stint upon him, is the cause of man's woe, the cause of all his grief and pain. God has given man only good; He could give nothing else, for He has created or fashioned nothing else. She heard the sermon through, however, without inward questioning or discord. Since the deep, sweet Truth of life had become the bread and wine of her existence she was not troubled by another's conception of truth. All truth, however small, however great, is a part of the Truth, just as every drop of the ocean, or rippling wave, or mighty billow is a part of the sea.