Part 8
Mrs. Thorpe knew something of the hard toil and effort this sermon had cost her husband; she knew that he had builded it word upon word, sentence upon sentence, and she understood the intensity of his purpose, the sincerity of his belief; but the thought came to her forcibly at this time that the laws of God are not influenced by man's conception of life and truth, but that, perfect and harmonious, they go undeviatingly on, regardless of what man believes or teaches.
After the service Mrs. Thorpe noticed that there was no change in the rigidity of the manner that marked the worshipers. All was orderly and formal; those nearest to her spoke in subdued tones, and expressed a cold pleasure at seeing her again. This concourse of people, each heart carrying its own peculiar burden, had come to the service, listened to the music, heard the Scripture read and the sermon delivered; now each went again his own way without solace or comfort, his burden not one whit the lighter.
It was a dull, gray morning; lowering clouds hung threateningly about, and a fine, penetrating mist filled the air.
"This dampness and mist is as bad as a pouring rain," said Pauline, on the way from church. "You had better fasten your muffler close about your throat, Maurice, and turn up your coat collar; I fear this will bring on your cough again."
When they reached the parsonage Pauline saw that the fires were built and the rooms warmed and dried, although it was early summer. The dry, hacking cough that Mr. Thorpe was subject to was something to be fought and doctored continually. And in this instance Pauline's fears seemed to be well grounded; soon after dinner Mr. Thorpe was seized with a paroxysm of coughing, followed by a spell of weakness. By evening a low fever had developed and it was thought best to send for Dr. Eldrige.
The old doctor came, examined the patient and gave minute directions for his care; after this he came every day for a week. At the end of this time Mr. Thorpe's condition was greatly improved, and one day when alone with him Dr. Eldrige broached a subject that had been much in his mind since he began calling at the parsonage.
"Thorpe," he said, in his usual blunt manner, "what has brought about your wife's recovery? A few months ago she was a stricken invalid; now we see her in the full flush of health. Some great physician must have been consulted--or some occult power. It might be well for you to get around with your explanations if you value her reputation or your own."
Had Dr. Eldrige unsheathed a dagger and stabbed his patient, the blow could scarcely have been keener felt. For a time he repented his blunt words, for Mr. Thorpe's distress and agitation were alarming. The doctor mixed a stimulating draught and gave it to him, and at the same time, in a quiet, smooth manner, introduced another topic of conversation and soon after took his departure. He congratulated himself on being an adept at dealing crushing blows.
"I have, I think, given our pious pastor something to think about," he chuckled as he left the parsonage.
At the end of another week the delayed preparations for their departure were resumed, and a few days later the family separated, Pauline to spend the summer in the old home town with a relative and the pastor and his wife enroute for the little village among the mountains.
The old couple gave Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe a warm greeting and a hearty welcome to their simple, wholesome home. They acquainted them with the resources of the place; gave them directions for reaching the mountain peaks; showed them the mountain stream where the speckled trout abounded; pointed out to them the woodland path that led to the lake and the glades and dells where the wild flowers grew, and then left them to make their own plans and find their own amusements.
To Mrs. Thorpe the place seemed like a fairy bower, a land of enchantment--one of her old daydreams come true. Here were the beauties of God's world, indescribable, luxurious, exquisite. Why had He made the hills and mountains so fair? Why were the skies so azure blue, the air so rare and sweet with the breath of flowers? Why do the waters of the rippling lake lay smiling in the sun? And why does the sun bathe woodland and field, mountain and lake in golden glory and flaming splendor? One of the books that she had read, the work of a popular scientist, told her that Nature's works are fixed and fashioned regardless of man; that in the plan of the universe no account was taken of his needs, and no cognizance of his desires. She recalled another book which told her that man is the central object of the universe and that all things are created to minister to his needs and desires. But deep in her own heart she believed the realities of life, all beauty, truth and harmony to be reflections of the one Life.
"It may be that mine was a case of too many books," she thought. "I depended too much on the knowledge that can be derived from the works of man, and considered too little the wisdom that comes from God, and can never come in any other way than by direct revelation--the heart of God speaking to the heart of man: 'Be still and know that I am God.'" And in this stillness, this sanctuary and solemn grandeur, there opened before her an unwritten book--the overreaching Law of Love, the compelling goodness of God.
That which has been spoken and that which has been written pertains to the material sense; but that which has been heard in the silence, and seen in "the light that no man can approach unto," and experienced in the grandeur of the limitless life--this is God--no tongue has told it, no pen has portrayed it, yet in letters of glory we all may read it. From the mountains and the hills, from the summer skies and the smiling water, the leaves of this unwritten book unfolded before Mrs. Thorpe and she read the deep hidden things of God.
The long golden days came and went like a radiant, glorified dream, each with its share of pleasure, some new joy, some added gladness. There were days when the summer rain beat upon the roof in mellow cadence; when the gray, leaden skies emphasized the cheer and comfort of the plain mountain home. Then, Mrs. Thorpe with some light work in hand, would listen while her hostess, the dear old aunt, related chapters from the past and told incidents and anecdotes from her long experience as a pastor's wife. There were days when the damp earth, warm beneath the sun, gave forth a blissful fragrance of growing things and the green, swelling buds burst into showers of bloom; when the mountain brook, swelled by the rain, babbled in wild, sweet song and dashed its turbulent waters into the placid lake.
There were days when the pastor renewed his boyhood and spent long hours on the shaded banks of the mountain stream with his fishing tackle, baiting for speckled trout. Mrs. Thorpe always accompanied him and sought to divert his mind from every care; while he fished, or perhaps tramped through the woods and sought the homes of the feathered songsters, she would busy herself with some piece of needlework, and when he threw himself on the velvet grass beside her she would read to him from some book, bright, crisp and care-destroying. Sometimes the noonday lunch was carried in a basket and eaten at the foot of the towering, blue-hung mountain, and then together they scaled the mountain's height and from its summit viewed the valleys and woodlands below; saw the lake like a silver basin and the stream like a white thread; and all the world below seemed hushed and at rest, and their individual cares and perplexities seemed to shrink and fall away, and they breathed the life-giving ozone and felt that Life is so much greater thing than its material forms can ever demonstrate. These were days that long afterward lay in the memory like gems, rare, radiant, exquisite.
Mr. Thorpe spent a considerable time with his venerable kinsman, the old minister, and together they lived in the past, a past peopled with father and mother and the sadly lamented brother cut down in his prime, and other dear ones gone to the far, fair shore. When alone Mr. Thorpe's thoughts tended to carry him back to a time when no shadows clouded his life, when no fears regarding physical or spiritual strength assailed him. With the ready assurance which is a phase of the disease from which he was suffering, he felt that he was regaining his health, and believed that full bodily vigor would be restored to him. But where were the hopes and aspirations of his life, once so strong and indomitable? Where the joy and gladness he had once felt in his work?
A dull despair filled him now. Willingly, gladly, he had put his all in his work; and what had he received in return? He felt his heart "Smitten and withered like grass." And the people to whom he had ministered, to whom he had laid bare his heart and life, whom he had sought with all the passion and pleading of his soul, was there anything in their deeds or actions to indicate that their lives were marked with the impress of the Master? And always amid his introspection, there came the thought of his wife. The woman he loved had departed from the beliefs of his life, from the tenets of his faith, she had not followed him; her footsteps had taken a strange, new road, which must lead her ever farther and farther from him. Yet this, that she had not followed him, bitter as it was, was not the bitterest drop in his cup, was not the worst aspect of the trouble that weighed upon him. He had so cultivated the reverence in his nature for that which appealed to him in religion, and so stimulated his devotion to that which he worshiped, that he did not know that any soul-saving righteousness could exist outside the orbit in which his mind revolved. Then it was not only that she had not followed him--when he had so loved her--but it must follow that she was a lost soul.
After long deliberation, Mr. Thorpe, feeling the burden and responsibility of his wife's departure too great to be borne alone, he laid the case before his venerable uncle.
The old man, thoughtful and considerate, heard him through without a word. Then in his gentle voice, slightly tremulous, he said:
"I think you made a mistake, Maurice, when you adopted a lenient attitude toward that which your judgment condemned. From your account, the book you found on your wife's table was rank heresy, openly opposed to established forms of religion. I have thought that perhaps this false conception of the works of Christ, this spurious growth that we know is gaining ground in the world to-day, is the very anti-Christ against which we have been so strenuously warned. It certainly is your duty to show your wife the falsity and error of these attacks on established creeds and doctrines. This blasphemy about spiritual healing is the most egregious error, the most harmful and misleading thing, the most damned and baneful thing that the enemies of pure religion have ever devised. I cannot understand how any honest person can adopt a neutral attitude toward it."
Mr. Thorpe was silent for a few moments, and when he spoke the life and spirit had gone out of his voice, and the shadow that had darkened his life brooded over him.
"There is nothing neutral nor conciliatory in my mind toward this 'wind of doctrine,'" he said. "In my opinion there is no greater sacrilege than for man to claim the power of Christ." He hesitated a moment and then continued as one who forces down the last drop of a bitter draught. "Evelyn was a Christian woman when I married her," he said, "orthodox as you or I; she has been very near to me in all my work, yet she has departed from me; she has not been able to feed and live on that which I could give. And if this woman, whom I have loved and trusted, has failed to find spiritual food under my teaching, how shall I judge my life's work?"
"This is a serious question, Maurice, and far-reaching; but your outlook is morbid and unfair to yourself. Have no scruples about your life's work; never doubt that the Lord has need of your service; let nothing turn you from this. If there is any condemnation upon you it is because you have allowed your heart to pervert your judgment."
There was silence again for a few moments, while a smile flickered across the old man's wrinkled face; a smile that spoke of many things; demons met and battles fought and every trace of human affection subservient to the creed that rules his life. Nowhere in the history of paganism do we find such atrocities as have been committed in the name of Religion. The blood of the martyrs had within it the principle that would condemn another to martyrdom and at the same time, if put to the test, face, undaunted, an atrocious death. And the devotee to the creeds and doctrines of our orthodox church will, for his faith, flay alive the quivering soul of a loved one and yield his own soul to be flayed with equal readiness. The smile, or the trace of it, lingered on the old minister's face.
"I have a thought, Maurice," he said, "that it is the old story, old as the Garden of Eden, of man's yielding to the witchery of woman. The curse of Adam's weakness is in our veins, but there is no extenuation for us in yielding to it. Were I in your place I should either root this obnoxious thing from Evelyn's mind, or else deal with her exactly as I should with any other heretic in the church. Go and read Mark 9, from 43 to 49."
At the end of the summer when the first frost had touched the leaves and dressed them in red and yellow garb; when a blue haze hung over the landscape and the air was balmy with the summer's departing fragrance, the pastor and his wife bade an affectionate farewell to the friends who had been so kindly hospitable, and returned to Edgerly.
Pauline, capable, willing and always considerate, preceded them and had the parsonage aired and renovated when Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe arrived.
Mrs. Thorpe expostulated: "You should have waited and allowed me to help you," she said. "I can never repay you for all your kindness."
"The dust and close air would have been bad for Maurice," Pauline replied. "And, my dear," she said, "you have been with Maurice constantly and perhaps you cannot see as I can that the summer has not improved his health. To me he seems thinner and more broken than when he went away."
*CHAPTER XII*
*THE MINISTER'S DECLINE*
The family had not been home many days before Mr. Thorpe's cough again became alarming; weakness and fever followed, and Dr. Eldrige was again summoned. The old doctor prescribed and commanded. The patient must be kept quiet, but nothing to indicate his condition must be manifested by the family. He also advised that Mr. Thorpe resign his position as pastor.
"He cannot preach this winter," he said, "and it will be the death of him to try. Let him resign and have all care off his mind."
Mr. Thorpe objected to this and wished to obtain a substitute for a time; Mrs. Thorpe agreed with him that this would be the better way; and Pauline, although she said nothing, felt that his resignation would be a tacit admission that he would never regain his health.
Dr. Eldrige fumed and stormed, as he always did when he met with opposition. He told Mrs. Thorpe and Pauline to go on and have their way, but to remember his words when they heard the clods upon the coffin lid. And Mr. Thorpe's resignation was duly sent in.
As was his custom, Dr. Eldrige discussed his patient with his son. He made a pretense of scoffing at his son's methods and manners, yet he was always ready to lay his cases before him, and counted more upon the young doctor's opinions and depended more upon his judgment than he would under any circumstances admit.
"Our pious pastor is going to die," he said to his son. "Pious or devilish, we all come to the same place at last, and we all go through the same door and out into the same black hole."
Dr. Eldrige Jr. made no comment, but gave the consent of silence to his father's statements; he felt that they needed no corroboration.
After a few moments the elder doctor spoke again: "Perhaps, though, a man's better off dead than alive when he has a witch-wife," lie said.
"A witch-wife!" the young man ejaculated, and there was both incredulity and remonstrance in his voice; but he said no more; he knew better than to question his father outright, and he half regretted that he had allowed the exclamation to escape him.
"Yes," the old man stormed; "a witch-wife, a distracted, wild-eyed manes who has had seven devils--seventy for what I know--cast out of her and now blooms forth in pristine freshness. When witches inhabit the earth the doctors can seek another world in which to practice their vile profession of medicine; their services will not be required in this one. However, when our witch friend gets out among people she may find that she has fewer friends in her health than she had in her sickness. She may be able to ride over chimney tops on a broomstick and hobnob with black cats in the forest for a time--but it may be a short time."
Heretofore the young doctor had given little heed to his father's bluster about Mrs. Thorpe's recovery; but now he understood that his words contained a covert threat. In the course of their relations together the son had fallen into the way of arbiter between his father and his father's patients, and many times he was able to prevent his father's malevolent designs and to heal the wounds that he inflicted. Now he looked up from the book that he was reading; he did not look full into his father's face, but scanned it surreptitiously, and he admitted to himself that his father's malady was working upon him again. The harsh grating of his voice and his evil, malicious words had portrayed it; and the fleeting glance at the old man's face had revealed the purplish tinge, the swollen veins, and the murderous gleam of his eyes.
Never could he forget the day that he had discovered his father's secret--the disease that was ravaging body and brain. He had come upon him suddenly, unexpectedly, and had turned hastily from him, partly in recoil at what he saw and also to shield his father from the knowledge that he had discovered his trouble. And from that time, as he valued his life, he had given no hint of what he knew, although there was a silent understanding regarding it between him and his father. And this understanding had enabled him to know his choleric parent as he had never known him before. He felt that the anger and malignity and rancor to which his father gave vent were but the outflow, the suppuration of the horror which held him in its grasp; and he dared not put the question to himself, whether it might not be that this thing of horror was but his father's evil moods materialized in the flesh. And now he read an expression of his father's virulence in his remarks concerning the pastor and his wife, and had he read no more than this he would have made no reply, but he feared that his father's words contained a menace to the peace of those to whom he was ministering, and he believed it was time for him to ascertain the state of affairs at the parsonage.
"If Mr. Thorpe's decline is, as you say, slow and gradual," he said, "so long as there are no complications, you may as well let me take the case." His manner was quiet, free from curiosity, and indicated that he was not interested in the matter of Mrs. Thorpe's recovery. "I have calls that will take me in that part of the town to-morrow," he continued, "and I will see Mr. Thorpe for you if you like."
Dr. Eldrige Jr. felt that he had scored a victory that was worth while. His father would get a new grievance bye and bye, and then, if he saw no more of the Thorpes, he would forget this one.
He called at the parsonage the next afternoon and found Mr. Thorpe resting comfortably. The cough was better and the other symptoms less pronounced. After this he continued his calls at different times for several days; then a call came that took him out of town for a few days and the old doctor made the call on Mr. Thorpe.
After the visit he said to Mrs. Thorpe, who had accompanied him to the hall: "The present treatment seems to be working so well that it will not be necessary for me to call again until Mr. Thorpe is taken worse; but be sure and let me know at the first return of the unfavorable symptoms." He spoke of this contingency as though it were a foregone conclusion; that it was only a matter of time.
This was the first real intimation that Mrs. Thorpe had had that her husband's condition was serious. For the first moment she felt as if her heart had ceased to beat, or was it that she was blind that the daylight should be so black? Then she felt that a burden so heavy that she could not bear it had been suddenly and rudely thrust upon her. She felt that she staggered and was unsteady on her feet. But she faced the doctor and spoke as bravely as she could, although her voice sounded in her ears like a voice that she had never heard before. Yet in her consciousness there mingled with this deadly certainty that the doctor expressed something of her new-found faith in a higher power, and so she said:
"If he is taken worse we will let you know at once."
Dr. Eldrige lowered his head and looked at her over his glasses; he was in a villainous mood, and that little flame of faith that had shot out in her words had not escaped him.
"If," he roared; "indeed, Mrs. Thorpe, there is no 'if' about it; he will be taken worse." Then with the heart of one who knows he has maimed, but craves to kill, he said: "Don't you know that your husband is going to die?"
Mrs. Thorpe paled to the lips. She looked the man steadily in the face, but no words came to her.
He saw that she did not shriek nor cry aloud; she did not faint nor fall; and with all the malevolence in his nature he made another thrust.
"There was a time," he said, "when I believed that you would leave your husband free in the world, but the tables have turned. Why, permit me to ask, do you not turn some of your witchcraft on him? What is fair for one ought to be fair for another. You saved yourself by some devilish machination, but you are little inclined, it seems, to save your husband by the same process."
The horror and resentment of Mrs. Thorpe's outraged soul were depicted upon her face and gleamed from her dilated eyes. She had trained her mind to dwell on the divine attributes in man; but alas, how human, how very human, she felt this passion to be that possessed her now! Her blood was like fire in her veins, a strange noise was in her ears and hot, scathing words leaped to her lips.
"Dr. Eldrige," she said, and the words came keen and sharp; all her anguish and passionate anger were there, but she caught her breath sharply and stopped. Then again: "Dr. Eldrige--" Her voice wavered, fell and broke. She turned and walked to the window. The doctor began drawing on his gloves, his hand was on the door. Then she walked back to him. Her face was white, her eyes fathomless. "You are my husband's physician," she said. "I have no quarrel with you." Her voice was even, guardedly calm.
The doctor regarded her curiously. He had read her horror and resentment and with the utmost exactness he read her passion and her anguish; now he as surely read her victory. His ill-will toward her did not soften. He stood with his cane and medicine case in his hand, ready to go, and without a word he turned and left her.
A lightning flash will sometimes cause objects and outlines to stand out with more distinctness than does the noonday sun. The keen flash of her bitter passion revealed to Mrs. Thorpe what the long summer days had not disclosed.