Part 9

Why had she not been free and frank with her husband and confessed to him the change that had come into her life? Why had she shut her blessing in her own heart and uttered no word to those about her?

The consciousness that had come to her of the power of Truth over all evil and error never wavered nor failed. The actual demonstration of what she had experienced was manifested in her own life.

God's truth is not a complex thing, difficult to explain and hard to demonstrate; it is simple and natural. Health is the natural condition; sickness is abnormal. Righteousness is the simple state of man; sin is a distortion. But to live and demonstrate these truths in this many-sided, complex life requires all the wisdom that Christ came to earth to teach.

Mrs. Thorpe never doubted that could the saving power of Truth be revealed to her husband his infirmities would fall from him; yet with this message warm in her heart she had not broken the silence that lay between them. In this course that she had taken she had shielded herself behind the conviction that her husband would not accept this message; and she had put back with a quieting touch, hushed and kept asleep that which all the time had been to her so patent--that she was deceiving her husband--afraid to make known to him her new conception of the Christ-love and its transforming power.

Mr. Thorpe was in his study one morning, sorting and arranging his books. The disease from which he was suffering has been known to play with its victims as a cat delights to play with a mouse, and this was one of the times when Mr. Thorpe fully believed that he was to regain his health. He was finding great pleasure in his books this morning; he had been away from them so long that now as he handled them they seemed to him like dearest friends. Mrs. Thorpe tapped at the door of the study and he bade her enter.

"It seems good to find you here, Maurice," she said; "like old times again."

"Old times!" How the thought stirred his spirit--the time when there was no barrier between them. The sunshine streamed through the window and lay, a golden bar, on the floor; symbolic, he thought, of the barrier that had insinuated itself between him and this fair, smiling woman who stood before him; a barrier silent, far-reaching, heaven-high.

Mrs. Thorpe's eyes also were on the shaft of light.

"See how the sunshine lies like a bridge between us," she said; "a beautiful golden bridge. I hope I may be able to build as fair a one, Maurice, between your confidence and mine. I have been keeping something from you. I wish to talk to you about it--about the new belief--the light that has come to me."

Her heart was beating tumultuously. Her hand rested on a table beside her husband and he noticed the firm, white flesh of her arm, where once pitiful emaciation had marked it. He looked into her face and saw the signs of health and vigor there--evidence that she had cast her lot with some foreign power--some ungodly fetish!

"Evelyn," he said, "I have not questioned your belief nor demanded an explanation concerning this new, strange doctrine which you have embraced."

"No," she said, "you have not questioned nor demanded. I feel that you have trusted me, you have been kind--"

"No, Evelyn! Not that--I have been weak, culpable, a coward--fearing to ask lest from your own lips I get confirmation of the worst."

Mrs. Thorpe felt that her husband had thrust her suddenly outside the pale of his sympathy. The hope in her heart grew cold and all her glad words that she had been ready to speak deserted her; yet she answered bravely:

"This is no evil thing that has come into my life, you need not dread or fear it." Then, more eagerly: "Oh, Maurice, can you not see that it has restored my health, taken away my infirmities, blessed my life and made me whole?" The flood-gates were opened and the fullness of her soul poured forth. "It is the Truth that has made me free; there is no real power in the world save God's power. There is a better conception of life than that which admits sickness and disease to be real and powerful. Have not we to-day the same Savior who walked the Galilean shore healing all forms of sin and sickness? God is the same yesterday, to-day and forever. Is not our Christ just as tender, as compassionate, as able, now as then?" She stopped at the sight of her husband's face. The light had gone out of it; it was grim and set.

"That which I feared has come upon me," he said. "I had hoped that this folly of yours might pass; I have prayed daily that you might be delivered from this fallacy, and restored to the fold; but I see that you have gone from me--gone from me, from my church and my God."

Mrs. Thorpe had felt sure that her husband would not approve of her new belief, and in her darkest moments she had feared that by confessing to him the change that had come into her life, the perfect trust and confidence between them might be broken. But what was this that his words portended? Gone from his church--his God--_from him_! Was there anything--anything on earth or in Heaven that could compensate her for this? Yet with the question still passionate in her soul she realized that were it possible, for the sake of the mortal love her soul so craved, for her to deny her conception of the Infinite, she could never retrace her steps. With her own free hand she had torn down the old relationship between herself and her husband. For the moment she felt that she had plucked from its stem the fairest flower that ever blossomed; now it must wither and die, no power on earth could prevent it.

The glistening sunlight radiated sparks of living fire, then reeled in darkness. Suddenly she found herself as one who departs on a strange, new road, and finds all other paths barred and blocked. A tremor shook her form and her breath came with a sob. Even though she find that the night awaits her in Gethsemane and Calvary looms on before, she must go on--but not alone--she has beside her One whose feet had passed that way before.

Her husband sat before her with bowed head.

"Maurice," she said gently, yet with the keenness of her heart's pain in her voice, "the sternest judge does not condemn without a hearing, much less should you who have always been kind and just condemn me before you have investigated the views I hold."

"I have no desire to investigate your views, Evelyn. This assertion that you have made, that a weak and sinful human being has power to overcome sickness and disease, is placing mortals on a level with the Son of God and is a defamation of the very character of God Himself. I would have given my life for you rather than that you should have embraced so heretical and blasphemous a doctrine. Yet even though this cup prove more bitter than I can bear; even though it blights my life and destroys my affection, I will not ask you to spare me now. I desire to know how far you have gone--I would like to know how far you are from me."

Mrs. Thorpe felt herself alone; her isolation closing in about her. Never before had her husband thrust her from him, never before had he been unsympathetic and unkind. Then the thought came to her that in all the years of her married life she had never before arrayed herself in open opposition to him; and she realized now, for the first time, that although she had loved this man she had also feared him with an awful, shrinking fear. Now she felt that he had not only thrust her from him, but that he had aimed deliberately to pain and wound her, and with this thought a new element sprang to life within her--a dauntless, unflinching courage.

"Maurice," she said, "you have thrown down the gauntlet which, were I to take up in like spirit, would result in wounding both our hearts even as you have wounded mine. Were I to reply to you as you have spoken to me, I think this power of Christ about which we disagree would prove singularly lacking in both our hearts. I came here to talk to you about the new belief that has come into my life; but can one talk of the heart's sacred joy, the deep, hidden things of God before a stern and unsympathetic judge? All I ask now is that you grant me the freedom of religious thought that you demand as your inalienable right."

Now Mr. Thorpe was aware that a woman he had never known stood before him, and he also knew that in purity of thought and in her sense of justice, in Christ-likeness, she towered above him. Heretofore she had bent to his will so readily that he scarcely knew how thoroughly he dominated her. Now she stood before him asking and demanding freedom of thought, independence in her religious belief--even that for which their forefathers had fought. And this was Evelyn, his wife, not crushed by his scathing condemnation, but triumphant in her sweet humility, and mistress of the situation.

There was silence between them for a few moments, then Mrs. Thorpe laid her hand on her husband's shoulder. She knew that her thrust had gone straight to the mark and her heart ached with the pain she had inflicted.

"Maurice," she said, "I would not willingly incur your disfavor, much less cause you pain."

There was a tremor in her voice that threatened tears; but her husband remained motionless and irresponsive.

"Can our conceptions of God come between us, Maurice--alienate us---when we have been so much to each other?" Her voice choked and she felt that her heart was breaking.

"I cannot understand, Evelyn," Mr. Thorpe said, in a voice that had lost its harshness and was broken and unsteady, "how anything so visionary, so fallacious, so palpably false, can have taken so strong a hold upon you. What is it that has diverted your allegiance from the church--the church of Christ?"

"Maurice, there is no command given for the observance of God's laws but I most humbly reverence and endeavor to obey. All that to me seems good and true in church and creed I hold and keep, but this I will say, that the conception that I now have of spiritual things is deeper, stronger, mightier than the old, as the ocean is mightier than the rivulet. I do not condemn the church, but I must have more than it has ever given me. I believe that Christ loves sick and sinful humanity to-day as he loved it when he walked the earth healing all manner of evil and error."

"Evelyn, it is the heretical books that you have read that have blinded you and caused you to put a false interpretation on the works of Christ. Can you not see that when Christ came to earth and men were slow to acknowledge Him that it was necessary for Him to give to the world some evidence incontrovertible, irrefutable, that He was of divine origin? To establish this fact beyond all doubt and question He chose a most miraculous expedient: he healed the sick, cast out devils, raised the dead. And now, even in this wicked and degenerate age, these mortals whom He came to save claim the power to do these works that He did. To say nothing of the absurdity of the thing, I little believed you capable of accepting so blasphemous a fallacy."

Mrs. Thorpe turned and walked to the window, and her eyes followed the incline that led up to the church.

"Christ takes the place in the spiritual life," she thought, "that the church takes in the world; something exalted, set aside, to be looked up to and worshiped, but never to aid and comfort. He came to glorify Himself; his mission was to prove His own superior origin, and, the church, following this conception of Him, holds itself superior to the human family it stands to bless." There flashed before her a vision of the dark-faced girl whose life had been robbed of its chastity and sent to its ruin, while the adherents of the stately church before her followed this conception of Christ. She thought of the sin and suffering she had seen on the Bolton Flat; the lives of anguish and crime that were lived there while the Savior of men, tender and compassionate, presided over the beautiful church and blessed and glorified it.

When she turned again to her husband her face was blanched and her eyes were glowing with a strange light.

"And all this great gift of Christ's life, His suffering and sacrifice--what was it for?" she asked. "If He healed the sick--not because He had compassion upon the multitude, not because He was touched with the feeling of their infirmities; if He cast out evil spirits--anger, jealousy, malice and all the vagaries of a sin-sick mortal mind--not because He wished the children of a loving Father to be pure in heart, clean of life; if He raised the dead--not because the great heart of God is merciful and tender--if these things would have been beneath His notice had they not served in gaining His end, indisputable evidence that He is the Great I AM, then He used them to fix the gulf, to measure the distance between Himself and humanity--used them, He the Christ, the Savior of men, for His own aggrandizement!"

Mr. Thorpe held out his hands with a gesture of horror. "Evelyn, desist!" he cried. "What profanation is this?"

"But answer me this, Maurice: Were Christ's miracles performed to prove Himself divine or were they works of mercy to prove His Saviorhood to humanity?"

"Your question is irreverent, and in the sense in which you ask it, sacrilegious and unchristian. Whatever it was that actuated Christ to do those mighty works it is wildness, mania, for one to claim that this power is in the world to-day."

"Yet for years, Maurice, you prayed that God would restore my health and strength, and now it is sacrilege to affirm that the God to whom you prayed has answered your prayer?"

"We will not prolong this discussion, Evelyn. Your feet have found a strange, new road, while I, as I hope to see my God, must cleave to the old. I knew that the hand of God was hard and grievous upon you, but I could not believe that you would forsake the straight and narrow way. The bitterness of death sinks before this."

Mrs. Thorpe knelt beside her husband and buried her face in his hands. "God is our judge," she said; "let us leave our differences with Him."

"I have one promise to ask, one demand to make, Evelyn, and then this subject shall be dropped between us. My life is in God's hands; when He calls me I am ready to go. Whatever power you possess, or believe you possess, over the human organism, I ask, demand, that you forebear to exercise it in any manner where my welfare is concerned."

Mrs. Thorpe, still upon her knees, saw in the future pain, suffering, separation--evils which, should she give her promise, she dare not deny.

Mr. Thorpe put her from him and arose to his feet. She arose also and looked into his face; it was haggard and gray.

"Oh, Maurice!" she cried, "that I who love you should cause you to suffer so!" She extended her hands to him, but he ignored her advance.

"I have asked a promise, made a demand," he said, "and you have not answered me."

Again the living fire glittered in the sunshine; again the darkness reeled before her. "Oh, Christ," she sobbed, inaudibly, "you who suffered and died for the truth, help and keep me now!" Her face was drawn and gray as her husband's, and when she spoke her voice was sharp and keen with pain.

"I cannot--cannot deny my God," she said.

*CHAPTER XIII*

*THE PURE IN HEART*

The term, "A man of the world," is elastic enough to cover a multitude of sins, and it gives the impression that however far from exemplary the man may be to whom the term is applied, and however far from spotless his character, that having made no avowal of virtue, he is in some degree excusable for exercising the prerogatives of a villain.

Max Morrison was a man of the world. Men knew him as an all around good fellow; women knew him as a bright and shining light about which many a pretty moth had singed its gilded wings, been scorched, maimed, wounded. But his popularity increased rather than diminished because of this, and Edgerly's best society welcomed him warmly.

But the best society and all that it offers, as well as the amusements that cannot bear the light of day, pall on a man in time and that which is fine within him, silent, yet alive, cries for expression. When the flush of youth is over, life begins to look more profound and sometimes a bit somber, and then the stirrings of a man's heart are for a home and fireside, wife, and the voice of children, and he begins to look about him for a queen to reign in his home. And here, in making a choice of a life companion, men generally show a superiority over women. A woman, governed by her emotions and her desires, and taking a superficial view of the future, will give her heart, her honor and her life to a man, no matter what his past has been nor what his present is, if only he makes her fair promises for the future. But a man, when he chooses a wife, must know beyond the shadow of a doubt that the woman he honors is of spotless character.

Let no woman breathe one word to break down this high standard that man has set for womankind; but rather, let women demand of men that which men require of them.

Max Morrison desired for his wife a woman pure as the angels in Heaven; and this is what he believed Geraldine Vane to be. And after a long and intimate friendship he decided to win her for his wife. He fully realized the importance of the step, and he also realized that when a man has a past and there are places in that past where the sun has never shone, that phantom hands are liable to rise out of these dark places and lay a blighting finger on the beautiful, blameless future. Many times when his thoughts sought matrimonial byways, a vision of a dark, eager face with full, voluptuous lips and passion-filled eyes arose before him. There were times when he denounced himself as a fool whose folly had ruined his life. There had been good material in Margaret, as well as the fatal traits that had ruined her. Suppose her circumstances had been different, or that someone had lent her a helping hand; defended and protected her. What a woman she would have made! What a force in the world! Was there one in the world who could equal what she might have been? The thought was torture to him and he banished the dark face from his vision; it had not been pleasant to look upon the last time he had seen it, and Geraldine was the woman to be considered now. He consoled himself as best he could with the thought that no doubt Geraldine, with her placid temper and quiet, acquiescent ways, would lead a man a more comfortable life than would a passionate, spirited woman such as Margaret would have made.

Max was not exactly a vain man, but he had known many women and been repulsed by none. He had no serious apprehension that he might not be able to win the woman that he had decided to honor; but he desired to make his footing sure as possible, and he wished also to be honorable and irreproachable in his conduct toward this woman and her family. To this end he approached Mr. Mayhew on the subject.

"My friendship with your niece," he said to that gentleman, "is, as you know, of long standing. You have accorded me the greatest kindness and hospitality; now I ask your permission to pay my addresses to Geraldine as a suitor for her hand."

Mr. Mayhew's business instinct, always keen and shrewd, became at once active and alert. On general principles his policy was to conceal an advantage until he saw its consummation, and he saw no reason to depart from his usual course in this instance. And in his estimation a proposition would have to be questionable indeed if he could not from here and there bring in enough that was moral to make it tenable. However many dark places there might be in a course he wished to pursue, he never allowed himself to be too Puritanical to find some defensible ground on which to make a stand. He thought it very probable that Max did not know that Geraldine was a dowerless girl, absolutely dependent, and he had no compunctions that the fact had been well guarded. If Max wished to marry the girl, her fortunes ought to make no difference to him. And if Geraldine was willing to accept him for a husband, she could do as thousands of other women had done--overlook or ignore the past. Here, then, was the high tenable ground, and without any hesitation he took his stand. Yet in his heart he knew that if this fair girl beneath his roof had a fortune of her own he would see that she got a better man for a husband than this one to whom he now gave full and free consent to woo her.

Mr. Mayhew would like to have had the co-operation of his wife in influencing Geraldine to make her choice. He understood that Max expected him to use his influence to predispose the girl in his favor, and also that he desired him to palliate his past conduct, if there was need of palliation in Geraldine's mind. But Mr. Mayhew was too shrewd a man to see only one side of the question. His wife he believed to be one of the most satisfactory women in the world yet he realized that there were times when she was a power to be dealt with, and he believed it always better to circumvent a woman than to oppose her. He never attempted to lower her ideals of honor and morality; but he took it upon himself to see that they did not interfere with the practical advantages of life. Now he counted that all he could say in Max's favor would have less weight with Geraldine than that which his wife could say against him, if she cared to do so. And rather than risk having Geraldine consult with her aunt as to the suitability of Max as a husband, he decided to let her make the reply to the all-important question with as little premeditation as possible. And as though in response to his unspoken preference, Max did not delay his purpose long.

It was a stormy night in early winter, Max called at the Mayhew home and was shown into the library, where he found Geraldine deep in a volume of old-time valorous deeds. She had read of knights and chivalry and maidens fair and true until her heart throbbed with the spirit of the olden time, and that which is brave and fine in human nature lay uppermost in her mind.

She greeted her caller with a mingling of the fervor of a Joan of Arc and the sweet dignity of a Lady Jane Grey. Her eyes were bright, there was an unusual glow on her cheeks, and no queen ever wore a crown of gems and jewels more becoming than was Geraldine's crown of golden hair. She drew a chair to the fire for her caller.

"You were brave to face the storm," she said.

Max settled himself comfortably in the grateful warmth and glow.

"One could well face a fiercer storm for a moment of lesser bliss," he said.

The firelight fell on his swarthy face and magnificent proportions. How like a veritable knight stepped out of the book of brave deeds he appeared!

The library door stood open, and Dr. Eldrige Jr., who had been called to see one of the Mayhew children slightly ailing, passed this door on his way to the nursery and saw the man and woman sitting in the firelight. His face grew hard, and involuntarily his fingernails cut into the flesh of his palms.

"There was a time," he thought, "a time centuries ago, when true men were knights and challenged to deadly conflict villains who dared to approach women of honor. There would be satisfaction in grappling with a man of Morrison's stamp; grappling until his cursed blood flows red--or give my life in the effort. But in these days, these better, Christian days, we have done away, if not with honor, with all aggressive vindication of it; we no longer call our enemy to halt and demand of him his aims and intentions; we get out of his way and give him full swing." The doctor came to a sudden halt; a new train of thought had flashed into his mind. "My God! I cannot tell what this man's intentions may be. He may intend to marry Geraldine!"