The Reverend Austin Thorpe was in his room at Miss Mehitable's, with a
pencil held loosely in his wrinkled hand. On the table before him was
a pile of rough copy paper, and at the top of the first sheet was
written, in capitals, the one word: "Hell." It was underlined, and
around it he had drawn sundry fantastic flourishes and shadings, but
the rest of the sheet was blank.
For more than an hour the old man had sat there, his blue, near-sighted
eyes wandering about the room. A self-appointed committee from his
congregation had visited him and requested him to preach a sermon on
the future abode of the wicked. The wicked, as the minister gathered
from the frank talk of the committee, included all who did not belong
to their own sect.
Try as he might, the minister could find in his heart nothing save
charity. Anger and resentment were outside of his nature. He told
himself that he knew the world, and had experienced his share of
injustice, that he had seen sin in all of its hideous phases. Yet,
even for the unrepentant sinner, Thorpe had only kindness.
Of one sin only, Thorpe failed in comprehension. As he had said to
Anthony Dexter, he could excuse a liar, pardon a thief, and pity a
murderer, but he had only contempt for a shirk.
Persistently, he analysed and questioned himself, but got no further.
To him, all sin resolved itself at last into injustice, and he did not
believe that any one was ever intentionally unjust. But the
congregation desired to hear of hell--"as if," thought Thorpe,
whimsically, "I received daily reports."
With a sigh, he turned to his blank sheet. "In the earlier stages of
our belief," he wrote, "we conceived of hell as literally a place of
fire and brimstone, of eternal suffering and torture. In the light
which has come to us later, we perceive that hell is a spiritual state,
and realise that the consciousness of a sin is its punishment."
Then he tore the sheet into bits, for this was not what his
congregation wanted; yet it was his sincere belief. He could not
stultify himself to please his audience--they must take him as he was,
or let him go.
Yet the thought of leaving was unpleasant, for he had found work to do
in a field where, as it seemed to him, he was sorely needed. His
parishioners had heard much of punishment, but very little of mercy and
love. They were tangled in doctrinal meshes, distraught by quibbles,
and at swords' points with each other.
He felt that he must in some way temporise, and hold his place until he
had led his flock to a loftier height. He had no desire to force his
opinions upon any one else, but he wished to make clear his own strong,
simple faith, and spread abroad, if he might, his own perfect trust.
A commanding rap resounded upon his door. "Come," he called, and Miss
Mehitable entered.
Thorpe was not subtle, but he felt that this errand was of deeper
import than usual. The rustle of her stiffly-starched garments was
portentous, and there was a set look about her mouth which boded no
good to anybody.
"Will you sit down?" he asked, offering her his own chair.
"No," snapped Miss Mehitable, "I won't. What I've got to say, I can
say standin'. I come," she announced, solemnly, "from the Ladies' Aid
Society."
"Yes?" Thorpe's tone was interrogative, but he was evidently not
particularly interested.
"I'm appointed a committee of one," she resumed, "to say that the
Ladies' Aid Society have voted unanimously that they want you to preach
on hell. The Church is goin' to rack and ruin, and we ain't goin' to
stand it no longer. Even the disreputable characters will walk right
in and stay all through the sermon--Andy Rogers and the rest. And I
was particularly requested to ask whether you wished to have us
understand that you approve of Andy Rogers and his goin's on."
"What," temporised Thorpe, "does Andy Rogers do?"
"For the lands sake!" ejaculated Miss Mehitable. "Wasn't he drunk four
months ago and wasn't he caught stealing the Deacon's chickens? You
don't mean to tell me you never heard of that?"
"I believe I did hear," returned the minister, in polite recognition of
the fact that it had been Miss Mehitable's sole conversational topic at
the time. "He stole the chickens because he was hungry, and he got
drunk because he didn't know any better. I talked with him, and he
promised me that he would neither steal nor drink any more. Moreover,
he earned the money and paid full price for the chickens. Have you
heard that he has broken his promise?"
"No I dunno's I have, but he'll do it again if he gets the chance--you
just see!"
Thorpe drummed idly on the table with his pencil, wishing that Miss
Mehitable would go. He had for his fellow-men that deep and abiding
love which enables one to let other people alone. He was a
humanitarian in a broad and admirable sense.
"I was told," said Miss Mehitable, "to get a definite answer."
Thorpe bowed his white head ever so slightly. "You may tell the
Ladies' Aid Society, for me, that next Sunday morning I will give my
congregation a sermon on hell."
"I thought I could make you see the reason in it," remarked Miss
Mehitable, piously taking credit to herself, "and now that it's
settled, I want to speak of Araminta."
"She's getting well all right, isn't she?" queried Thorpe, anxiously.
He had a tender place in his heart for the child.
"That's what I don't know, not bein' allowed to speak to her or touch
her. What I do know is that her immortal soul is in peril, now that
she's taken away from my influence. I want you to get a permit from
that black-mailing play-doctor that's curing her, or pretending to, and
go up and see her. I guess her pastor has a right to see her, even if
her poor old aunt ain't. I want you to find out when she'll be able to
be moved, and talk to her about her soul, dwellin' particularly on
hell."
Thorpe bowed again. "I will be very glad to do anything I can for
Araminta."
Shortly afterward, he made an errand to Doctor Dexter's and saw Ralph,
who readily gave him permission to visit his entire clientele.
"I've got another patient," laughed the boy. "My practice is
increasing at the rate of one case a month. If I weren't too
high-minded to dump a batch of germs into the water supply, I'd have a
lot more."
"How is Araminta?" asked Thorpe, passing by Ralph's frivolity.
"She's all right," he answered, his sunny face clouding. "She can go
home almost any time now. I hate to send her back into her cage--bless
her little heart."
It was late afternoon when Thorpe started up the hill, to observe and
report upon the state of Araminta's soul. He had struggled vainly with
his own problem, and had at last decided to read a fiery sermon by one
of the early evangelists, from a volume which he happened to have. The
sermon was lurid with flame, and he thought it would satisfy his
congregation. He would preface it with the statement that it was not
his, but he hoped they would regard it as a privilege to hear the views
of a man who was, without doubt, wiser and better than he.
Miss Evelina came to the door when he rapped, and at the sight of her
veiled face, a flood of pity overwhelmed him. He introduced himself
and asked whether he might see Araminta.
When he was ushered into the invalid's room, he found her propped up by
pillows, and her hair was rioting in waves about her flushed face. A
small maltese kitten, curled into a fluffy ball, slept on the snowy
counterpane beside her. Araminta had been reading the "story book"
which Doctor Ralph had brought her.
"Little maid," asked the minister, "how is the ankle?"
"It's well, and to-morrow I'm to walk on it for the first time. Doctor
Ralph has been so good to me--everybody's been good."
Thorpe picked up the book, which lay face downward, and held it close
to his near-sighted eyes. Araminta trembled; she was afraid he would
take it away from her.
All that day, she had lived in a new land, where men were brave and
women were fair. Castle towers loomed darkly purple in the sunset, or
shone whitely at noon. Kings and queens, knights and ladies, moved
sedately across the tapestry, mounted on white chargers with trappings
of scarlet and gold. Long lances shimmered in the sun and the armour
of the knights gave back the light an hundred fold. Strange music
sounded in Araminta's ears--love songs and serenades, hymns of battle
and bugle calls. She felt the rush of conflict, knew the anguish of
the wounded, and heard the exultant strains of victory.
And all of it--Araminta had greatly marvelled at this--was done for
love, the love of man and woman.
A knight in the book had asked the lady of his heart to marry him, and
she had not seen that she was insulted, nor guessed that he was
offering her disgrace. Araminta wondered that the beautiful lady could
be so stupid, but, of course, she had no Aunt Hitty to set her right.
Far from feeling shame, the lady's heart had sung for joy, but
secretly, since she was proud. Further on, the same beautiful lady had
humbled her pride for the sake of her love and had asked the gallant
knight to marry her, since she had once refused to marry him.
"Why, Araminta!" exclaimed Mr. Thorpe, greatly surprised. "I thought
Miss Mehitable did not allow you to read novels."
"A novel! Why, no, Mr. Thorpe, it isn't a novel! It's just a story
book. Doctor Ralph told me so."
Austin Thorpe laughed indulgently. "A rose by any other name," he
said, "is--none the less a rose. Doctor Ralph was right--it is a story
book, and I am right, too, for it is also a novel."
Araminta turned very pale and her eyes filled with tears.
"Mr. Thorpe," she said, in an anguished whisper, "will I be burned?"
"Why, child, what do you mean?"
"I didn't know it was a novel," sobbed Araminta. "I thought it was a
story book. Aunt Hitty says people who read novels get burned--they
writhe in hell forever in the lake of fire."
The Reverend Austin Thorpe went to the door and looked out into the
hall. No one was in sight. He closed the door very gently and came
back to Araminta's bed. He drew his chair nearer and leaned over her,
speaking in a low voice, that he might not be heard.
"Araminta, my poor child," he said, "perhaps I am a heretic. I don't
know. But I do not believe that a being divine enough to be a God
could be human enough to cherish so fiendish a passion as revenge.
Look up, dear child, look up!"
Araminta turned toward him obediently, but she was still sobbing.
"It is a world of mystery," he went on. "We do not know why we come
nor where we go--we only know that we come and that eventually, we go.
Yet I do not think that any one of us nor any number of us have the
right to say what the rest of us shall believe.
"I cannot think of Heaven as a place sparsely populated by my own sect,
with a world of sinners languishing in flames below. I think of Heaven
as a sunny field, where clover blooms and birds sing all day. There
are trees, with long, cool shadows where the weary may rest; there is a
crystal stream where they may forget their thirst. I do not think of
Heaven as a place of judgment, but rather of pardon and love.
"Punishment there is, undoubtedly, but it has seemed to me that we are
sufficiently punished here for all we do that is wrong. We don't
intend to do wrong, Araminta--we get tired, and things and people worry
us, and we are unjust. We are like children afraid in the dark; we
live in a world of doubting, we are made the slaves of our own fears,
and so we shirk."
"But the burning," said Araminta, wiping her eyes. "Is nobody ever to
be burned?"
"The God I worship," answered Thorpe, passionately, "never could be
cruel, but there are many gods, it seems, and many strange beliefs.
Listen, Araminta. Whom do you love most?"
"Aunt Hitty?" she questioned.
"No, you don't have to say that if it isn't so. You can be honest with
me. Who, of all the world, is nearest to you? Whom would you choose to
be with you always, if you could have only one?"
"Doctor Ralph!" cried Araminta, her eyes shining.
"I thought so," replied Thorpe. "I don't know that I blame you. Now
suppose Doctor Ralph did things that hurt you; that there was continual
misunderstanding and distrust. Suppose he wronged you, cruelly, and
apparently did everything he could to distress you and make you
miserable. Could you condemn him to a lake of fire?"
"Why, no!" she cried. "I'd know he never meant to do it!"
"Suppose you knew he meant it?" persisted Thorpe, looking at her keenly.
"Then," said Araminta, tenderly, "I'd feel very, very sorry."
"Exactly, and why? Because, as you say, you love him. And God is
love, Araminta. Do you understand?"
Upon the cramped and imprisoned soul of the child, the light slowly
dawned. "God is love," she repeated, "and nobody would burn people
they loved."
There was an illuminating silence, then Thorpe spoke again. He told
Araminta of a love so vast and deep that it could not be measured by
finite standards; of infinite pity and infinite pardon. This love was
everywhere; it was impossible to conceive of a place where it was
not--it enveloped not only the whole world, but all the shining worlds
beyond. And this love, in itself and of itself, was God.
"This," said Araminta, touching the book timidly; "is it bad?"
"Nothing is bad," explained Thorpe, carefully, "which does not harm you
or some one else. Of the two, it is better to harm yourself than
another. How does the book make you feel?"
"It makes me feel as if the world was a beautiful place, and as if I
ought to be better, so I could make it still more beautiful by living
in it."
"Then, Araminta, it is a good book."
Thorpe went down-stairs strangely uplifted. To him, Truth was not a
creed, but a light which illumined all creeds. His soul was aflame
with eagerness to help and comfort the whole world. Miss Evelina was
waiting in the hall, veiled and silent, as always.
She opened the door, but Thorpe lingered, striving vainly for the right
word. He could not find it, but he had to speak.
"Miss Evelina," he stammered, the high colour mounting to his temples,
"if there should ever be anything I can do for you, will you let me
know?"
She seemed to shrink back into her veil. "Yes," she said, at length,
"I will." Then, fearing she had been ungracious, she added: "Thank
you."
His mood of exaltation was still upon him, and he wandered long in the
woods before going home. His spirit dwelt in the high places, and from
the height he gained the broad view.
When he entered the house. Miss Mehitable was waiting for him with a
torrent of questions. When he had an opportunity to reply he reported
that he had seen Doctor Ralph and Araminta could come home almost any
time, now. Yes, he had talked with Araminta about her soul, and she
had cried. He thought he had done her good by going, and was greatly
indebted to Miss Mehitable for the suggestion.