Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: EVELYN AT THE WINDOW (page 3)]
THE WINEPRESS
BY
CHRISTINE REALS
THE BOOKERY PUBLISHING CO.
NEW YORK
Copyright, 1912,
by
CHRISTINE BEALS
TO MY LIFE-LONG FRIEND
J. S. C.
*CONTENTS*
CHAPTER
I. The Church
II. Margaret
III. Undercurrents
IV. Shadows at the Parsonage
V. Dr. Eldrige, Jr.
VI. Physician and Friend
VII. Mrs. Thorpe's Mountains
VIII. Stranded
IX. Eastertide
X. The Discernment of Truth
XI. A Summer's Vacation
XII. The Minister's Decline
XIII. The Pure in Heart
XIV. A Friend in Need
XV. Neither Do I Condemn Thee
XVI. Mrs. Thorpe's Work
XVII. Every Whit Whole
XVIII. The Heart's Desire
XIX. "Where is Your Faith?"
XX. The Revelation
XXI. The Law of Life
*LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS*
Evelyn at the Window . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
"He took her in his arms as though she were a little child"
"Why, permit me to ask, do you not turn some of your witchcraft on him?"
"Little Brother, Little Brother, let me tell you a story as I used to"
*THE WINEPRESS*
*CHAPTER I*
*THE CHURCH*
The church was conspicuously situated on an elevation which had a
dignity of its own; there was nothing steep nor abrupt about the
incline, its long, smooth slopes extended smoothly and symmetrically.
No fitter place could be found for a house of worship, and here those
worshipfully inclined had builded this structure of architectural beauty
with many embellishments, and dedicated it to their God. Here and there
the long slopes were ornamented by neat dwellings and prosperous looking
homes, while the town of Edgerly lay on the plain below. And the
church, crowning the work of God, seemed a thing removed from the busy
mart; a sentinel with a living, throbbing heart keeping watch, with eyes
that slumbered not nor slept.
Was not this temple builded there, stone upon stone, to stand before the
children of men, a living force to represent all that is best and most
worthy, an aid to truth and purity, the earthly home of the spirit of
the lowly One? And as its tireless eyes look upon the busy throng is it
not the mission of this church of God to extend a helping hand to the
fallen, to cheer the downcast and to bind up the broken-hearted? Are
any of earth's children beyond its love and power?
The parsonage to which the pastor took his bride had about it an air of
prosperity, a touch of exclusiveness that reflected creditably on this
church on the summit. The grounds were well kept, the grass was velvet
green, the flowers and shrubs and vines thrifty and vigorous in their
springtime beauty.
The Rev. Maurice Thorpe and his wife established themselves in this
modern, well-ordered home, and looked with fearless eyes into the
future. A future that was to be devoted to their fellowmen, dedicated
to the church of God.
The first love of the man's heart was given to his church; not even the
fair and gracious woman whom he had wooed and wed came before this; and
into its treasury he poured the first vigor and strength of his earnest
manhood. There had been a time when he had inclined toward celibacy for
the ministry. Although he had never doubted the aid and comfort the
right sort of a wife could be to a pastor, there was in his heart a
lurking horror of being yoked to a woman who was not in very truth, his
second self, flesh of his flesh, soul of his soul, mind of his mind.
But no misgivings came to him as he watched the girlish figure of his
wife at her varied duties, or as she pored over some volume in his
study, or her honest eyes met his across the table at meal time. His
sense of satisfaction grew from day to day, as he realized that his wife
that he had won was not only good to look upon, and a comfort in his
home, but that she was capable of becoming an aid and assistant to him
in his work.
Mrs. Thorpe found much to occupy her time and thoughts during these
first days in her new home. The house was in perfect order, and a
middle-aged woman was established in the kitchen; but her ideal of a
home was one where the mistress has every detail of the work well in
hand, and to this end she gave every branch of the work her personal
supervision. There was the arranging of the rooms to suit her taste,
and the placing of the articles that she had brought with her to her new
home; all the vivifying touches that convert a house into a home, and
mark it with the personality of its keeper.
On the side of the house facing the church a room had been fitted up for
Mrs. Thorpe's special use. Here in a curtained alcove she hung her
bookshelves and placed her books. There was a small library table, some
easy chairs, and a desk where she would write her letters. From the
window there was an excellent view of the church; there was the smooth
incline that led up to the stately edifice, and the wooded hills and
blue sky in the distance.
Mrs. Thorpe stood at her window at the close of one fair day, and drank
in the beauty of earth and sky. The sun was sinking behind the distant
hilltops, and it bathed the church in a mellow glow, and caused the
narrow taper windows to radiate halos of golden light. Mrs. Thorpe's
eyes lingered upon the scene until the light faded into shadow, then she
slipped into a chair near the window. Her mind had a trick of eluding
her vigilance at times, of slipping its leash when she least expected
it, and carrying her into strange, disquieting realms of thought.
Mysteries hung about her, and enveloped her as a mist-hung world
envelopes a wanderer who has lost his way. The mystery of life--her
life--what does it mean? For what purpose is it given? Happiness--what
is it? Contentment and peace with God--to whom are these vouchsafed?
Or by what virtues do mortals attain them? Is it not through service
that these things are attained? Active, honest, energetic service, this
was to be her magic wand, her Aaron's rod, by means of which she was to
feed her soul, keep alive the fountains of her love, and consecrate and
glorify her mortal life. And yet the vague, elusive mystery of it
all--the motives that actuated her--the ceaseless longing. She drew her
hand across her brow as though to change her mental vision, for well she
knew the futility of this line of thought.
The evening wind swayed the curtain at the window and wafted the perfume
from the garden to her. A bird trilled in a treetop near by, and a
blush-rose nodded just outside the window. She leaned back in her
cushioned chair and yielded to the quieting influences about her.
As a child she had been diffident and retiring, questioning much, but
silently. All things that came into her small world were carefully
weighed and analyzed. Her surroundings and the conditions of her
existence were sifted and searched in a manner that would have
astonished her elders had they known of it; and the conclusions that she
arrived at were final with her. She worked out problems of the gravest
importance, accepted her own solutions, and lived according to her own
convictions; which living was a sort of dream life. A favorite pastime
was a conceit of her childish brain to look upon the life that she was
living as a dream, an unreality, from which she eventually would awaken.
She reasoned in her small way with herself--always with herself alone,
she never mentioned her conceits and fancies to others--that when
troubled dreams came to her at night she could not know that she was
dreaming. How, then, she questioned, was she to know at any time
whether she was dreaming or awake?
Especially did she indulge in these fancies when things in her small
world were not to her liking.
"Never mind," she would comfort herself, "this is only a dream; bye and
bye I shall awaken, and then--ah, then!"
The gladness and ecstasy that awaited her were never clearly defined in
her mind, but that it would be satisfying and all-sufficient her child
mind never doubted.
Once when she was a small girl she was allowed to look upon the face of
a playmate who had died. It was the first time that the question of
death had confronted her; but she had been told that when good children
die they go to live with God in Heaven. She looked at the face of the
dead child, then, gently, without the least dread or fear, she laid her
warm little hand on the cold hand of her late playmate. She said no
word, and showed no agitation. The act was to ascertain whether the
child was truly robbed of life and action. This point settled, she
turned and walked away, and the firm conviction in her little heart was:
"If I had been God, I would not have done it."
She spoke no word in regard to the dead child to anyone, but while the
other children romped and played, and forgot the absent one, she was
quiet and silent, and she pondered the question for many days. Every
phase of it that her childish mind could grasp was weighed and
considered, and finally the verdict came. A God who loves little
children would not have taken her playmate away. There must be two
Gods, a good one and a bad one. Then her imagination lived for days in
a conflict between these two Gods. The conflict always ended in the
restoration of the dead child to his mother and playmates.
As she grew toward womanhood there was the usual joyousness and vivacity
of girlhood, but she was thoughtful and reticent, a dreamer still. When
she was wooed and won by the pastor, Maurice Thorpe, she was an educated
woman, gentle and thoughtful, but her real nature, and the traits in her
character that were to shape her life, were as the unturned pages of a
book.
Mr. Thorpe entered the room unnoticed and stood by his wife's side. He
thought she appeared very frail and girlish in her attitude of
abandonment.
"What does the future hold for her and for me?" he questioned. Would
the hidden fountains of her life unite with his and flow in an even
stream until Eternity should engulf them in her countless ages? He felt
no fear, no premonition of evil to come, yet his heart was strangely
stirred.
"My dear one," he whispered, "may truth, purity and peace be yours."
Yet in the years that came, this petition was granted in so different a
manner from any in which he had desired it to be, that had it been in
his power, he would not have hesitated to recall it.
Mrs. Thorpe, aroused by the intuition of her husband's presence, sat
upright in her chair, and, catching a glimpse of her face in a mirror on
the wall, she brushed the fluffy brown hair from her temples.
"I sank down here in this delightful easy chair," she said, "and its
seductive restfulness, together with the twitter of the birds, the
breath of the flowers, and the hum of insects conspired, I do believe,
to beguile me into the land of dreams."
"I am glad to see you resting," he said. "You have been finding a great
deal to keep you busy. I hope you are not overtaxing your strength."
"I am not tired," she said, but her face grew grave and the shadow of
her troubled thoughts lay in her eyes. "I am anxious to get household
affairs running smoothly, so that I may have leisure for other work."
And as though in answer to her restless questioning, rather than to her
spoken thought, he replied: "We shall find our happiness in our work and
our love." He laid his hand caressingly against her hair. "What a
wonderful thing it is," he said, "this service in the Vineyard, and what
a beautiful thing, Evelyn, that we two can live and love and work
together."
The twilight deepened as they sat together, silent mostly, yet conscious
of that understanding and sympathy that is dearer than words. The sweet
summer night closed in about them and enfolded them as a perfume-laden
garment; and the sea of life stretched before them, without a ripple
visible on its tranquil surface.
Later in the evening, as Mrs. Thorpe made her customary round of the
house before retiring, she found her serving woman still busy in the
kitchen.
"Not through with your work yet, Mary?" she said.
The woman was bustling about with flushed face and somewhat unsettled
manner.
"The work being new to me, comes a little awkward at first," she said.
"But I think I shall get it in hand before long."
Mrs. Thorpe suspected that the woman had been out during the afternoon,
or for some reason had neglected her work, else she would not be thus
belated. Before leaving the kitchen she said:
"I have been making some plans about the work, Mary; we will talk them
over in the morning."
Mary signified her willingness, but her face took on an even deeper
flush, and when her mistress had gone she sat down and covered her face
with her hands.
But it was only for a few moments, then she arose and resolutely
finished her work and went her way, carrying her own peculiar burdens.
Mrs. Thorpe, as she prepared for her night's repose, looked again toward
the church, now dimly outlined in the night, and the thought came to her
that something of the sacredness and power that pervaded it might
perhaps in some way reflect upon her life and sanctify it, and lead her
into green pastures, and beside still waters. She saw the church spire,
tall and spectral in the moonlight.
"It is like a guardian angel," she thought, "watching through the day
and through the night."
*CHAPTER II*
*MARGARET*
Mary McGowan, the serving woman, was a woman whose life was nearing its
meridian. Her form, somewhat stooped, spoke of a life of labor; her
hair, combed smoothly back from her face, was well sprinkled with gray.
When Mrs. Thorpe met her in the dining-room the next morning, there was
something in the woman's face that for a moment appealed to her. A
careworn face it was, not beautiful, but stamped unmistakably with an
expression of refinement. For a moment the mistress hesitated; should
she meet her cordially, gain her confidence and make a friend of her?
The girlish impulse lasted but a second, and Mrs. Thorpe had herself
well in hand again, and she covered what she believed to be her weakness
with a somewhat severer dignity than she had assumed before, and came at
once to business.
After arriving at a satisfactory understanding in regard to the work,
they came to the question of hours.
"You are to have one afternoon each week, and the service hour on
Sunday; the rest of your time I shall expect you to spend here," Mrs.
Thorpe announced.
A sudden flush spread over Mrs. McGowan's face. She did not reply, but
bowed her head in assent, and Mrs. Thorpe, satisfied with the interview,
went at once to other duties.
In the kitchen a grim-faced woman went steadily about her work; but
there was something in her countenance that made one believe the world
not always kind to the children of men.
"Yet, after all," she thought, "what does it matter, if only Margaret
gets through the school." And at the thought of her girl, her bonny
Margaret, her heart grew warm within her.
The days passed by, and Mrs. Thorpe adhered with rigid precision to the
rules and regulations she had established in her home, and devoted her
leisure time in a systematic manner to the various societies and
organizations conducted by the church.
Returning home one afternoon earlier than she had expected, she went to
the kitchen on some small errand and found that Mary was not in. She
waited for her return, and confronted her with unruffled mien.
"What excuse have you to offer for your absence this afternoon?" she
asked.
"I have no excuse to offer."
"And is this the manner in which you keep your agreement?"
"Mrs. Thorpe, it is necessary for me to be away from the house at times,
but I shall not fail in my duties here."
"You say that it is necessary for you to be away, yet you understood my
terms and accepted them. Mary, this must not happen again."
"Then I must leave your employ, Mrs. Thorpe."
"Very well," replied the mistress, a red spot burning on either cheek;
"I shall find someone else as soon as possible."
After supper Mrs. McGowan again left the parsonage and hurried along the
street until she came to a small house a few blocks away.
"Why, mother mine, home so soon?" said a tall, dark-faced girl, as the
mother entered the room. "What is it, mother? You look tired and worn.
Is the work too hard for you?" The girl drew a stool to her mother's
side and took a worn hand in hers. "I feel so badly to have you working
so hard for me, mother, but when I finish school, oh, you shall be a
lady then, mother! I shall take care of you and Jamie then."
The mother laid her tired head back against the chair and waited long
before she replied. She felt faint and sick at heart. She had seen
much in life that was hard to bear; widowhood and poverty had been hers
for many years. Her only boy was a helpless cripple. Her one joy in
life was Margaret, her blithesome girl. Her one great aim had been to
keep her in school until she should obtain sufficient education to place
her independently among the world's workers.
When she took her place at the parsonage, it was with the expectation
that Mr. Thorpe, who knew her circumstances and seemed interested in her
family, would be willing for her to spend what time she could spare from
her duties in her own home. But now she saw that this could not be, and
there was nothing left but for Margaret to go into the factory. It was
a bitter blow, but deeper and keener than her own pain, she felt what it
would mean to the girl. Margaret, with her willful, passionate nature,
had not learned to be patient, nor to bow to the inevitable, as she, the
mother, had learned to do.
"What is it, mother?" persisted the girl. "What troubles you?"
"Lassie, I cannot work for Mrs. Thorpe any longer."
Margaret sprang to her feet and stood like a young deer, with head erect
and dilated nostrils.
"Mother, what has happened? Tell me what has happened."
"It is nothing, lass, nothing at all, only Mrs. Thorpe must have someone
who can spend all her time at the parsonage. She does not know how
often I have been away, nor that I have spent the nights here with you
and Jamie. She was displeased to-day when she found me gone."
Disappointment keen and sharp, anger wild and unreasoning, met in the
girl's heart. Passionate, turbulent Margaret!
"Come, lassie, don't take it so hard; we can find some other way after a
time, perhaps."
"Yes, mother, you can go to the pastor again with your trouble. You
believed him to be so good a man. _Good!_--how I hate, _hate_ and detest
good people! They talk of helping the poor and needy--we have been
poor, mother, poor and in need ever since I can remember--many times we
have been hungry, and Jamie has never had the help that he should have
had--else he might now be strong as other boys; and what have these good
people of the church done for us? This man, your pious pastor, came
here and offered you this place, and now his wife, the detestable
hypocrite, has turned you off. Good people! Oh, I wish some great wave
would sweep them from the face of the earth!"
"Margaret, Margaret, girl, this is terrible; you must not, Margaret!"
"Yes, mother, it is terrible; terrible for me to say what I think, but
you know it is true. Those people have been good to your face; they
have talked and sympathized, but what has anyone of them done for us?
Not one of them would lift a finger or go one step out of his way to
help us."
The girl's face was transformed with passion, and there was a glitter in
her eyes that even the mother had never seen before.
"There is Amy Mayhew, the deacon's daughter," the girl continued, "who
spends more for ribbons and rings and bracelets than my whole wardrobe
costs. To-day at school she was showing a new ring; it cost only ten
dollars, and while she was saying it her eyes were on my ragged
shoes--oh, mother!" With a flood of tears the girl buried her face in
her mother's lap. Poor Margaret, she had not yet learned to look with
unthinking, unheeding vision on the wrongs of humanity, her own
included. Little more than a child, she had looked at life with a
child's vision, and wrong, to her, had been wrong, and right was right.
The distribution of property that gives one person more than enough and
another less than sufficient, can never seem just to a mind unbiased by
worldly wisdom. And when once the exact balance between right and wrong
is disturbed, the equilibrium lost, a sort of moral chaos is likely to
disturb all questions of righteousness and honor.
The mother laid her hand on the girl's crown of dark hair. She could
not know--mercifully could not know--of the transformation taking place
in the heart of her child. She well knew that many temptations lay in
the girl's pathway; and Margaret had not always been tractable and
easily controlled. Exuberant of spirit and naturally willful, a sort of
restlessness seemed to possess her. But the mother believed that a few
years more would tide her child over this trying time, and her one great
desire was to get her away from the town, and engaged in some active,
responsible work. And while the failure of her plans had bitterly
disappointed the daughter, it had all but broken the mother's heart.
Had no thoughts come to Margaret other than those of the disappointment
and uncongenial toil, she might still have retained her crown of
womanhood unsullied--but alas, and alas! Beside the factory and the
honest toil that her willful heart rebelled against, there arose in her
mind forms and phantoms of many shapes and colors, tempting, taunting,
alluring; and when her untutored mind endeavored to grasp their
significance, they evaded her, and with seductive wiles eluded her.
Poor girl! tempted by the sparkle of the foam on the cup. And while her
heart was sore she sipped the first draught of the poison wine; and
later she found, as all who taste must find, that the dregs were more
bitter than anything that unsullied girlhood can conceive.
The next morning Mrs. McGowan was not able to leave her bed. A
sleepless night, and the care and perplexities that multiplied ahead of
her, left her nervous and exhausted. At her earnest request Margaret
went to the parsonage and prepared the morning meal.
"Good morning, Margaret, I am glad to see you," said Mr. Thorpe,
pleasantly. "I am sorry your mother is ill."
Mrs. Thorpe thought the girl's dark face very sullen and unattractive,
and she wondered how even her husband could be kind and patient with
people who seemed to care so little for his interest in them.
After Margaret had served the meal, and had left the room, Mr. Thorpe
asked his wife what she knew about Mary's illness.
"Mary gave me warning yesterday that she must leave my service, but made
no mention of feeling indisposed," Mrs. Thorpe replied. "She gave me to
understand that she could not give me all her time. I was not aware that
she has a family."
"Then you do not know about the little cripple boy?"
"No; Mary has never mentioned any member of her family to me."
"I feel a special interest in this woman and her children, and I
believed that after you learned her circumstances you could arrange to
give her certain hours away from the house."
"But you never mentioned her circumstances to me, Maurice."
"No; I have thought several times of inquiring about her, but I have
been very busy. I hope we may be able to find someone to take Mary's
place soon, and perhaps after a time she will be able to come back."
"Perhaps the girl will remain. If I find her satisfactory, it will save
me further trouble."
"Margaret is in the high school and ought not to miss a single day. You
had better try to find someone else, and in the meantime it will be well
to look in and see if there is anything the family needs."
"I will do so. I regret that I did not know about the family. And this
girl is in the high school here?"
"Yes; one year after this one takes her through. Mrs. McGowan has great
hopes for the future. A relative some place in the country has promised
to secure Margaret a position as a teacher when she finishes the school
here. For years Mary supported herself and her family by taking in
sewing, but her eyesight began to fail, and she decided to try a change
of work; so I offered her the position here. And Jamie, the cripple,
consented to stay alone while Margaret was at school. I wish there was
someone to take Margaret's place to-day."
An impulse came to Mrs. Thorpe to do the work herself that day and let
Margaret go, but she remembered that she was a member of a church
committee that was to meet that afternoon to transact some business for
the church, and she felt that it would be hardly right for her to fail
to meet with them.
So during the day Margaret swept and dusted and cooked and served, and
no one knew of the disastrous thoughts that surged through her heart and
brain.
Mrs. Thorpe called at the little house where Mary lived, but she found
her reticent and little inclined to talk of family affairs.
"Margaret will go into the factory," she said. "There is no other way at
present."
When Mrs. Thorpe told her husband of this he was surprised at the
mother's decision; she had seemed so anxious about the school. But he
thought that after all Margaret might have given up the school of her
own accord. Perhaps he had overestimated the girl; some way she had not
seemed so bright and winsome that day as he had believed her to be.
It happened a few days later that Mr. Thorpe was called to see a poor
parishioner who lived on the outskirts of the town. In order to reach
this house he was obliged to pass through a neighborhood commonly known
as the Flat. This was a disreputable district on the other side of the
hill from Edgerly. When the town was in its infancy this Flat district
was bought by a man named Bolton, who tried to throw the balance of
power and interest on this side of the hill. To this end he erected a
number of houses for tenants, built a saloon and hired the right sort of
a man to run it. He also built a theatre. The Bolton stamp never left
the Flat, and in time it came to be peopled by the lowest of the poor
class. The saloon still did a flourishing business, and the theatre,
known as the Flat theatre, answered for such plays and entertainments as
more cultured and Christian Edgerly would not tolerate.
As Mr. Thorpe was returning from his call he saw a man and woman
standing in the shadow of the theatre. The moon was full, and by its
light he recognized the woman as Margaret. The man's face was turned
from him, and he could not so readily make out his identity. But he
knew it boded no good to Margaret to be there at that hour. He stopped,
hesitated a moment, and caught the sound of voices. The girl spoke
rapidly, and he thought she seemed in an ill-conditioned mood. The
man's voice was more even and conciliatory. He drew the girl's arm
through his and together they entered the theatre. The light from a
lamp at the door fell upon them as they entered, and Mr. Thorpe
recognized the man.
"Max! Max Morrison!" he exclaimed under his breath. He went on his
way, thoughtful and troubled.
It must be true that he had overestimated Margaret, but he would speak
to his wife, and see if her woman's tact could not devise some way to
save the girl from the evil that threatened her.
*CHAPTER III*
*UNDERCURRENTS*
The seasons passed as seasons have a way of passing. The spring gave
place to effulgent, luxurious summer; the summer slipped into autumn,
and winter followed on, with bluster and storm. It was spring again at
the parsonage. There was the song of birds, the hum of insects, and the
rare perfume wafted from the garden.
One sweet spring evening Mrs. Thorpe stood again at her open window. A
hush seemed to have fallen over the earth, and the silent moon and stars
looked benignly down. A rush of emotion, restful, worshipful, swept
over her. If only she might escape the stress and turmoil of life, and
become a part of the quiet and calm that belong to nature!
The year had been one of honest effort, faithful, loyal service. Twice
every Sabbath, morning and evening, Mr. Thorpe had stood in the pulpit
and expounded the truths of the Gospel as they had been revealed to him.
Mrs. Thorpe, capable and willing, had been drawn into church, charitable
and benevolent work, until her hands were full of work, and her life
full of care; and her thoughts were vastly more troubled than they had
ever been before. She realized that where once her thoughts had been
vague, half-formed, that now, full-fledged and forceful, they were
overmastering her. The mysteries that had once hung about her, dim and
misty, now arose like walls of blackness, forbidding and awe-inspiring;
and the things that she had once gazed upon with curious eyes now
shocked and terrified her.
When she started in her life's work, her ideas of religion and the
truths of life were but dream-like, shadowy conceptions; reflections, as
it were, from the theories and dogmas of her elders and so-called
spiritual leaders. There are many people who never get beyond these
reflections, these traditions of religion, these second-hand
conceptions. To some natures they are satisfying; they ease the mind,
point a way to safety for the future, and afford a solace in time of
trouble.
Mrs. Thorpe, however, was one who was destined to abide but a very short
time in the consolation afforded by this kind of religion. Yet, when
she attempted to step out from the creeds that cramped and dwarfed her
soul, to thrust from her theories and premises that depressed and
antagonized her, she found no other ground on which to place her feet,
and felt herself naked and alone, without a garment of righteousness
with which to clothe herself, and without compass or guiding star. She
doubted, and in agony condemned herself for her doubts; later she
rebelled, yet with her own hand she would have torn her rebellious heart
from her bosom, had it been in her power to do so, and cast it from her
as an unclean thing, an enemy to her peace, a treachery to her soul. She
believed it treason to allow her mind to wander into fields of religious
research other than those that had been carefully explored and marked as
safe; and to her consciousness she pleaded guilty of the charge.
Before her, life stretched barren and desolate, and not even in her
dreams could she find a light to guide her feet. She longed for peace,
and believed the fault all hers that she had not found it; she lacked
wisdom, and believed the power to attain it had been denied her.
And as she stood alone in the sweet spring night, her thoughts and
emotions became complex, conflicting and tumultuous. Strange, alien
thoughts flashed before her vision, and, like things alive, seemed to
glow and quiver in the darkness. She covered her face with her hands.
"God has hidden His face from me," she whispered, "I have never known
Him."
Now before her in a fleeting vision she saw her Savior, but it was not
the man Jesus as she had thought of him, with his crown of thorns and
his nail-pierced hands beckoning to her, asking for her adoration and
worship; but in this vision he came as a friend and teacher, one who has
solved and proven all of life's problems, and stood ready to help her
with all that troubled and perplexed her. He offered her not redemption
through his death, but life through the understanding of God's love.
But so foreign was this vision of a Christ, to her orthodox conception
of Him, that for a moment she was overwhelmed by it; then instantly she
felt her strange thoughts to be intruders, vagaries of her brain, and
her first impulse was to refuse them audience, to resist and destroy
them. She had no intention of countenancing for a moment a thought that
cast any shade of disapprobation on the work in which she and her
husband were united, or which differed in any manner from the way in
which they were working.
She turned and walked back and forth through the room. "This unrest
always attacks me when I am tired and undone," she thought. "These
troublesome thoughts will leave me when I am rested and myself again."
She went back to the window and breathed deep of the sweet night air.
Something deeper than her consciousness, more potent than her faith,
greater than her understanding, was striving for recognition within her.
The heart of all things, the force and strength of the universe, the
science of Life itself was unfolding before her; but she steeled her
heart against it. Her mind had not yet burst its chrysalis; she was
still a child of earth.
When Mrs. Thorpe found herself beset by the strife and unrest of her
inner life, she turned instinctively to a strong, true friend that she
had found. This was a Mrs. Mayhew, the wife of one of the deacons of
the church. She was a woman older than Mrs. Thorpe and possessed of
rare tact, and the sympathy that soothes and comforts without conscious
effort.
This woman's life was a busy one; heart and hands were full. She had
wealth at her disposal, and social duties made their demands upon her;
church work appealed to her, and her family of children knew her as
their counselor and best friend. If there were past chapters in this
woman's life that caused her to be especially tender and sympathetic
toward the young wife of her pastor, and yet gave her the wisdom to know
that the trouble lay too deep for mortal hand to touch, she made no sign
and spoke no word, but in the silence her heart spoke to the troubled
heart of her friend. And Mrs. Thorpe never named her trouble, or by the
slightest word disclosed the doubts that came to her. Whatever help she
received she imbibed from her friend's personality and gleaned from her
quiet, well-balanced life.
Unable to rid herself of her troubled thoughts, the next day Mrs. Thorpe
dropped in upon this friend. And during the call she discussed the
church choir with Mrs. Mayhew's niece, Geraldine, who was the church
organist.
"I think we should have some new music," Mrs. Thorpe said. "Since Max
Morrison has consented to sing in the choir, with his strong tenor voice
we can undertake some things which we could not before. I am glad that
Max has promised to help us. So much depends on the choir. People will
go where they can hear good music."
Geraldine made some suggestions regarding the new music, and Mrs. Mayhew
readily agreed with Mrs. Thorpe that the choir has much to do with the
success of the modern church.
At the service the next Sunday morning Mr. Thorpe gave a strong,
scholarly address. But it was not the sermon, neither was it the strong
tenor, nor the new music that caught Mrs. Thorpe's attention. She was
coming to regard the service hour on Sunday as the hardest time of the
week. For strive, struggle and pray as she would, she could not always
bring herself into a proper frame of mind; could not keep the spirit of
worship.
Sometimes a thought from her husband's sermon would flash out before
her, confront her and torment her. At this stage of her life the
thought, "I do not believe," never confronted her boldly and openly; but
always there was the subtle insinuation, "Do you believe?" Sometimes
her soul's agony was caused by the attitude of the people, lavishly
dressed, ostentatiously worshipful. Then instead of worship in her own
heart she would be possessed by scathing scorn. But this morning it was
the songs that caused her undoing. Her husband took his place in the
pulpit and the choir sang the opening hymn; and a line, a thought from
the song attacked Mrs. Thorpe:
"Lord Jesus, look down from thy throne in the skies,
And help me to make a complete sacrifice."
Mrs. Thorpe felt herself without rudder or sail, her bark at the mercy
of a stormy sea. Her mind was chaotic:
"The Lord Jesus Christ then was sitting comfortably, contentedly upon
His throne in the skies! What wonder that His people are straying in
many forbidden paths? What wonder that they are wandering, scattered
and lost? Are they not as sheep without a shepherd? If He is the
Savior of men, why is He not among His people--oh, his people who so
sorely need Him?"
The thought brought the tears to her eyes; but the next thought choked
them abruptly:
"If He had taken Himself to His shining throne in Heaven, what right had
she or this concourse of people to conjure Him to come down?"
Instead of the submissive attitude of one desiring to make a "complete
sacrifice," a wild, unreasoning rebellion arose within her; but a
stoical calm covered every emotion. But she was not yet to be let off
the rack; the worst was to follow. The sermon was devoted to the work
and needs of missions, and the pastor made a strong appeal for funds
with which to carry on the Master's work. After the sermon the first
lines of song rang out with a pleasing melody:
"I have read of a beautiful City,
Far away in the Kingdom of God:
I have read how its walls are of jasper,
How its streets are all golden and broad."
Mrs. Thorpe's sense of humor, which sometimes leaped suddenly into life
and overmastered all her troubled thoughts and melancholy broodings, now
came near finishing the tragedy of the service hour. Those "Streets all
golden and broad--" If it was gold the world needed--and her husband
had told them so emphatically that it was--why just a section of the
street up there--only think what could be accomplished with a
block--"all golden!"
But perhaps her humor was not of a healthy sort this morning; for her
heart was cold as ice, and she feared that she might shriek aloud in
fiendish glee.
During the weeks that followed she found her work difficult to perform;
all her tasks were irksome. But with a desperate courage, and a
resolution born of her will, she held herself to the minutest details of
every task that came to her. As the weeks slipped by a peculiar
strained look grew upon her face. Her husband noticed that the bloom
was fading from her cheeks and an unattractive pallor taking its place,
and the thought came to him that perhaps his wife was burdened with too
many cares.
"Are you not so well as usual, Evelyn?" he asked her one day.
A nervous flush covered, for the time, the tired look on her face.
"Not so well, perhaps, just of late," she replied. She raised her eyes
to his, and he noticed a strange expression in their depths.
But with a sort of supreme despair she clung to her work, and devoted
herself to her various duties. Yet she found herself little by little
obliged to give up much that she had undertaken, for there were days
when pain and physical weakness overcame her.
One evening after his usual hour of study, Mr. Thorpe laid aside his
books and went in search of his wife. She was indisposed and had kept
her room during the day. He found her noiselessly walking back and
forth through the room, with her hands pressed close against her
temples. She wore a loose gown, which fell in long folds about her, and
revealed her tall and ghost-like in the dim light. Mr. Thorpe stood for
a moment and regarded her in silence. Her face was haggard, and her
eyes were set in dark circles. Her movements were slow and mechanical,
as though her body was a thing apart from the spirit which impelled it.
Her whole attitude and appearance suggested the embodiment of an
overmastering pain.
Mr. Thorpe stepped to her side. "Evelyn, my dear," he said, "you are in
great pain. Why did you not call me? You should have help; direct me
and I will bring you some remedy."
"I have tried many remedies," she said. "I do not believe anything will
relieve me. A headache has to have its own time."
She assured her husband that there was nothing that he could do to
relieve her, and begged him to retire and leave her alone.
In the small hours of the night she crept to her bed, pale and worn,
like some wounded thing that has been engaged in deadly combat with a
foe. The pain had burned itself out, and the sleep of exhaustion came
to her.
The severity of his wife's attacks alarmed Mr. Thorpe, and he begged her
to lay down still more of the burden of her work. But she was not ready
to do this, and continued her self-appointed tasks with all the strength
at her command. Yet there was something in look and manner, something
indescribable, unlike her real self, that caused Mr. Thorpe a vague
feeling of apprehension for the future.
It was at this time that Mr. Thorpe's cousin, Pauline, came to make her
home at the parsonage. She was a middle-aged woman, strong and vigorous
and possessed of a goodly share of common sense and plain practicality.
Having missed making a home for herself, she very sensibly made herself
at home wherever she was.
"I love the Lord with all my heart," she was wont to say, "and I can
work for him quite as well in one place as in another."
There was something in her strong and wholesome personality that caused
one to trust her instinctively. And gradually, as Mrs. Thorpe was
obliged to lay them down, she assumed the household cares; and
cheerfully from day to day she took upon herself the burden of the work,
and managed the girl in the kitchen with more tact and discretion than
Mrs. Thorpe had ever been able to command.
"I do not believe that life holds any problems for Pauline," was Mrs.
Thorpe's mental comment, "or that she has any doubts or fears with which
to contend."
Now Mr. Thorpe pleaded with his wife and tried to induce her to lay
aside all her cares in order that she might regain her health. But she
insisted that she was not ill, and that she should not fail in her work;
and she devoted herself with renewed zeal to her outside duties. Yet
the days came closer together when she was obliged to keep her room, and
not infrequently her bed for the day.
At such times Mr. Thorpe had fallen into the way of summoning the family
physician, Dr. Eldrige.
The old doctor would shake his head and declare it to be a case of
"nerves." And one day when Mrs. Thorpe's suffering was unusually
severe, he said to Mr. Thorpe in his characteristically blunt, brusque
manner:
"If you wish to keep that wife of yours out of the grave or the lunatic
asylum, you will have to put a stop to this eternal gad and go she
persists in."
Mr. Thorpe's face paled.
"I have tried to induce my wife to give up her work," he said, "but she
clings to it persistently."
"Well, she will not cling to anything in this world much longer unless
she changes her course," was his gruff rejoinder. He saw the pain in
Mr. Thorpe's face, and noted the look of fear that leaped into his eyes;
but it did not affect him. Other people's troubles never caused him a
moment's concern. He often assured himself that a man who ministered to
the ills of the human family needed a level head and a good hard heart
to go with it.
Pauline, who overheard the conversation, made no mention of it to Mrs.
Thorpe, but said:
"I cannot understand how Dr. Eldrige holds his popularity. He seems a
rough, unfeeling man."
"He has the reputation of being the best physician in town," Mrs. Thorpe
replied. "I always feel that I dare not be ill any longer after I have
faced him. I have heard, too, that he treats his patients most
skillfully when he is partially under the influence of liquor."
"I do not see how you and Maurice dare trust him, Evelyn. The human
organism at the mercy of a half-drunken man! This, to me, seems like a
terrible thing."
"You lose sight of the main facts, Pauline, and cavil at minor things.
We of the human family must have a physician; with our sensitive bodies,
our nerves so finely adjusted to feel the slightest discord, and to
sting and quiver with pain, we must have a physician. Providence sends
our ills, and it takes a skillful physician to correct them, and so if
only he be skillful, there is nothing else that counts."
This was not the first time that Pauline had detected a strain of covert
bitterness in Mrs. Thorpe's speech, and the tone in which she spoke more
than the words alone troubled her now. In her philosophy all that which
she could not understand was "Providence," and to yield to the iron Hand
of it was the whole duty of a Christian. Yet there was a tone of
pleading, rather than anything dictatorial, in her voice as she replied:
"We can trust the hand of Providence, Evelyn, whatever of pain and
sickness comes to us."
There was a slight uneasiness in Mrs. Thorpe's manner and her breath
fluttered in her throat:
"It is hard to be quiet under the rod, sometimes, Pauline."
"God knows what is best for us, dear. You do not believe that one
moment's pain or suffering comes to you without His knowledge and
consent."
At just this time Mrs. Thorpe's mental condition was such that every
word of Pauline's was to her soul as red hot steel to the quivering
flesh. Her breath fluttered and caught; there was a haze before her
eyes. She felt herself possessed of two distinct personalities. She
heard her answer to Pauline:
"Yes, I try to trust Him." But the second personality, forceful,
insistent--what wildness, what frenzy was this?
"There is no God! There is no power in Heaven above, nor in Hell below,
nor on this earth, that has a right to create a man and then by slow
degrees to torture him to death! To rot the flesh from living bones, to
crush and pollute and deform! It is not true! If this is God--cursed
be God! If this is the Christ--"
With a strong effort, a quick, nervous movement, she recovered herself.
She felt a wild impulse to fly from the room, from the house, but most
of all from herself.
Pauline was by her side, with her cool hand on her forehead.
"What is it, Evelyn?" she asked. "Are you ill?"
"Only a spell of giddiness, I think, and my head feels badly. I will go
to my room and lie down for a time."
*CHAPTER IV*
*SHADOWS AT THE PARSONAGE*
Mr. Thorpe was called to his old home by the death of his brother. This
brother had gone to California the year before for his health, had died
there and was brought home for burial.
During their school days and college life, spent together, the boys had
been very near to each other. There was a bond between them other than
the bond of blood. A similarity of tastes and ambitions had brought
about a congeniality and comradeship such as many times fails to develop
between the offspring of the same parents. Both men had studied for the
ministry and entered into the work at about the same time. But when
George, the elder, was in the prime of his manhood a fatal malady had
fixed itself upon him; a malady inherited, it was said, from his mother,
who had laid down her burdens in the prime of her womanhood.
It was now nearly two years since Maurice Thorpe with his bride had left
the home of his youth. It was a sad return. Among familiar scenes, old
memories, well remembered faces, he bowed his head in grief and sorrow,
and saw the clods close in upon the narrow earth-bed of this loved one,
this gentle man of God, whose life had been dedicated to humanity.
Something valued, something prized and loved was gone from life.
Whatever the years might hold hereafter, this dear one was gone; his God
had taken him. But there were no doubts or sacrilegious questionings in
Mr. Thorpe's mind. His God was his sovereign, supreme of will,
infallible in justice. Nor did the thought ever penetrate the well-kept
fabric of his belief that there could be aught of ignorance in his
conception of God; or that the Infinite in its length and breadth and
depths was not wholly within the compass of his vision.
When he returned home, the marks of his grief were upon him, and Pauline
believed that she detected a change in his health. His somewhat slender
figure seemed more spare, his shoulders a trifle more stooped, and his
chest contracted. Alarming symptoms, these. She had seen the first
approach of the malady in his brother's case, and she could not mistake
its advances. She took it upon herself to see that Maurice took proper
care of himself. He was not allowed to sit in a draught, nor to go out
unless properly protected from damp and cold. At the slightest alarm, a
cough or failing appetite, she was ready with remedies and decoctions
calculated to guard against and ward off all forms of the dread disease
that was always pictured in her mind.
And now a great fear that had long lain dormant in Mrs. Thorpe's heart
sprang into life. What reason had she to believe that her husband would
be spared this fatality, this mysterious thing that had transmitted
itself from one generation to another, and was free to lay its hand on
its victims as it chose; sparing where its fickle fancy dictated, or
clutching its death fingers into the heart, and refusing to relax its
hold until the lifeless body lay before it, if so its ghoulish will
desired? And no man could say it nay! Brooking no restraint, gaunt,
mocking, stalking abroad at noonday, in the land which the Lord God had
created!
The hot restlessness of heart which never wholly left her now flamed up
and burned, and caused her to writhe as one in mortal pain. Questions
of the gravest importance fraught with meanings she could not measure
nor weigh confronted her wherever she turned. And the depth of her
ignorance--humanity's ignorance--concerning the most vital things of
life, seemed to her deplorable and reprehensible.