always fond of reading, she now read incessantly and without
discrimination whatever work she could find bearing on that one great
problem, Life, and that other all-absorbing question, Religion. And over
and over, and again and again, she pondered the meaning of it all. What
does it mean--this life of man, with all of its pleasures and pain, its
stress and strife, its joy and sorrow, its good and evil--for what is it
given? She had been taught to believe that it is a preparatory state, a
test or trial to ascertain how many are deserving of eternal bliss
hereafter. And although she struggled against it and refused to look
upon it, a picture persisted in painting itself upon her mental vision.
This was the picture of a father who placed his children, the weak and
the strong together, in an open field, and compelled them to till the
soil and to dig and delve in the ground. And at times he sent
punishment upon them, torment and torture and physical pain; while they,
the children, toiled on in blind and stupid ignorance, never knowing
what it was that had caused the father's wrath to descend upon them.
And the father sat calmly at a safe distance and stoically observed
their conduct. At the end of a certain period he intended to reward
those who had been very good and patient, and very submissive to his
will, with a beautiful home, while the others, those who had rebelled or
complained, or fallen by the wayside, he would drive into another field
and inflict punishment yet more dire upon them.
She never fully consented to look upon this picture, and she tried
always to blot it from her vision, to erase and destroy it, and yet as
often as she tried to do this she was horrified to find that by some
strange machination of her mind she was condemning, repudiating the
whole of creation, the scheme of the universe.
Her purpose in life was too honest, too sincere, her desires too pure to
admit of her taking any halfway ground on these questions that confused
and perplexed her. Her reading and research led her into many strange
and unfrequented byways--hazardous, she thought them sometimes, black
with peril--destruction, perhaps. And yet she had come to the place
where she must know--she for herself must know the truth. And while with
a trembling hand she shattered her old beliefs--graven images of
doctrine--she found nothing to take their place. The sincerity of her
life was crowding her off her old footing--but where? Over a precipice?
She felt it to be so, and then--what then? There were days when her mind
refused to act, when her mental faculties were in a state of paralysis.
Sometimes she fell into the old trick of her childhood, day dreaming.
At the close of one painful, troubled day she sat before her open fire,
her head against a pillow at the back of her chair. Her eyes were upon
the fire at her feet. The flames leaped fitfully from time to time, and
again fluttered among the embers. Slowly the gulf of the centuries was
bridged and she witnessed the creation of the first man--no great task
it appeared, for the dust of the earth furnished sufficient material. In
our human wisdom, finite though it is, we do not permit our children to
use edged tools--her eyes were on the red embers at her feet, and she
saw, glowing there, the thing which infinite wisdom gave to man; that
which was at once his glory and his undoing, a two-edged sword, deadly
keen--good and evil. It developed that this keen edged sword was hardly
the thing with which to prune and keep in order the luxurious garden set
apart for man on one corner of the footstool.
The unselfishness of Woman dates back to the Garden. No sooner had Eve
broken open the luscious apple and tasted its flavor than she offered to
divide it. And it was not within the nature of man to refuse so dainty a
morsel from a fair hand.
Then man began to wander over the face of the earth, footsore and
sinstained, and in due course of time came the great Sacrifice--the
spilling of blood--the Golgotha.
The smouldering fire shot into tiny tongues of flame and licked the
stones on the hearth--and yet what has the great Sacrifice accomplished?
Wherein is the efficacy? Hoping, fearing, faithless--ignorant,
suffering, despairing--this is Life. Men and women parade before us and
flaunt to the world that they are saved--saved from what? Or for what?
The shame and moral degradation, the pain and the anguish date back to
the Garden. Christ came to check it, but wherein are we better? The
poison is in our blood and the canker in our hearts; the flesh rots from
the bones and the soul reeks in iniquity; the senses long for the
fleshpots of Egypt, and with one accord we gather about the board, at
the feast of Belshazzer!
The flames died down, and the embers burned with a dull glow. Now a
hush fell over the room and the stillness of the place folded itself
about the woman motionless in her chair. The minutes slipped by and
time flowed on without a break or ripple to mark its passing. The great
calm stillness! Not only did it fill the room and lay like a garment
about the dreamer, it filled her heart and entered her soul, and as a
mother broods over her child and stills its restless wailing, it brooded
over her and stilled all her tumultuous, unholy pain, and the spell of
her turbulent, unwarrantable dream held her no longer.
Now the dull red coals turned to ashes and lay crumbling in the grate.
And into the waiting stillness, into the majesty of the silence there
breathed something divine. It radiated in the soft white light and
filled the room with its presence; and in sweet devotion before it knelt
Humility and Meekness and Loving-kindness; and all power was in its
hands of shining light, and all wisdom was in its star-pierced crown,
and all truth in the stillness of its utterance. Into the soft white
stillness, into the holy of holies, breathed this rarest gift of
God--Love. The mystic glory of it hung about the dreamer, and quivered
in the air, and throbbed and pulsed through the universe, and all things
fell into place and became part of the endless plan of the Creator.
Every unholy thought and every vagary of false belief fell away. The
iniquity of the ages, and all the crime and passion and suffering of men
became a cloud of vapor, like the misty foam on the ocean waves; but
beneath the foam-flecked waves lies the mighty volume of the sea, and
above them the limitless reach of the heavens. Now the mortal dream of
the Dust man and his short-lived Eden and subsequent suffering receded
into a shadowy delusion, and the reality of Life, and the substance of
eternal things unfolded and encompassed all creation.
Mrs. Thorpe stirred in her chair and felt the yielding of its cushioned
depths and the pressure of the pillow at her head. She heard the door
open and Pauline come into the room. She sat erect in her chair and
drew her hand across her forehead.
"Have you been asleep, dear?" Pauline asked.
"Perhaps, asleep and dreaming--it was a dream--yes, a dream, it was all
a dream." She brushed the hair from her temples, and again: "Was it all
a dream?"
*CHAPTER V*
*DR. ELDRIGE JR.*
Dr. Eldrige Jr. was a very different man from Dr. Eldrige his father.
What the elder man lacked in courtesy and kindness was abundantly
present in the son. He had studied under his father, practiced and
consulted with him; yet in the finer issues of life, its amenities and
its culture, their lives might be likened to the branches of a stream:
one followed a gorge of clay between banks of rocks and barren soil; the
other flowed quietly between green banks, over white sand and shining
pebbles.
The elder man had been known to remark that the rub and wear of life,
actual life as he had seen it, would change the color of his son's
views. If any man could practice medicine as many years as he had
practiced it, and not pronounce the whole human race a disgusting sham
and a blasted humbug, he pitied that man, for there must be considerable
of the fool in his make-up.
The son, however, was well content to go his way, seeing life as it
appeared to him, and doing what lay in his power to make rough places
smooth and ease the sufferings of humanity. He never undertook to
modify his father's views, and on all occasions when it was possible for
him to do so, he evaded crossing swords with him.
It was late one night when Dr. Eldrige Jr. left a poor home where he had
been attending a patient. A wretched, ill-kept home it was, whose
inmates seemed a thing apart from the divine creation. He stepped out
into the night, bared his head and breathed deep of the fresh, sweet
air. Above him was the tent of night, jeweled with stars, and at his
feet the dew-wet grass, the dwelling place of tiny dumb creatures that
cling to the earth's damp mold, and before him, like a blemish on
Nature's canvas, the home built and fashioned and kept by man.
He was a reverent man, with no inclination to shift the responsibility
of humanity's ignominious burden back upon the Maker. He had no
solution to offer for the problem of human sin and woe, and he did not
undertake to place the iniquity of existing conditions. His mission was
to minister to those who needed his service, and this he did whether he
found his patient in a palace or in a hovel.
Leaving the poor home where the sufferer lay, he came to the one
pretentious street of the Flat. There had been some sort of a
performance at the theatre, and the people were pouring out of the door.
He was hurrying by, anxious to avoid the crowd, when his attention was
attracted to a man and woman standing under the light of a lamp. The
man was talking in a low, rapid manner, and the woman seemed but half
inclined to agree to what he was saying. The doctor passed them
directly under the lamplight; but neither of them noticed him or looked
his way, he thought it very likely that they did not care to be seen by
him. But as he went on his way a very tempest of rage burned within him.
"And that," he ejaculated to himself, "is Max Morrison, the man who is
welcomed in the best homes in Edgerly! And Margaret, little Margaret,
whom the children used to call 'Lassie'!" His mind went back to his
boyhood days, when his father lived in a small village, and he and
Margaret went to the same school. That was before Margaret's father
died; he was the village blacksmith then, a hearty, whole-souled
Scotchman. And what a laughing, rosy child the little Lassie was then.
He remembered her temper, too, as did all who knew her at that time. He
was a well-grown boy then and Margaret but a bit of a girl, but he had
never forgotten her bright and winsome ways. Could this girl with the
hard lines on her dark face ever have been the child that he recalled?
He walked rapidly, his anger and indignation burning within him. He
climbed the long hill that led from the Flat up to the church, and
descended on the other side; past the parsonage with its sleeping
inmates, and on to his own home. Here he again bared his head and stood
quietly beneath the stars. The events of the evening oppressed him.
That Margaret had been beguiled from her home was, he knew, an open
secret in Edgerly. His face set in grim, hard lines.
"No one who cared to know," he was sure, "could be ignorant of the
character of the man who had led her to her downfall."
The next morning the doctor visited his poor patient again, and found
his condition improved. The light of reason was again in his eyes, and
it was evident that he clung to life with as much desire as the most
favored prince of earth clings to it.
On his return he passed the Mayhew home. A party of young people, with
Mrs. Mayhew as chaperon, were starting for a day's outing among the
hills. A carriage stood at the curb; he bowed to Max Morrison, who was
holding the spirited horses. Geraldine Vane, who was ready to enter the
carriage, greeted him pleasantly. He lifted his hat to her, and she
looked into his face.
"Is not this a beautiful morning for a drive?" she said.
"It is indeed a beautiful morning," he replied, but there was a coldness
in his voice and his brows were contracted. Yet, as he went on his way
he was sure that Geraldine's pure white face was the fairest that God's
sun ever shone upon. He watched the carriage as it turned a corner into
a street that led to a country road; and all the heart within him cried
out against the vision of those two, Max and Geraldine, drinking in the
beauty of fields and byways, earth and sky--those two together!
When he reached his office he found his father in a fit of ill-temper.
This, however, was quite a chronic condition with the old doctor.
"You've been practicing among the Flat scrubs again," he said to his
son. "Strange you cannot let the miserable curs die and the earth be
rid of them."
The son paid little heed to his father's coarse bluster.
"They may be scrubs," he replied in his smooth, even tones, "and they
may be curs, in fact, I think you are right, father, they are scrubs and
curs over on the Flat, and perhaps the earth would be better off without
them; nevertheless they are men, and my work lies among men." And this
quiet argument silenced the old doctor, if it did not stay his wrath.
During the long, hot summer there was much sickness on the Flat, and Dr.
Eldrige Jr. spent much of his time among the sufferers. The heat was
intense, and the heavens withheld the rain, the earth became dry and
parched, and the dust lay thick on the meagre foliage. The name of Dr.
Eldrige Jr. became a magic word in that suffering district. Hard faces
grew tender and harsh words died upon the lips when his name was spoken.
And day by day he went quietly about his work, relieving pain and caring
tenderly for neglected old age, hardened criminals and suffering
children. And hardened men and careworn women felt the stirring of new
emotions within them and knew that the world is not all bad, nor life
altogether bitter.
The summer days slipped by and the frost of autumn, Nature's tonic, came
to aid the doctor in his efforts; and life, wretched at best, assumed
its usual aspect on the Flat.
On his return from his round of visits one day the young doctor was met
by his father, who was in a towering rage.
"Spending your time in the Flat filth," he growled. "Haven't you brains
enough to keep out of the cursed mire? Here you are, able to minister
to the puppets in high places, who, for want of better employment, spend
their time nursing their aches and pains, and are proud of the size of
their doctors' bills. You can dope them and dupe them quite as well as
I can. Now here's a message from the Reverend Maurice Thorpe. It came
an hour ago. Mrs. Thorpe has another attack of headache. Whatever that
woman does to bring on those cursed spells is more than I know. If it
were not for the holy fool her husband is, I should think she quarreled
with him. But whatever the trouble is, all the reverends and the chosen
of the Lord could go into fits and the earth be rid of them while you
are to your ears in Flat mire. Now make yourself presentable and go and
give Mrs. Thorpe a dose of morphine."
Dr. Eldrige Jr. hastened to do his father's bidding; not because of the
old man's wrath and ire, but because he knew something of the severity
of Mrs. Thorpe's attacks, and felt a very sincere sympathy for her. He
found her walking to and fro in her room. She wore a crimson dressing
gown, which fell loosely about her form. Her hair hung in disorder over
her shoulders and rippled down her back; but she was all unconscious of
her appearance. Her hands were clasped against her temples, and there
was a frenzied look in her eyes, and dark blue marks lay beneath them.
A white line, indicating intense pain, was drawn about her mouth.
She recognized Dr. Eldrige Jr. when he entered the room, but the fact
that it was his father instead whom she had expected to see, caused her
to suffer a nervous shock. She faltered in her walking and swayed
uncertainly. Pauline, who was with her, sprang to her assistance.
Dr. Eldrige Jr. laid his hand on her shoulder and requested her to be
seated. But she paid not the slightest attention to his request, and
with eyes fixed on the floor, began again her restless walking.
"Perhaps she does not even hear you," said Pauline, "Sometimes when the
pain is so intense we think she neither sees nor hears."
The doctor laid his hand on her arm and pushed the loose sleeve up to
her shoulder, and in a voice that she obeyed without conscious volition,
he commanded her to be quiet; then dexterously injected a dose of
morphine into the flesh of her upper arm.
It was not long before her head drooped forward and her limbs seemed to
grow weary, and then it was not difficult to place her comfortably upon
a couch, where she soon fell into a troubled sleep. The doctor remained
beside her for some time; then he prepared a powder to be given when she
awoke, and took his departure.
When he returned to his office he said to his father: "I see nothing
unusual about the nature of Mrs. Thorpe's headache; the pain seemed more
intense than ordinary, yet it appears very like a common megrim."
"Megrim be blasted!" growled the doctor. "There's something more the
matter with that woman than you or I know anything about. She's a
brainy wench, and I have thought that perhaps she may be trying to find
out the why and wherefore of some of the common-place things in this old
world of ours. I tell you, my boy, when the Lord put Adam out of the
Garden for fear he might take on too much knowledge, and set him working
for his living, it showed mighty plain that there are a lot of things in
this old world of ours that he never intended for man to find out. Mrs.
Thorpe's mind is at the bottom of this trouble; she has let it get the
upper hand of her. And I don't know but an over-dose of morphine would
be the best thing for her now. It wouldn't sound bad to say that Mrs.
Thorpe, wife of the Reverend Maurice Thorpe, died of heart failure
during one of her nervous attacks."
*CHAPTER VI*
*PHYSICIAN AND FRIEND*
The next day a message came for Dr. Eldrige Jr. which took him past the
parsonage. On his return he called on Mrs. Thorpe.
Pauline answered his ring. "Mrs. Thorpe will be pleased to see you,"
she said. "She is feeling better to-day."
Mrs. Thorpe received him cordially. "It is kind of you to call," she
said. "I am quite myself again to-day. My headaches are usually of
short duration. You doctors relieve me for the time; but I live in
continual dread of the next attack. If only I could know what it is
that causes this trouble there is nothing I would not do to eradicate
it; for I believe if this could be overcome I should have my health
again."
Dr. Eldrige recalled what his father had said about the mental condition
of this woman. Could he probe her inner life and ferret out the cause
of her trouble? Under the circumstances would it be right for him to do
so, if he could? With these questions in mind he engaged her in easy
conventional conversation, and without a suspicion of the fact on her
part, he studied her face and watched her movements with quiet
intensity. He desired to do all that he could for his patient's
physical welfare; and the heart and mind have so great an influence over
the body, that just how far a physician has a right to seek and search
becomes a finely balanced question. He resolved to give her an
opportunity to be frank with him if she cared to do so, but if there was
anything she desired to conceal he would not intrude upon her secrecy.
"The cause of your trouble, Mrs. Thorpe, may be beyond the reach of
doctors' skill. There are many ills that a physician is able to
alleviate, but there may be inducing causes that no physician is able to
discover."
She waited some moments before she spoke, and the doctor's eyes were
upon her expectantly.
"The fate of the whole human race lies with you physicians," she said.
"There is scarcely one on this earth who is every whit whole. And those
for whom you cannot prescribe--?" She stopped short, and her eyes
flashed abruptly into his.
The doctor saw that she had missed the import of his words, and he
believed that she attributed to them a meaning that could not fail to
distress her, and he hastened to correct his mistake.
"I did not mean to intimate that your trouble is beyond a physician's
reach, Mrs. Thorpe," he said. "Yours is what my father calls a 'case of
nerves.'"
She put out her hands as though to entreat him to desist. Always in her
intercourse with the old doctor she had felt a reticence that made it
impossible for her to talk with him, except on strictly professional
topics; but there was something in this man's face, a plain, clear-cut
face it was, and in his manner, kind and sympathetic, that inspired her
confidence.
"I know," she said, "that mine is a nervous trouble, but must we admit
that there is pain in this world for which there is no remedy? Maladies
for which there is no physician? Must we admit the situation to be
true, and stand helpless before it, that certain forms of suffering,
deadly in their nature, have been laid upon humanity, for which no
antidote has been given? It cannot be--this cannot be true, else what is
the inference?"
"You have misunderstood my meaning, Mrs. Thorpe. You should have heard
me out. I beg of you not to believe that I consider your trouble one
for which there is no remedy. I meant only to call your attention to
the fact that a great variety of causes may be responsible for nervous
troubles. We look, naturally, for a physical cause, for a physical
ailment; yet it is a mistake to believe that this must always be the
case. It sometimes happens that the mind is largely responsible for the
physical condition."
She waited again before she spoke. Her hands lay idly in her lap, but
the doctor noticed that she was not in a state of relaxation, but that
there was a restrained energy in attitude and manner.
"I think that you in your turn have misunderstood me, Dr. Eldrige," she
said. "I deplore my own condition, certainly, but a menace to human
happiness lies in the fact that the whole race is heir to the sufferings
of the individual. Mine is not an isolated case. I am but one of the
great world-wide family that is bound on the altar of human suffering."
Now the doctor saw that Mrs. Thorpe was discussing a subject broader
than her own personal disability, and the first inkling of the truth
came to him; and with it there came also an illumination of the woman's
character. He saw her love for humanity and her compassion for its
woes; and with keen perception he was able to understand something of
her futile efforts toward an adjustment of existing conditions that
might, to her own mind, seem fair and just. And great as was his
concern for her physical condition, he now felt this to be of small
importance compared to his desire to help her out of her mental dilemma.
But the difficulty was as real to him as it was to her, yet there was
this difference: it was a difficulty that he admitted, accepted, and
dismissed from his thoughts, while with her he saw that it was rending
the very fibre of her life and distorting her mental vision. But keenly
as he realized the situation, he found no word of help to offer her, and
so he said:
"I fear we shall find our task an arduous one, and unprofitable as well,
if we undertake to account for humanity's burden."
"Whether we can account for it or not," she replied, "we, the children
of a common Father, are sordidly indifferent to it. We go about our
affairs during our waking hours with a sort of a pitiful gratitude
toward the monster Disease, if by good fortune we have escaped him; we
go to our rest at night, and if we are free from the fell hand, we
sleep, while thousands and thousands of creatures, divinely made, are
wrestling with mortal pain."
The doctor's eyes were upon her; not a movement, nor an expression of
her face escaped him. He saw that the pupils of her eyes were dilated,
and that a peculiar light burned within them; and he noticed that it was
necessary for her to make a greater effort in order to control the
nervous energy that possessed her. There was a ring of reckless protest
in her voice as she continued: