never reconciled Mrs. Vane's recovery with any grain of spiritual truth.
But she saw the blood surge into Mrs. Thorpe's face, and she knew that
his well aimed blow had struck where he had not meant that it should.
She laid her hand on Mrs. Thorpe's shoulder, "Let us leave the gentlemen
to their theology," she said, "Come with me and watch the children go to
bed; it will do you good to see them."
One by one the little garments came off and little white slips went on.
Shoes were untied, and stockings removed, and little pink toes peeped
out.
A visitor in the nursery at bedtime was an unusual occurrence, and
unusually good order prevailed; yet Charley insisted on getting into his
gown feet first, as he considered it unmanly to have it put over his
head, and Mabel refused to be comforted because nurse unbuttoned
Mattie's pinafore first. The three-year-old baby insisted on disrobing
without assistance from anyone, and cried lustily because he could not
untie his little red shoes.
But finally all troubles were overcome, the little hearts were comforted
and all was quiet. Then by each little white bed a white-robed figure
knelt with clasped hands and lisped a childish prayer.
Mrs. Thorpe kissed each child a happy good-night, and wished them sweet
and pleasant dreams. But Mrs. Mayhew noticed that there was a strange
expression on her face, and that the troubled look had not left her eyes
since their talk in the morning.
When they returned to the parlor they found that Mr. Thorpe had taken
his departure.
"A messenger came for him a few minutes after you left us," explained
Professor Vane. "He was called to the bedside of a dying woman. He
told me that he had been expecting the summons for many days."
"Mrs. Ritchie, I presume," said Mrs. Mayhew. "Poor soul! we cannot
regret that the end has come for her at last. She has suffered a great
deal."
Mrs. Mayhew sent Mrs. Thorpe home in the carriage, as Mr. Thorpe was not
expected until late; he might be away all night.
Mrs. Thorpe explained his absence to Pauline, whom she found awaiting
her.
"You are looking very tired, Evelyn; are you ill?" Pauline asked.
"No, Pauline, not ill; only very, very tired. I will go to my room at
once."
"Very well; I will hear Maurice when he comes and let him in."
As Mrs. Thorpe arose to go to her room Pauline noticed that she
shuddered as though a cold draught had struck her.
"What is it, Evelyn, are you cold?"
"I'm so tired, Pauline," she said, and sank down in her chair again.
"And Maurice's being called away was something of a shock, you know."
Pauline went over to her. "Yes, I know," she said. "And I know you are
tired; you look all worn out. Shall I go to your room with you?"
"Oh, no, thank you; that is not necessary. I shall be all right when I
am rested again. Good-night, Pauline." And she started again for her
room.
"Good-night, Evelyn. There is a light in your room. I hope you sleep
well."
As Mrs. Thorpe entered her dimly lighted room a cold, dizzy sensation
again came over her. She sank into her easy chair and the events of the
day passed before her. Suddenly she sat upright and gazed with horror
at the sight which greeted her. She tried to shriek, but her tongue was
silent; she tried to fly, but her feet were motionless. She closed her
eyes, but it was not with her natural vision that she saw the outline of
phantom forms and ghoulish faces that filled the room.
"She is ours at last! She will never resist us again." It was not a
voice that she heard; there was not a sound in the room; the silence was
oppressive. Over and over, around and about, circling, advancing,
retreating, the forms filled every foot of space, and yet she was sure
that the room was empty save the furnishings; the chairs, the bed, the
table, these stood out clearly and distinctly. She felt the rush of
bodies, the bustle and strife among the myriad forms as they jostled
each other in their struggle to be near her; yet there was not a breath
of air stirring in the room; all was motionless and quiet. Then a space
above her cleared, the air seemed to open and the somber form and sable
wings that she had seen so often descended upon her. She was conscious
of wondering how it could be that she had met this phantom so many times
and denounced and driven it from her. She felt so stupid now, so numb
and powerless; yet the horror had never been one half so great. She
felt the claw-like fingers clutch her shoulder and the blood gushed
forth in a crimson stream, yet there was no sensation of pain, only the
grim and awful horror of it. She felt herself borne away, the multitude
of forms and faces following in her wake. What a ghastly burden she
was! Blood oozed from every pore and left a crimson trail behind. Her
phantom carrier went tirelessly on and on, through space and over
distances until it reached an abyss, wide, deep and black. Over this,
with fluttering wings, it paused. And could it be--broiling, seething,
writhing below--oh, could it be--was it true? She must be wild--her
vision blasted--her senses gone. She had heard the wail and moan of
suffering children, the call of lost souls; she had seen the world
circled with the maimed, the bruised and the broken hearted, but
this--oh, this which she now saw and heard! How could it be that the
abyss contained that which greeted her vision! The carrier, with poised
wings, now let go its grasp upon her shoulder and slowly, yet with
deadly certainty, she slid down into the abyss--to become one of them!
It was past midnight when Mr. Thorpe left the stricken home where he had
been called. He had performed the last sacred rites for the dying
woman; he had knelt at her bedside and committed her soul to the keeping
of Him who gave it. It had been a painful scene and he was tired and
depressed when he reached home. He entered his wife's room and found
her in her easy chair in a dead faint. He hastily summoned Pauline and
sent a message for Dr. Eldrige. Mrs. Thorpe was ill, very ill. Dr.
Eldrige, fussing and fuming, declared that her nervous system was a
complete wreck. There was little that he could do for her. Proper
nourishment, careful nursing, and, above all, perfect quiet. These were
the only remedies in a case of this kind.
To his son he said: "The thing I predicted has happened; the woman's
mind is gone. She is mad as a March hare, and it is my opinion that
much learning or effort toward learning has made her so."
Dr. Eldrige Jr. recalled his last interview with Mrs. Thorpe. Evidently
she had not followed his advice. He was not surprised at this, for he
had not really expected that she would. He felt, too, that the advice
that he had given her at that time was very much like giving to a
patient in the full flush of fever remedies intended to prevent fevers
generally in their incipient stages. He resolved, however, to satisfy
himself whether there was anything that could be done for her now. The
manner in which he obtained his father's consent to call upon her was
typical of the method by which he managed to have his own way when he
especially desired it, and yet get along smoothly with his irascible
parent.
"If this woman has brought about her own destruction, as you believe,"
he said, "while doing what we can for her professionally, we can also
study her condition for the benefit of science. I wouldn't mind calling
on her myself."
"You are a likely limb, my boy. If you could get some of the
foolishness out of your head you might make your mark in the world yet.
To-morrow you can go and tell those pious people at the parsonage that
your old dad is indisposed and sends you in his place."
When Dr. Eldrige entered the sick room the next day Mrs. Thorpe fixed
her eyes intently upon him. Never in his experience had he felt the
compassion, the depth of sympathy for a fellow being that her appearance
kindled within him. Every expression of her face, every movement, every
muscle was blended in physical pain and mental horror.
Love and compassion, as well as other emotions strong and deep, are not
limited to the mind in which they have their inception; neither are they
bound nor fettered, and they cannot fail to effect in some degree the
being that has called them forth. Dr. Eldrige Jr. advanced to the
bedside and quietly regarded the sufferer.
Mrs. Thorpe, who seemed to have taken no notice of anyone before, now
raised herself to a sitting posture and, as a child reaches out its
hands to a parent, she extended her hands to him.
"Take me out of this," she said, and there was fear and pleading,
piteous and frenzied in her voice. Her eyes, in which no light of reason
glimmered, wandered apprehensively about the room and back to the
doctor's face. "Oh, do help me!" she gasped. "Take me out of this!"
The doctor's mind was working rapidly; with quick perception he detected
that all reason was not gone, for it was evident that Mrs. Thorpe
recognized him; yet he could not doubt that her mind was unbalanced to
the extent that she believed herself in some place or condition the
horror of which was unspeakable. If a condition, he must find some way
to work upon what remained of her intellect, until, in her mind this
condition was changed; but if it were a place or surroundings, his task
might be less difficult, but it must be performed quickly. Without more
than a moment's hesitation he extended his hands to her in return.
"Certainly," he said in a brisk, cheerful voice, "certainly I will take
you out. That is exactly what I came for." He bent over her and took
her in his arms as though she were a little child. Then to the nurse he
said:
"Show me the nearest bed outside this room."
The nurse opened the door, crossed the hall and swung open the door of
the room opposite. It was Pauline's room, and as usual it was in
perfect order and spotless. The doctor said no word to his patient, but
laid her quietly upon the bed. She rested her head on the pillow with
her hand under her cheek and her eyes wandered curiously about the room.
Then her eyelids fluttered drowsily, fluttered and closed. The doctor
held up his finger commanding quiet and the nurse remained motionless
where she stood. A little clock on the mantel ticked off the minutes;
there was no other sound in the room and the sufferer fell quietly
asleep. It was the first sleep that had come to her since her illness,
and her condition, which the older doctor had pronounced hopeless, at
least so far as her reason was concerned, dated its improvement from
this time.
*CHAPTER IX*
*EASTERTIDE*
The Reverend Maurice Thorpe had not been so successful in his work as he
had hoped to be; not so successful as the beginning of his pastorate had
promised. Of late he felt that his work was falling below par. The
fine touch, the artistic setting, the convincing logic that had once
been his were slipping from him. He could not feel that his ardor had
cooled nor his interest waned, but his faculties seemed to have lost
their keenness and his tongue its cunning. His health was not up to the
desired standard and his wife's illness had been a severe strain upon
him. There had been a time when he felt that there was nothing left in
this world for him unless his wife regained her physical and mental
powers. Now he felt that perhaps he had not been properly reconciled to
the will of Providence, and he prayed for greater grace and threw
himself heart and soul into his work and resolved to regain, if
possible, that which he had lost.
At his request special preparations were made for an elaborate Easter
service. He wished this to be a service that would arouse the people,
something that would interest them and induce them to come again. The
music has so much to do with the success of the modern church that the
pastor planned always to keep in touch with his choir. The song service
must be fitted to the sermon, either to emphasize the beauty of the
text, or else to soften and subdue the undressed truth which must
sometimes be spoken.
Geraldine Vane was a capable and willing worker in the choir. The plans
for the Easter service were arranged, the parts assigned and the
practicing began.
In this work Geraldine and Max Morrison were thrown much together.
There were some disreputable stories afloat about the man's character,
but no one seemed to regard them very seriously; and his voice was so
great an attraction that the choir was glad of his help.
When on his way to choir practice Max had fallen into the way of calling
for Geraldine, and he often spent an evening in the Mayhew home. And as
time passed he began to feel more than a casual interest in this girl
with the shell-tinted face and golden hair. The Mayhew children, too,
amused and interested him. He liked to talk to them, to ask them
questions, and hear their naive answers and innocent speeches.
During the winter his acquaintance with Geraldine had ripened into a
more intimate friendship. Their love for music and their proficiency in
the art formed a bond between them. Geraldine, a veritable St. Cecelia,
her figure swaying with the rhythm of the music as her fingers flew over
the ivory keys, and Max with his bow calling forth the sweet, weird
melody of the violin, would feel their pulses quicken as the blended
melodies throbbed and sighed and quivered.
It was at this time that Dr. Eldrige Jr. condemned the woman he had
loved from her girlhood and stepped aside and gave his rival possession
of the field. Fine and true to the heart's core himself, he would not
seek nor desire the love of a woman who demanded less than this in
manhood. Nor was it in his nature to wage a warfare for a woman's love.
This priceless, this sacred thing, must come, if at all, freely and
naturally as the beauty and fragrance of nature comes to waiting earth.
During the preparation for the Easter service Max and Geraldine were
thrown together even more man usual. And it was at this time that Mrs.
Mayhew felt an indefinite fear, a vague alarm concerning their
friendship. She went to her husband with her half-formed conjecture.
Mr. Mayhew was a practical man of affairs, shrewd and sagacious.
"I see no cause for alarm," he said. "We have known Max from his
boyhood, and although his career has not been entirely exemplary nor his
character spotless, for a young man of wealth to-day he is not a bad
sort. And as to his fancying Geraldine, I see no reason to object if he
should. There's many a girl gets a worse husband than Max will make.
With a girl like Geraldine for a wife Max might settle down and make a
model husband."
Mrs. Mayhew rarely opposed her husband. She believed that, owing to his
position, his contact with men and his conflict with the world, his
judgment must be better than hers. She realized in a way that her
judgment was a thing of the heart and lacking in that worldly wisdom
that her husband possessed. She remembered many times when she had
taken his advice against her own convictions and afterwards found that
she had not been the loser thereby. Yet, being a fair-minded woman, she
sometimes came to a place where another's judgment could not answer for
her; where her impulse and desires prompted her to act from the dictates
of her own heart.
Geraldine's father had died before the girl was born and her mother had
yielded up her life at the birth of her child. Mrs. Mayhew had taken
the little one and reared her as her own and loved her as her own. But
aside from this love and watchful care there was a feeling of
responsibility different from that which a mother feels for her own
children; their welfare and happiness she is responsible for as for her
own flesh and blood. She was responsible for Geraldine as a child of
another birth and branch.
The girl had been loving and affectionate, willful and passionate at
times, yet always ready to confess her faults. Mrs. Mayhew had seen her
through the unsettled period of adolescence and knew that at the present
time she was a true-hearted woman, looking into the future, trusting and
unafraid. Had there ever been a time since she held her in her arms, an
infant of a day, when she had needed a guiding hand and love and care
more than at this present time?
Mrs. Mayhew resolved that, let the consequences be what they might,
Geraldine should have some enlightenment as to Max Morrison's real
character.
It was a few days before Easter. Outside there raged a storm of rain
and sleet such as the Middle West often sees in the early spring. The
snow had disappeared, except here and there a dark-hued bank by the
roadside or in some well-filled corner. Out in the country the fields
and meadows lay bare and brown, awaiting the magic touch of
spring--Nature's resurrection.
But within the Mayhew home a warm radiance covered all. The interview
took place in Geraldine's room. The room was typical of the girl. An
air of purity and daintiness was lent by soft, white draperies; yet
everywhere there was a suggestion of ease and restfulness. Conspicuous,
but not prominent, a pair of cherubs were enfolded in a shimmering gauze
of drapery. A picture of the Virgin with the Christ Child in her arms
hung above the mantel and on the wall opposite, the tender, loving face
of the Savior. And beneath the Christ face hung the picture of a sweet,
calm-eyed woman and a manly, dark-browed man--the parents that the girl
had never known.
Mrs. Mayhew was perfectly familiar with the room, but with her mission
in mind she was aware that it impressed her in a different manner from
its wont. A mind less pure than Geraldine's could not have planned and
fashioned it. This quality of mind and heart was apparent in all that
the girl did. Suppose she were robbed of this chastity of thought and
the evil things in the lives of others thrust upon her vision. Could she
ever be just the same girl again? Mrs. Mayhew had eased her mind with
like sophistry before, but now she felt that the hand of necessity was
upon her.
Geraldine sat before her fire, a piece of needlework in her hands. Mrs.
Mayhew drew her chair to the grate and produced her own bit of work.
She cast about in her mind for some way to lead up to the subject upon
which she wished to speak, but finding none, she broached it abruptly.
"Geraldine, do you know you are very unsophisticated for a girl of your
age? That you know very little of the evil there is in the world?"
"Do you think I would be better if I knew more, Aunt Agnes?"
"It is not a question of your being better, Geraldine; I think the
trouble is that you are too good already. Do you believe your friends
to be as good as you are?"
"Why, Aunt Agnes! Am I any better than you are, or Mrs. Thorpe, or my
girl friends? Why do you say such things to me?"
"Because I must say them, my dear; you must know more about your
friends. You are not more virtuous, perhaps, than the ones whom you
have mentioned; but you are as a creature of another world compared to
Max Morrison, for instance."
The seashell color in Geraldine's face deepened to flame, but ignoring
the display of feeling she had been too unguarded to suppress, she met
her aunt's eyes full and true.
"Is there anything objectionable about Max that I should know?" she
asked.
Mrs. Mayhew knew that there was no turning back now. She wished to be
honest with the girl and at the same time as charitable as possible
toward others. She must show Geraldine that, desirable and praise-worthy
as purity and chastity are, and obligatory as they are in a woman, she
should not expect to find these qualities in this man, nor hardly in the
degree that a pure-hearted girl possesses them, in any man, and that it
would not be wise nor just, perhaps, to condemn Max for a lack of them.
She recalled her husband's attitude on the subject, and although it did
not break her resolution to be frank with the girl, it tempered it
appreciably; and a queer blending of her conscientiousness and her
husband's practicality were the result. A distorted vision pictured
itself impishly before her. Being a woman, she should cleave virtuously
to the good, but be willing to fall on her knees at the marriage altar
and accept the bad! She felt that the magnitude of the question was
crushing her, and that its complexity would be her undoing. The longer
she hesitated for the words in which to express her meaning, the more
helplessly lost she became, and Geraldine was waiting for the answer to
a direct question.
"To allow you to believe that Max is virtuous as you understand virtue
would not be justice to you, Geraldine," she said.
"Please be quite frank, Aunt Agnes. What is it you wish me to know?"
"None of us are perfect, my dear, and very few of us are good. It is a
hard world to live in. Not many young men go through the trying period
of early manhood unscathed, and it comes to us women sooner or later to
know these things."
Geraldine did not speak, and silence fell between them. Mrs. Mayhew
noticed the steady, even stroke of the girl's needle and her quiet
composure.
Had her words failed to make an impression, or was Geraldine too strong
and firm to show her feelings, or was it that she did not care?
But she found no answer to her questions and the silence continued.
Mrs. Mayhew was relieved when the children came and tapped at the door.
Geraldine bade them enter and they flocked in, frolicking and laughing,
and filled the room with their chatter.
When they were all gone and Geraldine was alone she stood, a white
figure among her white draperies, and looked out at the storm and
listened to the sleet and rain against her window-pane. The color
burned into her cheeks again and a shadow lay in her eyes. She was
beginning to believe the world a rather difficult place in which to
live, and life not so bright and joyous as she had thought it to be.
Easter morning dawned gray and cold, but the sun, seeming to repent its
sullen mood, broke through the clouds and shed a warm radiance over the
cold, soaked earth.
The great church with its arched ceiling and taper windows seemed
impressed with its own solemnity and its silence was intense and
worshipful. The banks of lilies, emblems of peace and purity, seemed to
harmonize with the spirit of the place; for their fragrance and beauty
were far removed from all that is plain and common and their golden
hearts were untouched by humanity's woes. Above the bank of lilies and
ferns hung a picture of the Christ with a halo about His head. The
painter's art showed in pose and expression, in every line and detail.
The eyes were pathetic and beseeching, as they must have been when those
most heart-rending words the world has ever known--the prayer in the
garden--were uttered. The brow was calm with the peace of Heaven and
the mouth, so fine and true, was yet sensitive and pleading. If this
Friend of man could speak, what would be His message to the worshipers
gathered there? If those eyes could see the nodding plumage of the
forests' songsters adorning the heads bowed in worship; if those ears
could hear the rustle of costly garments--Easter outfits--while over on
the Flat little children shivered, bare-footed and garbed in rags; if
those finely penciled nostrils could breathe the incense from the
lilies' golden hearts, while from meagre, unkept homes vile odors
arose--what, in truth, would be the message from the Christ this Easter
day? If those hands were alive, those hands that carried healing,
health and blessing in their touch, what would their mission be? Would
not the crippled boy stand erect and walk? the tortured shoulders of the
rheumatic straighten? the blind eyes of a parishioner's daughter open?
and the deaf ears of the white-haired sexton hear, as they had not heard
for twenty years, the Resurrection message?
But the eyes saw not, the ears heard not, the lips spoke no word and the
hands bestowed neither health nor blessing. Was it then only a painted
Christ that dwelt in the costly church? Only a painted Christ that
confronted the Easter worshipers? Was there in their midst no heart
touched by the feeling of their infirmities?
The song service was all that those that had planned and executed it had
hoped for. The house was crowded; pews that had been dusted and cared
for for months without occupancy were filled. The seats in the back of
the church were filled also. Many of the poor came to feast their eyes
on the lilies--conclusive evidence that, buried in their hearts, hidden
from sight, perhaps, and struggling for existence, other lilies bloomed.