the time or tone as the perfect blending of trained voices rose and fell
with the pulse and throb of the music.
The pastor delivered his carefully prepared sermon with its rhetorical
wording and euphonious flow, with more dignity and enthusiasm than had
characterized him for many months past.
During the service Geraldine Vane, on her raised seat in the choir,
turned and looked into the steel-gray eyes of Dr. Eldrige, Jr., who
occupied a pew in front. It was but a flash, a passing glance, but the
color deepened in her cheeks regardless of her endeavor to keep her
attention on the pastor's words, and there came to her again something
of the great difficulty of life's problems.
After the service Max Morrison joined her near the door and she stood
beside him, bewitching in her Easter gown, and about her the sweet
incense of the lilies she carried.
Then she became aware of another presence and looked again into the eyes
of young Dr. Eldrige. But she read no friendly greeting there; the
recognition was cold and formal and he passed on out of the church.
The warning that Mrs. Mayhew's words contained had assumed dimensions
gigantic in Geraldine's mind, while their palliative qualities robbed
her of all sense of proportion. A half-suspicion possessed her, a
harrowing doubt assailed her; many questions besieged her and she found
herself in a state far from conducive to a peaceful state of mind or a
tranquil spirit. But she walked down the street beside the tall figure
of Max Morrison and she held her head proudly and endeavored to still
the contending voices within her.
Mr. Thorpe felt a keen sense of satisfaction as he descended the church
steps and took his way homeward. The service had been all that he could
desire. No doubt there would be mention made of it in the papers during
the week and it would give his church an enviable reputation. But this
elation, gratifying as it was for the time, was doomed to be
short-lived; before the day was done there was a reaction. The spirit
of worship had waned and left a sense of chill and despondency. Mrs.
Thorpe noticed the droop of her husband's shoulders, the worn look on
his face, and her heart cried out against whatever it might be that gave
him pain.
The Easter sun sank behind the tree-tops and its last rays lay warm and
tender over the church and parsonage and over the meanest hovel on the
Flat. Great Illuminator which seeks not the place of its shining and
respects not one person above another--typical of the love of God.
*CHAPTER X*
*THE DISCERNMENT OF TRUTH*
Mrs. Thorpe was sitting one day in the familiar seat by the window, and
her thoughts were centered on the conditions about her. Outside the
vine was putting forth new buds and tender leaves; a bird on a swinging
bough was singing his mating song; the grass was growing green on the
incline that led up to the church. The winter had not destroyed the
heart and life of that which it had blasted outwardly, and Nature was
emerging into newness of life.
A world of growing things, abundant, forceful, alive, are springing from
the brown, fructuous earth; spring is pregnant, alive with a power
beyond human conception. Boundless, limitless, infinite Power!
Now questions that at first seemed to come to her timid, elusive,
quivered before Mrs. Thorpe's mental vision and insinuated themselves
into her consciousness. Was this material evidence before her eyes the
substance and reality of that which she saw, or was there something
hidden from her mortal vision, something in this scene before her which
her senses could not recognize? Here before her was the seed-bed, the
seed and the form of the fruitage; but were these the reality, or were
they but the fleeting forms of matter, and the divine Idea the only
reality? Which is real, the plant and the flower, or the life of the
plant and the flower? These questions that had come to her haltingly,
falteringly, gradually assumed larger proportions until they included
herself, the universe, and all that the universe contains. Time, place,
conditions, and all material relations shifted and changed, and she saw
God's world, and God's power controlling it; a just and majestic God
asking only conformity to the perfect conditions he has created.
Now all of Mrs. Thorpe's preconceived knowledge vanished and melted
away. Every structure that she had built had been founded on shifting,
undulating sand, upon her belief of life in matter. The ideas and
conceits of her childhood, the ardor and energy of her young womanhood,
and all the strain of recent years all passed before her, and all were
empty, vain, human and finite. She saw mortals bowed and broken, guided
by finite wisdom and helped by finite power, trying to do God's work;
struggling and agonizing, trying to aid Infinite strength, and to
supplement Infinite wisdom.
She saw man--upright, holy, divine--yet dominated by his false beliefs
and his conceptions of evil, believing himself the sinful, unclean thing
that his distorted vision pictures him to be; ignorant, misguided,
toiling in pain and sorrow. Christ, ah, Christ! Who would not be a
Christ, a Savior of men; who would not sacrifice this stage of life,
yea, die a thousand deaths, if by pain and sacrifice he might show this
bruised and broken people the perfection of life, and the harmony of the
condition in which Infinite love has placed them?
Every cord that held her to the moorings of her old belief gave way, and
Mrs. Thorpe found herself alone on a shoreless, fathomless sea; no sail
was in sight, no hand reached out to her. Adrift--alone--there was no
measuring of time or space. But she was not afraid, for the science of
Being had been revealed to her. Alone--yet he whose voice stilled the
sea, he whose voice stills human passion, fear, pain and suffering was
with her, and she walked upon the water with this Man of Galilee.
In their blindness and error men have produced that which is not
beautiful, and which is not good, but there are no blemishes in God's
world, and there are no iniquities. The God of love has put beauty, and
grace, and joy, and gladness into everything that He has created.
Now Mrs. Thorpe saw before her all that has been, all that is, and all
that is to be; and her eyes were not holden to the emblems and symbols
through which the solution of God's world was hers. "Neither death nor
life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present,
nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature,"
shall be able now to separate her from the love of God.
The peace that passeth understanding is like a calm on mighty waters,
like the strength of rugged forests, like the blending of many melodies.
Mrs. Thorpe fell on her knees and buried her face in her hands. But
this attitude was not taken to humble herself before the God that she
had found; this Deity that was revealed to her was the great and perfect
Whole, and herself she recognized as the spiritual image and likeness of
God.
"There is a Spirit in man and the inspiration of the Almighty giveth him
understanding." "The inspiration of the Almighty;" there is no other
source of supply, no other way to understand than to let the Spirit
speak to the "Spirit in man." Mrs. Thorpe's mind was emptied of worldly
wisdom; the tablets of her heart were renewed clean as an unwritten
page. Freed from the thought of her material selfhood, and her
intellectual beliefs, she was receptive, ready and waiting in the hands
of the Master of men.
The preparation of the clay that is to be molded into a work of art is
of first importance; and when this preparation is completed the artist
begins his work of bringing beauty and grace out of a pliable, yielding
mass ready to his hand. When a piece of ground is to bring forth a
harvest of golden grain or succulent fruit the ground must first be
prepared. There must be an upheaval; the weeds and tares must be
uprooted; the plow-share and the harrow must do their work; the soil
must be torn and broken and turned up to the mellowing sun, and then the
seed is sown.
Upon her knees Mrs. Thorpe was not denied the knowledge that her years
of suffering were years of preparation; that the anguish and pain
wrought by her great desire had not been in vain. When she arose to her
feet she knew that she had found the Kingdom of Heaven; it was within
her.
A flood of sunshine lay over the room; each familiar object was in its
place, yet all was changed. She stepped to the window and looked out,
and the transfigured earth, and air, and sky greeted her; yet even in
this first newness of her joy she knew that this change which glorified
all things was in her own heart. And that which tongue has never named
and pen has never described descended upon her and enfolded her like a
garment; and henceforth and forever she was secure from harm; she had
come into her own. She felt her heart overflowing and exulting; the
vigor of the spring was in her veins, the unseen growth of the vine was
expanding her soul, and the birds' song filled her with joy.
Then like a flash, like the cut of a knife, the sting of a lash, a
black, evil thought darted into the radiance. The phantoms--where were
they? The dark visage, the black wings, the hissing, shrieking
voice--where were these? She looked fearfully about her with dilated
eyes; but all was quiet, and there was neither form nor shape visible.
The room lay bathed in sunshine, and there was a soft balminess in the
air. Yet for one awful moment she felt that she was losing this
wonderful thing that she had found, she was afraid--led into the
wilderness and tempted. Then with a supreme courage she put it to the
test; she stood upright and looked over her shoulder. The space behind
her was empty! Trembling, agonized, yet in ecstasy, she looked
again--the space was empty! Not even in dimmest outline, half-hidden,
elusive as her enemy sometimes appeared, did he now show his face; not
the faintest flutter of wings was discernible; no whisper came to her.
She turned and walked across the room and back again to the window. She
could not yet be satisfied that she was free; the sickening horror, the
awful dread had not left her, and she turned and looked again over her
right shoulder, where her phantom most often appeared, then over her
left shoulder, where it sometimes surprised her by lurking. The space
was empty! Now she felt that if she longer held her peace the very
furnishings of the room must cry out. "Father, Spirit, God of Truth,"
she cried, "Love has liberated me!"
Had a miracle been wrought for her deliverance? Mrs. Thorpe had always
known that it was her imagination, her own distorted fancy against which
she battled and fought. A phantom is not a reality, however real it may
appear. The truth is always true, however distorted our view of it may
be. When Mrs. Thorpe fixed her mind on the central Truth of creation,
and spiritually discerned it, she realized that all the doubts and fears
that had held her were but distortions of her material sense. All of
her questionings and perplexities, vain fancies and evil imaginings were
obliterated; her mental conception was changed, the hallucination
dispelled, and she was free.
Free! Men have been freed from the dungeon and from chains; reprieves
have come at a moment when prisoners were to meet at the hands of their
fellow men a violent death; floods and flames have been faced and
deliverance miraculously given. These are physical horrors, relieved by
physical causes. Mrs. Thorpe's deliverance was from a mental foe, one
who would destroy not only her physical frame, but who would twist and
warp and dethrone her reason as well; her deliverer was the royal Truth
of life. Now indeed she had burst her chrysalis, she was no longer a
worm of earth, but clothed with the spirit of immortality, she saw God's
creation, not as human weakness has interpreted it, but as a loving
Father designed it.
Pauline, ever watchful and alert, was the first to notice a change in
Mrs. Thorpe. She noted the returning vigor and observed the unusual
buoyancy of spirit. There was also a consideration and thoughtful
kindness in her manner that Pauline had never noticed before. A great
deal of charity must be manifested toward one who is ill and in pain,
unpleasant manners and disagreeable ways must be overlooked. Pauline
had had the tact and patience to do this; she was not one to judge a
sick woman unkindly. But now there was a winsomeness about this woman
whom she had long looked upon as her charge, an optimism that she found
it difficult to adjust to Mrs. Thorpe's former attitude.
*CHAPTER XI*
*A SUMMER'S VACATION*
Mr. Thorpe noticed the change in his wife and rejoiced in her recovery.
Her quiet manner and uniform cheerfulness brought to his mind the early
days of their wedded life, and he felt that perhaps the many prayers
that he had offered for her recovery had reached the throne of mercy.
But the pastor's own cares were pressing him sorely. All that he had
gained by the Easter service he had lost, and more. His congregation
grew smaller each succeeding Sabbath, and with bitterness and despair he
admitted that he was not obliged to look outside of himself for the
cause. He felt his strength slipping from him, and in some way that he
could not analyze nor comprehend, and his mental capacity seemed dwarfed
and contracted. Thoughts of beauty and grandeur flitted through his
brain, but when he tried to fix them there, to put them into words or on
paper they eluded him, mocked and evaded him.
When spring merged into summer a council of his church convened and
voted him a vacation for the summer months. This was gratefully
accepted; for he felt that a season's rest, a long vacation in which to
recuperate and regain his lost powers would put him in condition again
for his work in the autumn.
Mrs. Thorpe was to accompany him, and they planned to spend the summer
with an uncle who lived in a small village in an adjoining state. This
uncle was a retired minister, who for forty years had preached the
Gospel. Now with his wife still beside him, he was spending what was
left of his life in well-earned peace and quiet. He sent an earnest
invitation to his nephew to come to him and spend his vacation in this
quiet, restful village.
After the vacation was arranged, and the invitation accepted, Mr. Thorpe
threw himself with all of his remaining strength and energy into the
preparation of a farewell sermon. He desired this to be of high
excellence, and especially adapted to the occasion; he wished to say
something that would appeal to the hearts of his people, and cause them
to remember him, and to be ready to welcome him back in the autumn. For
days he worked on this sermon, comparing words and phrases, seeking just
the shade of meaning he desired, harmonizing sentences, and striving for
an agreeable rise and flow of language.
Mrs. Thorpe, who had attended church for several Sundays, accompanied
her husband on this last Sunday morning. She walked beside him now with
easy grace, and mingled with her friends and seemed not to notice their
wondering looks and incredulous glances; she met them without
self-consciousness, neither shrinking nor boasting.
When the pastor entered the pulpit, and the deep, sweet tones of the
organ sounded, her soul glad and worshipful, left every care and
material thought. Then she heard her husband's voice in prayer, praying
for his people, and for the great world of humanity. But she did not
follow the prayer closely; her new conception of God's creation enabled
her to know that the Lord's blessing was already upon these people, that
they needed only to realize and accept it. She saw toiling millions
begging for a blessing that has been theirs forever, and that can never
in any manner possibly cease to be theirs.
For his text the pastor had taken, "To him that overcometh," and he
dwelt largely on the reward ready for those who are able to endure to
the end.
As the sermon progressed, Mrs. Thorpe was reminded of her old troubled
conception of the Father and His children in the field. She did not
wonder that this idea had once possessed her; for was not this the very
interpretation of life that her husband was presenting? But now before
her vision she saw a kind and compassionate Father, and man in His
spiritual likeness.
She had found that the propensity of mortal man to worship images of
belief that he himself has created, rather than to hold as his own that
which God has created for him, and has bestowed without limit or stint
upon him, is the cause of man's woe, the cause of all his grief and
pain. God has given man only good; He could give nothing else, for He
has created or fashioned nothing else. She heard the sermon through,
however, without inward questioning or discord. Since the deep, sweet
Truth of life had become the bread and wine of her existence she was not
troubled by another's conception of truth. All truth, however small,
however great, is a part of the Truth, just as every drop of the ocean,
or rippling wave, or mighty billow is a part of the sea.
Mrs. Thorpe knew something of the hard toil and effort this sermon had
cost her husband; she knew that he had builded it word upon word,
sentence upon sentence, and she understood the intensity of his purpose,
the sincerity of his belief; but the thought came to her forcibly at
this time that the laws of God are not influenced by man's conception of
life and truth, but that, perfect and harmonious, they go undeviatingly
on, regardless of what man believes or teaches.
After the service Mrs. Thorpe noticed that there was no change in the
rigidity of the manner that marked the worshipers. All was orderly and
formal; those nearest to her spoke in subdued tones, and expressed a
cold pleasure at seeing her again. This concourse of people, each heart
carrying its own peculiar burden, had come to the service, listened to
the music, heard the Scripture read and the sermon delivered; now each
went again his own way without solace or comfort, his burden not one
whit the lighter.
It was a dull, gray morning; lowering clouds hung threateningly about,
and a fine, penetrating mist filled the air.
"This dampness and mist is as bad as a pouring rain," said Pauline, on
the way from church. "You had better fasten your muffler close about
your throat, Maurice, and turn up your coat collar; I fear this will
bring on your cough again."
When they reached the parsonage Pauline saw that the fires were built
and the rooms warmed and dried, although it was early summer. The dry,
hacking cough that Mr. Thorpe was subject to was something to be fought
and doctored continually. And in this instance Pauline's fears seemed
to be well grounded; soon after dinner Mr. Thorpe was seized with a
paroxysm of coughing, followed by a spell of weakness. By evening a low
fever had developed and it was thought best to send for Dr. Eldrige.
The old doctor came, examined the patient and gave minute directions for
his care; after this he came every day for a week. At the end of this
time Mr. Thorpe's condition was greatly improved, and one day when alone
with him Dr. Eldrige broached a subject that had been much in his mind
since he began calling at the parsonage.
"Thorpe," he said, in his usual blunt manner, "what has brought about
your wife's recovery? A few months ago she was a stricken invalid; now
we see her in the full flush of health. Some great physician must have
been consulted--or some occult power. It might be well for you to get
around with your explanations if you value her reputation or your own."
Had Dr. Eldrige unsheathed a dagger and stabbed his patient, the blow
could scarcely have been keener felt. For a time he repented his blunt
words, for Mr. Thorpe's distress and agitation were alarming. The
doctor mixed a stimulating draught and gave it to him, and at the same
time, in a quiet, smooth manner, introduced another topic of
conversation and soon after took his departure. He congratulated
himself on being an adept at dealing crushing blows.
"I have, I think, given our pious pastor something to think about," he
chuckled as he left the parsonage.
At the end of another week the delayed preparations for their departure
were resumed, and a few days later the family separated, Pauline to
spend the summer in the old home town with a relative and the pastor and
his wife enroute for the little village among the mountains.
The old couple gave Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe a warm greeting and a hearty
welcome to their simple, wholesome home. They acquainted them with the
resources of the place; gave them directions for reaching the mountain
peaks; showed them the mountain stream where the speckled trout
abounded; pointed out to them the woodland path that led to the lake and
the glades and dells where the wild flowers grew, and then left them to
make their own plans and find their own amusements.
To Mrs. Thorpe the place seemed like a fairy bower, a land of
enchantment--one of her old daydreams come true. Here were the beauties
of God's world, indescribable, luxurious, exquisite. Why had He made
the hills and mountains so fair? Why were the skies so azure blue, the
air so rare and sweet with the breath of flowers? Why do the waters of
the rippling lake lay smiling in the sun? And why does the sun bathe
woodland and field, mountain and lake in golden glory and flaming
splendor? One of the books that she had read, the work of a popular
scientist, told her that Nature's works are fixed and fashioned
regardless of man; that in the plan of the universe no account was taken
of his needs, and no cognizance of his desires. She recalled another
book which told her that man is the central object of the universe and
that all things are created to minister to his needs and desires. But
deep in her own heart she believed the realities of life, all beauty,
truth and harmony to be reflections of the one Life.
"It may be that mine was a case of too many books," she thought. "I
depended too much on the knowledge that can be derived from the works of
man, and considered too little the wisdom that comes from God, and can
never come in any other way than by direct revelation--the heart of God
speaking to the heart of man: 'Be still and know that I am God.'" And
in this stillness, this sanctuary and solemn grandeur, there opened
before her an unwritten book--the overreaching Law of Love, the
compelling goodness of God.
That which has been spoken and that which has been written pertains to
the material sense; but that which has been heard in the silence, and
seen in "the light that no man can approach unto," and experienced in
the grandeur of the limitless life--this is God--no tongue has told it,
no pen has portrayed it, yet in letters of glory we all may read it.
From the mountains and the hills, from the summer skies and the smiling
water, the leaves of this unwritten book unfolded before Mrs. Thorpe and
she read the deep hidden things of God.
The long golden days came and went like a radiant, glorified dream, each
with its share of pleasure, some new joy, some added gladness. There
were days when the summer rain beat upon the roof in mellow cadence;
when the gray, leaden skies emphasized the cheer and comfort of the
plain mountain home. Then, Mrs. Thorpe with some light work in hand,
would listen while her hostess, the dear old aunt, related chapters from
the past and told incidents and anecdotes from her long experience as a
pastor's wife. There were days when the damp earth, warm beneath the
sun, gave forth a blissful fragrance of growing things and the green,
swelling buds burst into showers of bloom; when the mountain brook,
swelled by the rain, babbled in wild, sweet song and dashed its
turbulent waters into the placid lake.