take up in like spirit, would result in wounding both our hearts even as
you have wounded mine. Were I to reply to you as you have spoken to me,
I think this power of Christ about which we disagree would prove
singularly lacking in both our hearts. I came here to talk to you about
the new belief that has come into my life; but can one talk of the
heart's sacred joy, the deep, hidden things of God before a stern and
unsympathetic judge? All I ask now is that you grant me the freedom of
religious thought that you demand as your inalienable right."
Now Mr. Thorpe was aware that a woman he had never known stood before
him, and he also knew that in purity of thought and in her sense of
justice, in Christ-likeness, she towered above him. Heretofore she had
bent to his will so readily that he scarcely knew how thoroughly he
dominated her. Now she stood before him asking and demanding freedom of
thought, independence in her religious belief--even that for which their
forefathers had fought. And this was Evelyn, his wife, not crushed by
his scathing condemnation, but triumphant in her sweet humility, and
mistress of the situation.
There was silence between them for a few moments, then Mrs. Thorpe laid
her hand on her husband's shoulder. She knew that her thrust had gone
straight to the mark and her heart ached with the pain she had
inflicted.
"Maurice," she said, "I would not willingly incur your disfavor, much
less cause you pain."
There was a tremor in her voice that threatened tears; but her husband
remained motionless and irresponsive.
"Can our conceptions of God come between us, Maurice--alienate us---when
we have been so much to each other?" Her voice choked and she felt that
her heart was breaking.
"I cannot understand, Evelyn," Mr. Thorpe said, in a voice that had lost
its harshness and was broken and unsteady, "how anything so visionary,
so fallacious, so palpably false, can have taken so strong a hold upon
you. What is it that has diverted your allegiance from the church--the
church of Christ?"
"Maurice, there is no command given for the observance of God's laws but
I most humbly reverence and endeavor to obey. All that to me seems good
and true in church and creed I hold and keep, but this I will say, that
the conception that I now have of spiritual things is deeper, stronger,
mightier than the old, as the ocean is mightier than the rivulet. I do
not condemn the church, but I must have more than it has ever given me.
I believe that Christ loves sick and sinful humanity to-day as he loved
it when he walked the earth healing all manner of evil and error."
"Evelyn, it is the heretical books that you have read that have blinded
you and caused you to put a false interpretation on the works of Christ.
Can you not see that when Christ came to earth and men were slow to
acknowledge Him that it was necessary for Him to give to the world some
evidence incontrovertible, irrefutable, that He was of divine origin?
To establish this fact beyond all doubt and question He chose a most
miraculous expedient: he healed the sick, cast out devils, raised the
dead. And now, even in this wicked and degenerate age, these mortals
whom He came to save claim the power to do these works that He did. To
say nothing of the absurdity of the thing, I little believed you capable
of accepting so blasphemous a fallacy."
Mrs. Thorpe turned and walked to the window, and her eyes followed the
incline that led up to the church.
"Christ takes the place in the spiritual life," she thought, "that the
church takes in the world; something exalted, set aside, to be looked up
to and worshiped, but never to aid and comfort. He came to glorify
Himself; his mission was to prove His own superior origin, and, the
church, following this conception of Him, holds itself superior to the
human family it stands to bless." There flashed before her a vision of
the dark-faced girl whose life had been robbed of its chastity and sent
to its ruin, while the adherents of the stately church before her
followed this conception of Christ. She thought of the sin and
suffering she had seen on the Bolton Flat; the lives of anguish and
crime that were lived there while the Savior of men, tender and
compassionate, presided over the beautiful church and blessed and
glorified it.
When she turned again to her husband her face was blanched and her eyes
were glowing with a strange light.
"And all this great gift of Christ's life, His suffering and
sacrifice--what was it for?" she asked. "If He healed the sick--not
because He had compassion upon the multitude, not because He was touched
with the feeling of their infirmities; if He cast out evil
spirits--anger, jealousy, malice and all the vagaries of a sin-sick
mortal mind--not because He wished the children of a loving Father to be
pure in heart, clean of life; if He raised the dead--not because the
great heart of God is merciful and tender--if these things would have
been beneath His notice had they not served in gaining His end,
indisputable evidence that He is the Great I AM, then He used them to
fix the gulf, to measure the distance between Himself and humanity--used
them, He the Christ, the Savior of men, for His own aggrandizement!"
Mr. Thorpe held out his hands with a gesture of horror. "Evelyn,
desist!" he cried. "What profanation is this?"
"But answer me this, Maurice: Were Christ's miracles performed to prove
Himself divine or were they works of mercy to prove His Saviorhood to
humanity?"
"Your question is irreverent, and in the sense in which you ask it,
sacrilegious and unchristian. Whatever it was that actuated Christ to do
those mighty works it is wildness, mania, for one to claim that this
power is in the world to-day."
"Yet for years, Maurice, you prayed that God would restore my health and
strength, and now it is sacrilege to affirm that the God to whom you
prayed has answered your prayer?"
"We will not prolong this discussion, Evelyn. Your feet have found a
strange, new road, while I, as I hope to see my God, must cleave to the
old. I knew that the hand of God was hard and grievous upon you, but I
could not believe that you would forsake the straight and narrow way.
The bitterness of death sinks before this."
Mrs. Thorpe knelt beside her husband and buried her face in his hands.
"God is our judge," she said; "let us leave our differences with Him."
"I have one promise to ask, one demand to make, Evelyn, and then this
subject shall be dropped between us. My life is in God's hands; when He
calls me I am ready to go. Whatever power you possess, or believe you
possess, over the human organism, I ask, demand, that you forebear to
exercise it in any manner where my welfare is concerned."
Mrs. Thorpe, still upon her knees, saw in the future pain, suffering,
separation--evils which, should she give her promise, she dare not deny.
Mr. Thorpe put her from him and arose to his feet. She arose also and
looked into his face; it was haggard and gray.
"Oh, Maurice!" she cried, "that I who love you should cause you to
suffer so!" She extended her hands to him, but he ignored her advance.
"I have asked a promise, made a demand," he said, "and you have not
answered me."
Again the living fire glittered in the sunshine; again the darkness
reeled before her. "Oh, Christ," she sobbed, inaudibly, "you who
suffered and died for the truth, help and keep me now!" Her face was
drawn and gray as her husband's, and when she spoke her voice was sharp
and keen with pain.
"I cannot--cannot deny my God," she said.
*CHAPTER XIII*
*THE PURE IN HEART*
The term, "A man of the world," is elastic enough to cover a multitude
of sins, and it gives the impression that however far from exemplary the
man may be to whom the term is applied, and however far from spotless
his character, that having made no avowal of virtue, he is in some
degree excusable for exercising the prerogatives of a villain.
Max Morrison was a man of the world. Men knew him as an all around good
fellow; women knew him as a bright and shining light about which many a
pretty moth had singed its gilded wings, been scorched, maimed, wounded.
But his popularity increased rather than diminished because of this, and
Edgerly's best society welcomed him warmly.
But the best society and all that it offers, as well as the amusements
that cannot bear the light of day, pall on a man in time and that which
is fine within him, silent, yet alive, cries for expression. When the
flush of youth is over, life begins to look more profound and sometimes
a bit somber, and then the stirrings of a man's heart are for a home and
fireside, wife, and the voice of children, and he begins to look about
him for a queen to reign in his home. And here, in making a choice of a
life companion, men generally show a superiority over women. A woman,
governed by her emotions and her desires, and taking a superficial view
of the future, will give her heart, her honor and her life to a man, no
matter what his past has been nor what his present is, if only he makes
her fair promises for the future. But a man, when he chooses a wife,
must know beyond the shadow of a doubt that the woman he honors is of
spotless character.
Let no woman breathe one word to break down this high standard that man
has set for womankind; but rather, let women demand of men that which
men require of them.
Max Morrison desired for his wife a woman pure as the angels in Heaven;
and this is what he believed Geraldine Vane to be. And after a long and
intimate friendship he decided to win her for his wife. He fully
realized the importance of the step, and he also realized that when a
man has a past and there are places in that past where the sun has never
shone, that phantom hands are liable to rise out of these dark places
and lay a blighting finger on the beautiful, blameless future. Many
times when his thoughts sought matrimonial byways, a vision of a dark,
eager face with full, voluptuous lips and passion-filled eyes arose
before him. There were times when he denounced himself as a fool whose
folly had ruined his life. There had been good material in Margaret, as
well as the fatal traits that had ruined her. Suppose her circumstances
had been different, or that someone had lent her a helping hand;
defended and protected her. What a woman she would have made! What a
force in the world! Was there one in the world who could equal what she
might have been? The thought was torture to him and he banished the
dark face from his vision; it had not been pleasant to look upon the
last time he had seen it, and Geraldine was the woman to be considered
now. He consoled himself as best he could with the thought that no
doubt Geraldine, with her placid temper and quiet, acquiescent ways,
would lead a man a more comfortable life than would a passionate,
spirited woman such as Margaret would have made.
Max was not exactly a vain man, but he had known many women and been
repulsed by none. He had no serious apprehension that he might not be
able to win the woman that he had decided to honor; but he desired to
make his footing sure as possible, and he wished also to be honorable
and irreproachable in his conduct toward this woman and her family. To
this end he approached Mr. Mayhew on the subject.
"My friendship with your niece," he said to that gentleman, "is, as you
know, of long standing. You have accorded me the greatest kindness and
hospitality; now I ask your permission to pay my addresses to Geraldine
as a suitor for her hand."
Mr. Mayhew's business instinct, always keen and shrewd, became at once
active and alert. On general principles his policy was to conceal an
advantage until he saw its consummation, and he saw no reason to depart
from his usual course in this instance. And in his estimation a
proposition would have to be questionable indeed if he could not from
here and there bring in enough that was moral to make it tenable.
However many dark places there might be in a course he wished to pursue,
he never allowed himself to be too Puritanical to find some defensible
ground on which to make a stand. He thought it very probable that Max
did not know that Geraldine was a dowerless girl, absolutely dependent,
and he had no compunctions that the fact had been well guarded. If Max
wished to marry the girl, her fortunes ought to make no difference to
him. And if Geraldine was willing to accept him for a husband, she
could do as thousands of other women had done--overlook or ignore the
past. Here, then, was the high tenable ground, and without any
hesitation he took his stand. Yet in his heart he knew that if this
fair girl beneath his roof had a fortune of her own he would see that
she got a better man for a husband than this one to whom he now gave
full and free consent to woo her.
Mr. Mayhew would like to have had the co-operation of his wife in
influencing Geraldine to make her choice. He understood that Max
expected him to use his influence to predispose the girl in his favor,
and also that he desired him to palliate his past conduct, if there was
need of palliation in Geraldine's mind. But Mr. Mayhew was too shrewd a
man to see only one side of the question. His wife he believed to be
one of the most satisfactory women in the world yet he realized that
there were times when she was a power to be dealt with, and he believed
it always better to circumvent a woman than to oppose her. He never
attempted to lower her ideals of honor and morality; but he took it upon
himself to see that they did not interfere with the practical advantages
of life. Now he counted that all he could say in Max's favor would have
less weight with Geraldine than that which his wife could say against
him, if she cared to do so. And rather than risk having Geraldine
consult with her aunt as to the suitability of Max as a husband, he
decided to let her make the reply to the all-important question with as
little premeditation as possible. And as though in response to his
unspoken preference, Max did not delay his purpose long.
It was a stormy night in early winter, Max called at the Mayhew home and
was shown into the library, where he found Geraldine deep in a volume of
old-time valorous deeds. She had read of knights and chivalry and
maidens fair and true until her heart throbbed with the spirit of the
olden time, and that which is brave and fine in human nature lay
uppermost in her mind.
She greeted her caller with a mingling of the fervor of a Joan of Arc
and the sweet dignity of a Lady Jane Grey. Her eyes were bright, there
was an unusual glow on her cheeks, and no queen ever wore a crown of
gems and jewels more becoming than was Geraldine's crown of golden hair.
She drew a chair to the fire for her caller.
"You were brave to face the storm," she said.
Max settled himself comfortably in the grateful warmth and glow.
"One could well face a fiercer storm for a moment of lesser bliss," he
said.
The firelight fell on his swarthy face and magnificent proportions. How
like a veritable knight stepped out of the book of brave deeds he
appeared!
The library door stood open, and Dr. Eldrige Jr., who had been called to
see one of the Mayhew children slightly ailing, passed this door on his
way to the nursery and saw the man and woman sitting in the firelight.
His face grew hard, and involuntarily his fingernails cut into the flesh
of his palms.
"There was a time," he thought, "a time centuries ago, when true men
were knights and challenged to deadly conflict villains who dared to
approach women of honor. There would be satisfaction in grappling with
a man of Morrison's stamp; grappling until his cursed blood flows
red--or give my life in the effort. But in these days, these better,
Christian days, we have done away, if not with honor, with all
aggressive vindication of it; we no longer call our enemy to halt and
demand of him his aims and intentions; we get out of his way and give
him full swing." The doctor came to a sudden halt; a new train of
thought had flashed into his mind. "My God! I cannot tell what this
man's intentions may be. He may intend to marry Geraldine!"
It was the first time this aspect of the affair had presented itself to
him, and while it seemed a thing too hideous to contemplate, he felt
sure that it was true. But although his indignation and despair broiled
and seethed in his heart, he ministered to the child with a touch
skilled and tender as a woman's; then he gave the nurse exact directions
for the night and took his departure.
When he again passed the library the door had swung to and no sound came
to him from behind the closed portal. He passed quickly, quietly out of
the house and into the street, out into the dark, moaning night. Rain
and sleet were falling; the wind buffeted him and strange sounds from
the shivering trees and their bare, wailing branches came to him. All
the black face of the night seemed possessed of a wild and witch-like
fierceness. Voices shrieked and hissed at him. The woman--the one
woman in the world--the woman that he loved--what was life to him now
and all that it contained? Was the future that stretched before him
less black than this tempestuous night? Alone in the storm and the
darkness he felt himself a part of the tumultuous elements about him.
In the library the firelight lay warm and red over the furnishings, and
fantastic shadows lurked here and there about the room. The wind when
it arose in its fury could be heard like the sobbing of some unhappy
spirit.
Max stood before Geraldine, his soul in his eyes and a great tenderness
in his musical, well-modulated voice.
"You must have known that I love you, Geraldine," he said; "love and
adore you." He extended his hands to her, pleading, passionate.
"Geraldine!"
But Geraldine, sitting there wrapped in the red firelight, did not stir
nor move. The color had gone from her face, her eyes were bright and
her eyelids burned hot and dry. She saw the dark, dominating figure
beside her, she heard the pleading and she understood; yet she remained
silent and motionless before him.
He bent over and took her hand in his. "Geraldine," he whispered, close
to her white face, "come to me."
Then the blood beat into her face and flushed it crimson red. Her tense
muscles relaxed and she arose and stood before him. The warm firelight
enfolded them, and the wind came to them in wailing sobs; but silence
lay between them, and Geraldine was alone--alone as it comes to us all
to be sometimes--many times, perhaps. No word of her aunt's warning
came to her now; no thought of her uncle's unspoken wish was with her;
the world, with its perplexities, was forgotten; life that had already
grieved and distressed her was lost in oblivion and she was in the
silence, the vastness, the grandeur of self--alone--and her pure heart,
her woman's heart knew its own. There are voices that come to us
sometimes, other than those that come over the vibrations of air waves.
The deep, still voice of truth needs no material means through which to
speak. A wordless message came to Geraldine, as she stood silent and
alone; it called to the depth of her soul, and smote upon the sweet,
vibrant chords of her womanhood.
"Max," she said, "I cannot--cannot--"
"Geraldine--oh, Geraldine!"
"I cannot, Max--I do not love you."
He looked at her then as one looks at a rare and beautiful gem, and a
desire to possess her such as he had not felt before arose within him;
and even the dark-faced girl that at one time he had fancied stood
unseen beside him in the firelight was forgotten.
"Geraldine, it cannot be--you do not understand." He seized her hands
and his eyes burned upon her compellingly, as he sought by the superior
force of his will to dominate and control her. "My love, be kind; you
would not cast me off, ruin my life--"
"I cannot, Max," she said. Her voice faltered and her eyes looked
compassionately into his. "I do not love you."
How many women he had loved, or professed to love, and not one of them
had answered him as he was answered now. What sort of woman, then, was
this one, whom persuasion could not influence and passion could not
sway? By what standard had her life been fashioned? What was its
center and controlling power? With all that he had seen of life, could
it be that he had failed in his judgment of womankind? Was there
something in the nature of a woman, a good woman, that he had never
known?
His thoughts had found a new channel and he was at their mercy. Was
there something in human nature, in life, deeper, truer, stronger than
he had ever known? He turned from the firelight and the trembling girl
on the hearth and walked across the room. The bare branches of a
sweet-brier outside tapped against the window-pane. The blinds were
drawn, but he could hear the tapping, and in fancy see the bare, brown
branches at the mercy of the wind. He sat down by the window and bowed
his head and covered his eyes with his hand.
Had he all this time been dealing with the outer sham of life, deluded
in the belief that he was living in the very heart of it? Had he been
surfeiting himself with the husks, believing that he was feasting on the
rare, sweet-flavored kernel?
For a time Geraldine remained by the hearth, then she crossed the room
and stood beside him and laid her hand gently on his arm.
"Max," she said, "we have been friends, good friends--in our friendship
we have been true to each other, we must be true to each other still,
and true to ourselves--to the best that is in us. I cannot give you
what you ask. Shall I be false and give you less? You desire a woman's
heart, her life and love--shall I defraud you of this? Some day,
perhaps, you will be glad that I have been true to myself--and to you,
Max."
When Max stepped out into the night the wind had grown less boisterous;
now and then a fitful gust went by like a wanderer in the night. The
cold had become keener; overhead the clouds had rifted and a few stars
kept watch with the night.
Geraldine lay awake long after she had sought her rest. The low moaning
of the wind came to her in her upper room, and from her window she could
see the rifted clouds and scattered stars. From a child she had looked
from this same window at the face of the night, and the feeling had
grown up with her that the great enfolding darkness was guarding and
protecting her. Her trust and her simple faith had been as natural as
her breathing or her existence. All her life before Faith and Trust had
pillowed her head at night, and gently touched her eyelids, and
whispered sweet dreams to her; but to-night dark, foreboding Doubt
became her companion, and she tossed restlessly on her bed and looked
down the long vista of years and saw herself alone, forgotten and
unloved. With maidenly reserve and a woman's pride she had endeavored
to shut out and debar from her thoughts one whom she believed had ceased
to care for her, even as a friend; but when she had stood alone in the
presence of her conscious self, the pleading of the man beside her had
not seemed so real, so vital to her as did the vibrations of the
wordless, evanescent message that came to her above the sobbing wind and
the spirit of the tumultuous night.
Mrs. Mayhew noticed her heavy eyes and swelled lids the next morning,
and Geraldine told her of Max's proposal and her rejection of him. Mrs.
Mayhew had felt sure that Geraldine was to face this question, and in
her heart she was glad of the girl's decision; yet her happiness came
first, and it was evident that she was not happy, and she felt sure that
there was something that Geraldine had not disclosed; yet she understood
the fineness of the girl's nature too well to desire to force her
confidence. And Geraldine could not speak of that about which she felt
no woman has a right to speak. And so a barrier, subtle, thin as gauze,
yet impenetrable, hung like a curtain between them. And Mrs. Mayhew,
with rare wisdom, realizing that her girl had grown into a woman, was
content to let her alone with her woman's secrets.
When Mr. Mayhew came home from his office that day his mood was not
exactly a happy one. He had seen Max and knew the outcome of his
proposal. He was both surprised and displeased; but he concealed the
fact from Max and hinted that a woman's "no" often means "yes," and he
determined to see Geraldine and speak plainly to her. When Max first
spoke to him about Geraldine he had begun to look upon her as he might
upon a commodity that had lain for years almost forgotten, but which had
suddenly become of great value. Now, with her own hand she had
shattered his plans for her, and refused one of the best fortunes in
Edgerly.