seated near the fire reading when she entered the room. She did not
disturb him, but went over and stood by the window and watched the
sweet-brier as it tapped gently now against the window-pane.
Mr. Mayhew lowered his paper and looked at her, and his mind became
reminiscent. He was impressed anew with Geraldine's likeness to her
father; and this man seemed to come out of the shadowy past and confront
him. Noble he had been, high-minded, conscientious and--poor. A
musician, his artist's soul pure as the divine strains of his melodies,
he seemed like one whom chance had placed in a wrong world, or a wrong
age. Then his mind ran over the different members of the Vane family;
scholars, musicians, professional men, high-minded and noble, but could
anything excuse their poverty?
Geraldine turned and met his gaze. He arose and placed a chair for her.
"I wished to speak to you," he said direct, "I wish to speak about Max."
"Yes," she said, and her manner was gentle and womanly.
He was conscious of thinking that she had good blood in her veins; her
voice and manner proclaimed it; and all she lacked was a fortune such as
Max could give her.
"You understand, Geraldine, that Max has all the comforts of life to
give the woman he marries."
"Yes, I know."
"The truth sometimes sounds harsh when spoken plainly, Geraldine; but
you are aware, that however loved and welcome you have been beneath my
roof, that you are a dowerless girl. It was my desire that you be given
every advantage that a girl of wealth receives, and your aunt has seen
that my wishes were carried out. Now you are offered a home and fortune
that will give you the comforts and luxuries of life to which you have
been accustomed. Can you afford to lose this opportunity?"
"I cannot marry Max Morrison."
He met her eyes; they had been dark and sweet like pansies; now they
were wide and blue. He felt the hopelessness of argument. He knew the
Vanes; they appeared yielding and docile, but he knew them to be flint
and steel where a principle was concerned. He arose, impatient to be
away.
A few days later it was known that Max Morrison had enlisted with a
company of volunteers, and was going to the Philippines.
*CHAPTER XIV*
*A FRIEND IN NEED*
Mr. Thorpe went to Colorado for his health. A cousin of his, a brother
of Pauline's, lived there, and Mr. Thorpe had a standing invitation to
come and try the effect of the climate on his health. Pauline
accompanied him; she had become so used to caring for him and watching
over him as a mother watches over an ailing child, that she could not
bring herself to part with him now, when she believed his condition to
be more critical than it had ever been before. Then, too, she knew that
all was not well between him and his wife, and, knowing this, she had no
desire to remain with Mrs. Thorpe.
The pastor who was called in Mr. Thorpe's place was an unmarried man,
and had no use for the parsonage, and Mr. Thorpe, by courtesy of the
church committee, had been permitted to retain the use of it. But now,
left alone, Mrs. Thorpe felt the necessity of finding a home for
herself.
Some years previous she had, by the death of an uncle, come into
possession of a small legacy. This her husband had insisted that she
keep intact against a day of need.
On the Flat side of the church-crowned incline there was a small cottage
set in a bit of ground, somewhat back from the rambling street. On
either side of it were smaller houses, with ill-kept yards in which
neglected children played and where untidy women talked across broken
down fences and quarreled over petty grievances. Mrs. Thorpe had often
noticed this cottage on her way to and from the Flat. The fact that it
stood a little back from the street had given her the impression that
the builder of it had desired more privacy, was more retiring, perhaps,
than were those who had built their houses against the street; and she
had planned in her mind how flowers and shrubs might be grown in the
yard and vines trained over the windows and the place made to take on a
homelike appearance, if the owner desired it. Now, confronted with the
problem of finding a home for herself, her thoughts went directly to
this cottage.
Alone in the world, broken-hearted, strong in spirit, yet all at sea as
to the future, the thought of a cottage on the Flat was not distasteful
to her. Perhaps her work lay there; she meant to work, and it made
little difference to her what the work should be or where it took her.
She knew that the place was for sale, and when she found that the price
was within the limit of her possessions she hesitated no longer, and the
cottage became hers. Deep within her heart she knew that she was
influenced by the fact that from its location she could see the
church--might almost feel that she lived within the shadow of it--the
church that her husband had loved. In the morning she would see it, as
she had so often seen it from the parsonage, with the sun rising over
the hills and mantling it with roseate splendor; and in the evening she
could see the long shadow of the church spire; and on the Sabbath she
could hear the bell as it called the worshipers to its altars. Full
well she knew that she loved the church, knew that she must always love
it and reverence that for which it stands. The fact that it is profaned
by the hollow-hearted and ungodly does not change its sacred character
nor destroy its spiritual significance, any more than the making "my
Father's house a place of merchandise" destroyed the spiritual
significance of the Temple.
Sometimes in her ever-vivid imagination she saw the whole
Christianity-professing world as an Edgerly, and the poor, the ignorant
and the unfortunate in the world as this great Edgerly's Flat; and
always the church-crowned prominence with its prosperous, complacent
money-changers between. And always she was glad that henceforth her
home was to be on the Flat side, with those who needed her. Had her
Master ever chosen to walk in the high places with the great ones of
earth?
It was a day in early winter when Mrs. Thorpe had her possessions moved
from the parsonage to the cottage on the Flat. She engaged the services
of a strong woman to assist her with her work and in putting her new
home in order. When this was done she paid the woman her hire and
allowed her to go; her income would not warrant her keeping a servant
nor a companion; she would live alone, and frugally.
When sorrow, or pain, or disappointment knocks at our door we struggle
and strive, sometimes we faint and fail, yet always the knowledge comes
to us that we may be strong if we will. There is no time nor place nor
circumstance in life stronger than the central force within us.
Since her husband's departure Mrs. Thorpe's time had been taken up with
work that pressed upon her; many cares and real labor claimed her time
and strength. But now all was done, her house was in order and she was
alone, sitting with empty hands--alone--beside her silent hearth. The
wind blustered noisily outside, foretelling the ravages of winter, and
sleet and rain came spasmodically against her window-panes. And here in
the solitude of her new home old memories crowded round her and ghosts
of her former self trooped through the silent rooms. She recalled how
she had tried in the early days of her married life to penetrate the
future, the sealed and silent future. Merciful love of the Infinite
One, who turns the pages of life's book one at a time!
A sudden gust of wind came furiously against her window. She arose and
walked about the room and pressed her face against the window-pane and
looked out into the darkness. A white, transparent face it was, with
eyes too large and dark for their setting. Then she came back and stood
before her fire, a slender, girlish figure with clasped hands and bowed
head. A sigh arose to her lips and ended in a quivering sob. She sank
upon her knees beside her chair and buried her face in her hands.
"Maurice!" she cried, "Maurice--it is all false and untrue--this trouble
that parts us. There is no evil, no pain, no sickness in God's
world--Maurice--God's power is absolute; there is no other. God is
supreme--love will conquer."
It was not the heart of the mortal woman, loyal and loving though it was
with human affection; but the soul of her diviner self that was crying
in the silence for its own. And never yet has the soul called in vain.
Yet, is it not true that the Mount of Calvary is the mount of answered
prayer? It was here that the great love-born prayer for humanity was
consummated; a consummation attained by the adorable surrender of the
finite to the Infinite.
Mrs. Thorpe had prayed; back in those haunted, troubled days she had
dared to pray that all forms of suffering might be heaped upon her, that
she might become an outcast in the world, if by this means she might
know God. Now she felt the living presence of the Infinite enfolding
her, and her life merged into the great Life. Had she not been all the
way to Calvary?
When she arose from her knees she sat quietly, bravely before her open
fire, and listened to the wind and rain without. After a time she
experienced a feeling, vague, indefinite at first, that something was
required of her, someone needed her. She could not tell who it was, nor
where, but the feeling grew upon her that she was needed by someone in
trouble. After a time this unvoiced conviction become so persistent
that she arose and took her hood and rain-coat from the closet.
"It may be Mrs. Boyd," she thought. "Her baby is sick; I will call over
and see."
At the door the wind caught her and the rain dashed into her face; but
she pulled her garments more firmly about her and faced the storm. At
her gate she paused for a moment in the face of the gale. "What is it,"
she questioned, "that is drawing me out into the night and the tempest?"
No one had sent for her, she had spoken no word to anyone, yet the
feeling was so strong within her that she persisted, and made her way to
her neighbor's door.
Mrs. Boyd met her garrulously: "And are you out in the storm, Mrs.
Thorpe? Lonesome? Well, no doubt, no doubt; it's hard living alone for
a woman, and a bad night to keep one's own company."
"I came to inquire about the baby," Mrs. Thorpe said. "How is he
to-night?"
"The baby's better, thank you, Mrs. Thorpe. He's sleepin' natural
to-night."
"I am glad to know it," Mrs. Thorpe replied. "I had a feeling of
uneasiness about the little fellow; but if I am not needed I will go
back at once, for I think the storm increases."
Again out in the dark, windy night, she questioned her purpose. What
was it that had impelled her to go out into the night and the storm?
The part of the street that lay between this house and her cottage was
scarcely more than a foot-path, and she was following it somewhat
uncertainly when she stopped short and drew back in sudden fright.
There was something directly in front of her, flapping in the wind, like
the dark wing of some great bird or evil spirit. For a moment she
wavered, trembling and irresolute, then her unflinching spirit asserted
itself and she approached the object. Now she could discern that it was
a garment that was flying in the wind, and as she drew near to the
object it moved, partly arose, and fell back again.
"Who is this?" asked Mrs. Thorpe, now close to the prostrate form. "Are
you hurt or ill?" She stooped and laid her hand upon the object. "Are
you ill?" she repeated. "Can I assist you? Why are you here?" She was
down beside the creature now, and a moan and a bitter cry greeted her.
"Why am I here--why--why am I here--" It was a woman's voice.
Mrs. Thorpe took hold of her.
"Do what you can to help yourself," she said, "and I will assist you."
But she soon saw that the burden was too great for her strength, and the
unfortunate creature was down on the ground again. She was about to go
back and ask Mrs. Boyd to assist her when she saw the figure of a man
approaching. As he drew near she spoke to him.
"Would you be so kind as to lend me your assistance?" she said. "I
found this unfortunate creature here in the street. I fear she is ill."
The man stood close beside her in the darkness.
"Mrs. Thorpe!" he said, "Mrs. Thorpe, what are you doing here in the
night and the storm?"
With a glad cry she held out her hands to him.
"Dr. Eldrige! How fortunate that you happened this way. I found this
poor creature here; she must be ill, I think. Help me now and we will
take her into my house."
The doctor took the woman in his arms and helped her, half carrying her
to the cottage door. Mrs. Thorpe turned the key in the lock, pushed open
the door, and the light from the room streamed out and fell upon the
woman's face. And then Mrs. Thorpe's questions were answered. She knew
why old memories had crowded upon her; she knew why she had gone to the
source of Power for strength, and why she had gone out into the wild
night storm. The face was the dark, passion-stamped face of Margaret
McGowan.
The doctor crossed the room and laid his burden on the couch as Mrs.
Thorpe directed him. Then he straightened himself and looked into Mrs.
Thorpe's face.
Never in her life had she seen a face so haggard, so deadly white and
set. The time may come to a human heart when sympathy is as keenly
craved as is food and drink to a man stranded in the desert. For one
long minute the doctor held Mrs. Thorpe's eyes with his, and she read in
their awful depths the tragedy of his life. Ah, these heart tragedies!
Faith, hope, love--faithless, hopeless, forsaken! Not a word was
spoken; the man turned to be alone, and the vibrating silence lay
between them. But who can know what message may have gone out from the
man's tortured soul? Dr. Eldrige's thought held to the wronged woman
suffering and cold on the cot, but the soul of his manhood went out to
that other woman shielded in the warm firelight. What, after all, are
our material concepts of life where the realities of being are
concerned? Who places our limitations upon us and makes our
communication with a loved one dependent on time and space?
Both the doctor and Mrs. Thorpe turned to the prostrate form on the
couch. "We must attend to her without delay," the doctor said; and they
drew off her rain-soaked shoes, and warmed her aching feet, and removed
her wet garments, and wrapped her in warm flannels. And Mrs. Thorpe
brewed her a steaming cup of tea; and after the girl had drank this they
assisted her to a bed and made her as comfortable as possible for the
night. Then the doctor prepared to take his departure.
"I will send you someone to stay with you through the night, if you
like," he said to Mrs. Thorpe.
"Not unless you think it necessary," she replied. "I am not afraid;
believe me, I am not afraid." And so he left her alone with her
patient.
The girl fell into an uneasy sleep and Mrs. Thorpe drew a chair to her
bedside and sat beside her. And watching by this erring girl who had
been so often in her thoughts, Mrs. Thorpe realized how small had been
the measure of her faith; for she had not dared to believe that the
opportunity to repay Margaret for the wrong she had done her would ever
come to her.
After a time Margaret fell into a deep slumber, and Mrs. Thorpe left her
and sought her rest. The next morning she found her tossing restlessly
on her pillows. Her eyes, wide open now, were staring and bloodshot;
the blood was leaping wildly through her veins and fever burned in her
face. She laid her hand on the girl's forehead.
"Margaret," she said, "my poor Margaret."
A wild laugh greeted her, then a moan and a cry of pain. Mrs. Thorpe
talked to her and soothed her as best she could, and when she grew
quieter she prepared a plate of tempting food for her and brewed a cup
of coffee to a deep, rich brown and flavored it with the cream she had
reserved for her own morning beverage.
During the day Dr. Eldrige called in and inquired about her.
"You are doing all there is to be done for her," he said to Mrs. Thorpe.
"Stimulating food and good care are all that she needs. If you could
keep her with you--if she could be kept away from her temptations--there
is good in the girl, Mrs. Thorpe, or at least there once was good in
her."
Mrs. Thorpe looked at him with her eyes misty, unfathomable.
"No one understands the truth of what you say better than I do, Dr.
Eldrige; I shall keep her with me--always, perhaps."
As the day wore away and evening came on, Margaret began to realize her
condition and she recognized Mrs. Thorpe.
"I thought it was a dream," she said, "all a dream, and I dreaded to
awake; and now I do not understand. Where am I? And why are you here,
Mrs. Thorpe? How came we beneath the same roof--you who are good--and I
who--thank God--if there is a God--I who am bad?"
Mrs. Thorpe looked into the girl's face. What should she say to her?
What could she tell her? How could she win her?
"You have been ill for a time, Margaret, and I have been caring for
you," she said.
"Where am I? Who brought me here, and why have you been caring for me?"
"This is my home. I found you in need and brought you here. I am very
glad to have you, Margaret; and you were ill, you know." But Mrs.
Thorpe noticed that there was a hard and sullen look on the girl's face.
She did not speak for some time, and then she said:
"I do not know why you brought me here, Mrs. Thorpe. Perhaps you expect
me to thank you for what you have done for me. You have saved my life,
no doubt. There was a time when I was worth saving--and you could have
saved me--but now I had rather have died in the street than to have
taken one favor from your hand."
Mrs. Thorpe stepped to the girl's side and slipped an arm about her.
"Margaret," she said, "you have an old grievance against me, and justly,
too. But girl, girl, do you think that I, too, have not suffered for
that day's ignorance and folly? Do you think that the condemnation that
the past has brought is more bitter upon you than it is upon me? Do you
think that the stain of your sin is upon you alone? Margaret, Margaret,
hear me. As we stand before God, I do believe I am the guiltier woman
of the two." Mrs. Thorpe's voice choked with sobs and her face was wet
with tears. "I sent you, passionate and misguided, to your sin; you but
did the thing I drove you to. In the sight of our fellow men the
condemnation is upon you; but how blind and ignorant is the judgment of
men! Yet this I will say: I never meant to harm you, Margaret. I had
no slightest thought of what it meant to you and your mother. I was
ignorant, and oh, I, too, was passionate and misguided! But now that I
have found you again, now that I have you here in my home while you need
me and I need you--and I do need you, Margaret--stay with me, stay here
with me."
"Stay with you? Stay here with you? Little you know what it is you
ask, Mrs. Thorpe--little you know! I must get back--yes, back."
"I will not let you go, Margaret. I will never let you go."
The girl's anger and passion flamed into her face.
"You don't know what it is you ask," she said. "I tell you, you don't
know--I'm not a woman that you want here."
"Margaret, I do want you. I want you to feel that this is your home;
and oh, my child, I want you to know that I am your friend--always and
always your friend."
The girl's eyes were furious, yet piteous, like the eyes of an animal at
bay; her passion had burned almost to frenzy.
"Know, then," she hissed, close to Mrs. Thorpe's face, "know, then, what
it is that I must have! I tell you, I am a ruined woman--I must have--"
But Mrs. Thorpe put out her hand.
"Hush, Margaret," she said. "Do you think that I do not know? I do
know, and, believe me, I know what you suffer! But oh, my child! How
many, many who were dire distressed pressed close to the Healer's
side--and never one was turned away."
Margaret scanned Mrs. Thorpe's face with a look that was terrible--keen
as a lightning flash. For a moment the transfiguration of hope, desire,
faith, lay in the dark depth of her eyes. Her face relaxed; the frenzy
and passion died out of it and left it quivering with a new-born
anguish. She threw herself prostrate on a couch and burst into a
paroxysm of tears.
A woman's tears--a fallen woman's tears! The sacred pages that are so
few, yet hold the record of all that guides the human family from the
beginning to the end, had space for this, a fallen woman's tears. The
sins, blood-red, that have been made like wool; as scarlet, that have
become white as snow, washed in the fountain of penitent tears! And
beating in divine cadence, sounding forever through the centuries, are
the words of the great Forgiver of men:
"Go thy way and sin no more."
*CHAPTER XV*
*NEITHER DO I CONDEMN THEE*
Mrs. Thorpe beguiled Margaret into leading a quiet life. She prevailed
upon her to go out but little, and never allowed her to go alone. There
were days when the old rebellion arose within the girl and her abnormal
craving grew all but intolerable, when bodily pain and mental anguish
rendered her less woman than monster.
But into the work of helping to readjust this unfortunate girl's life
Mrs. Thorpe brought her dauntless courage, her understanding of the
Truth and her faith in the supreme Power. There were no halfway places
in this woman's character; there were no doubts in her creed, no
cringing fears in her belief. The power of God is a power to save once,
every time and forever. To doubt once, to admit one fear, to let go for
one instant the everlasting principle of Truth, is to hurl oneself from
the mountain peak, to cast oneself from the pinnacle of the Temple.
The winter was a severe one. The great banks of snow piled higher and
higher during the short winter days; and when the days began to lengthen
the cold grew more keen and cutting. There was suffering on the Flat as
there had been winters before. Mrs. Thorpe went among the people with
words of cheer, and such material aid as she could render. The ladies
of the church and the Edgerly Benevolent Society soon found her out, and
her little home became a distributing point between Christian Edgerly
and the suffering Flat. The Society soon learned that Mrs. Thorpe knew
where the need was greatest, and what the needs of the individual were;
she knew which shivering child the little scarlet coat that some
mother's darling had outgrown would fit; she knew where the shoes that
had become too shabby for a child of fortune to wear would be most
welcome, and which pair of cold, pinched hands should have the
half-worn, fur-topped mittens; she knew where there was sickness and
where the larder was empty; she knew also where the needy ones could be
trusted with funds and where they could not.
And the Benevolent Society, finding that she knew all these things,
found it a great relief to leave their offerings with her. It saved the
painful harrowing of their feelings that personal contact with these
people brought, and also gave them a comfortable sense of the works
being well done. And in simple truth, was not this, to gain the feeling
of conscious comfort that comes from the doing of a good deed, the
primary object of their charity?
Mrs. Thorpe willingly took this work upon herself. It was a joy to her
that she was able in any degree to lighten the burdens of these people,
and her zest and interest in the work grew from day to day; yet from the
depths of her heart she grieved over it.
"Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep for yourselves and
your children." Were these Christian women of Edgerly the daughters and
the children of the daughters that the prophetic vision saw down the
stretch of the centuries?
Margaret became interested in the work of distribution. It may be that
it was the interest and spirit with which she entered into this work
that saved her. Mrs. Thorpe saw that little by little the girl's
thoughts were turning from self, away from the dark record with its
paralyzing effect, to another's need, another's suffering, another's
pleasure. Sometimes among the garments that were sent to them there
would be one that must be altered in some way, or buttons be replaced,
or stitches taken. With forethought and tact Mrs. Thorpe kept Margaret
employed; kept her hands at works of kindness and her mind filled with
thoughts of others.