active interest in the relief work, one who cared to go among the people
and know them. This was Geraldine Vane, who had become a frequent
visitor in Mrs. Thorpe's home. The trouble that had come to Geraldine
had turned her thoughts from her own favored life and made her more
thoughtful of others, and in Mrs. Thorpe she had found a friend such as
many a girl craves, a woman older and more mature than herself.
And there was something in Margaret, this passionate girl with her
turbulent, troubled past, that appealed to the favored child of chastity
and gave her a broader, more sympathetic outlook; gave her that peculiar
knowledge the lack of which Mrs. Mayhew had once deplored. The two
girls were of about the same age; they had grown to womanhood in the
same town, but circumstances had forced their paths far apart. Now the
threads of their lives, so different in form and color, were weaving
together the pattern of a unique friendship.
Together these two visited a poor home one day, where death had entered.
A little child lay dead, and they performed the last services for the
little sleeper and prepared her for her rest. Together they stood by
the poor little grave and heard the minister's words and saw the earth
heaped above the little form. Mrs. Thorpe remained in the home, where
another child lay ill. When they returned from the grave they found Dr.
Eldrige Jr. ministering to the sick child. Mrs. Thorpe saw the doctor's
face grow cold and grave as he greeted Geraldine, and she noted the
reserve that the girl drew about herself. Yet, after the greeting was
over she saw in the man's eyes a look such as a thirsty traveler might
direct toward a stream of water which was beyond his reach. And on
Geraldine's face there was a shadow which she had noticed there before,
the shadow of a long endurance.
Some days later Mrs. Thorpe met the doctor again. He had finished his
round of calls and was on his homeward way when he overtook her near her
gate.
"Come in with me and rest a bit before the long climb up the hill," she
said.
"Always a long, hard climb to the top of the hill," he replied. And
Mrs. Thorpe, seeing that he hesitated to accept her invitation, said:
"Margaret and Geraldine have gone across the Flat to see a sick child;
they will not be back for some time, I think."
Then, without further words, he opened the gate for her and accompanied
her to the house. She gave him a chair by the fire and stirred up the
coals in the grate, then she removed her wraps and seated herself by the
fire. There was no uncertainty in her mind as to why she had asked him
to come in; she knew exactly what it was she wished to say to him; but
she felt that kind Providence must aid her in finding a way to say it.
Since that night, when in the tragic silence a bond of sympathy had
sprung up between them, she had learned a fact which she was desirous of
communicating to him.
She had a personal liking for this man, and a great admiration for the
manner in which he was devoting his time and skill to the relief of the
unfortunate. Then, too, she had not forgotten that he had been her
friend in the days of her sorest perplexity; and she knew as well as did
he that his judgment and prompt action had once saved her reason. And
then, when all her skies were black, at that time in her affairs when
she knew not whether in all this world she had more than one thing left
her, when of all she had believed she had, she was sure of just this one
thing--the love of God--at this time she knew that Dr. Eldrige had by
his actions, rather than by words or arguments, defended her against the
malevolence of his father, and with his quiet scorn had removed the
venom from the wild, improbable reports that the older man had
circulated, and had maintained before her friends and acquaintances that
these unreasonable tales were a disgrace, not to the one lone woman, but
to the community which countenanced and repeated them.
When her friends came back to her and life began to flow again on the
old level, a word dropped by one or another, a statement or a half
confession from friend or casual acquaintance, revealed to Mrs. Thorpe
the sincerity of this man's quiet, unostentatious friendship. Now the
knowledge came to her that his life had been robbed of its happiness and
all its sweetest harmonies had given place to discord. And she longed
to tell him that which she knew to be a fact, that it was his own
unskilled touch that was producing the discords.
"You are finding plenty of work here this winter, Mrs. Thorpe," he said.
"The good you are doing is inestimable."
"An appreciation which might easily be returned, Dr. Eldrige. I know
whose name is a household word over all this Flat."
"Yet the lives of these people are hard," he said; "hard and pitiable,
for all your efforts and mine."
"But not so hard as they might otherwise be; and as for that, many lives
are hard--every life that lives and labors under false impressions is
hard."
He glanced at her as though to catch the import of her words, and then
he knew that there was something in her thought more than her words
signified; but he waited for her to continue.
"A mistaken idea is quite as capable of causing unhappiness as the
sternest reality," she said.
"There is something you wish to say to me, Mrs. Thorpe. Why do you
disguise your meaning? Can we not be frank with each other?"
"Thank you, Dr. Eldrige; I hope that our friendship is not so poor a
thing that it cannot stand a straightforward word. This, then, is what
I wish to say: I believe your standards to be excellent and your sense
of justice fine and true, yet in your estimate of another you have
allowed yourself to be influenced by outside appearances; and while I
can see your point of view, yet I know you are condemning as good and
true a woman as ever lived, for something she did not know existed."
Mrs. Thorpe saw the man's face harden, his brows contract, and pain,
keen and sharp, flash in his eyes; and when he spoke there was severity
in his voice.
"She knew the man's character," he said.
Mrs. Thorpe's eyes, level, unflinching, met his.
"What is your authority for your statement?" she asked.
The doctor arose and came over to Mrs. Thorpe's side.
"Mrs. Thorpe," he said, "can it be--can it be possible that she did not
know?"
"She did not know, Dr. Eldrige; she has told me that she did not know."
"She has told you--Geraldine has told you?"
"Geraldine has told me that she did not know the man's character; that
she never dreamed of the thing that you and I know. Mrs. Mayhew has
told me that at one time she tried to enlighten the girl, but she
confesses that she did not handle the subject fearlessly as she should.
I, myself, told Geraldine the truth as I know it; but it was not until
after Max had gone."
The doctor resumed his seat; he rested his elbow on the arm of his chair
and covered his face with his hand.
Mrs. Thorpe arose and left the fireside and went over to the window; her
eyes wandered far across the frost-covered Flat, but her heart was with
the man sitting in silence before her fire--her whole heart was with
him--his happiness--his future--his life. Had she made possible for him
that condition of life which she knew to be so perfect, so near to
Heaven?--knew because it had once been hers. Then she felt his presence
near her and turned and faced him. He took her hands in his.
"You are the best friend I have ever known," he said; "a better friend
than I deserve. Your loving kindness has made you dear to me--dear as
friend can be to friend."
She looked into his face, strong, steadfast beneath the flush of
happiness that illumined it.
"If I have been able to help you to your happiness this will make me
glad all my life," she said. Then a gleam of humor lighted up her face.
"I do not know whether you can ever make your peace with Geraldine or
not," she said, "but I thought it right that you should know the truth."
He flushed with the confusion of a schoolboy.
"But to know the truth," he said; "just to know what you have told me,
this has changed the face of all the earth for me. I can never thank
you."
"We are even, then," she said, "for I have never tried to thank you for
your many kindnesses to me."
Dr. Eldrige left the house as Margaret and Geraldine were seen coming up
the street. He lifted his hat to Margaret as he passed her at the gate,
and spoke to Geraldine, who was passing on.
"Miss Vane, permit me to join you," he said, and together they ascended
the long hill. The setting sun blazed redly upon the church and its
lingering rays shed a glory over the man and woman toiling up the long
incline. When the summit was reached they paused for a few moments
before the glorified church; then they passed on and down on the other
side. When they parted at the door of Geraldine's home Dr. Eldrige had
received permission to call later in the evening.
When he called again he found Geraldine in the library beside the fire,
very much as he had seen her that other night, and his heart smote him
for the injustice he had done her. She arose to meet him; he came over
to her, and the love of his life, so long held in subjection, now ruled
supreme. He held out his arms to her and she came straight into them.
"Geraldine, I have wanted you so--longed so for you."
"And I have loved you always, Allen Eldrige," she said.
The walk home in the winter sunshine brought a glow to Margaret's
cheeks, but there was a look of pathos in her dark eyes; the slumbering
fire of her spirit was burning there. She assisted Mrs. Thorpe with the
evening meal, and in the fruitful silence that often means more than
words, they sat together over their biscuit and tea. After supper
Margaret drew her chair before the fire and remained silent with her
thoughts. Mrs. Thorpe busied herself with her ever-ready work, but she
spoke no word to intrude upon the girl's thoughts. When Margaret spoke
at last, her voice was quiet and even.
"Mrs. Thorpe," she said, "I cannot allow this to go on. This restful
life has meant much to me; it is hard for me to leave it, but I have
been idle too long. I must get to work again."
Mrs. Thorpe understood the import of the words, and more; for there was
more in tone and manner, in pause and silence, than the words conveyed.
There was little doubt that Margaret was done with the old life. The
fierce, consuming struggle was over. The battle against her seeming
foes, ever alive, alert, ever ready for open attack or covert sting, had
been fought. There is much that one person can do for another in the
struggle toward righteousness; there is the handclasp of comradeship,
the countenance of faith, and, more potent than these, there is the
force of thought held supreme and infallible. Yet when the test comes,
when the enemy, grown strong, or snarling and impatient of delay, or
crawling, insidious, in the dim shadows, makes a stand and demands its
victim, then forever anew, and always alone, the old battle with the
Serpent must be fought. Then the kingdoms of the world and all that
they contain must be perceived, measured, weighed, balanced and judged
for exactly what they are. The delusions of mortal sense have not lost
their subtle deception since the days of the talking snake; and with
undeviating certainty comes the time, even as it came to the first man
and woman, when choose we must. Yet saving power of the Infinite,
though we have lost our Eden, even as our first parents lost theirs, the
Kingdom of Heaven is neither visionary nor transitory, but forever
remains.
Margaret's Eden was gone; she had stepped out of her purity into
darkness and evil, and the Angel with the flaming sword stood forbidding
on one hand, and on the other the Beasts that had sought to destroy her.
But into her life had come the understanding that there is but one real
power--the Power of Eternal Good.
"What is it you have in mind to do, Margaret?" asked Mrs. Thorpe.
"I have not decided upon anything, but I must work; I cannot remain
idle."
"You have not been idle, Margaret; and there is work, quantities of it,
not remunerative but humane, for both of us here on the Flat."
The firelight rose and fell and fitful shadows lingered about the room,
and again there was silence. Margaret was again the first to speak.
"I am not fit for the work here, Mrs. Thorpe, even if I were at liberty
to devote myself to it. My past stands between me and the Master's
work."
It was the first mention that had been made of the past since that day,
months before, when the anguish of her remorse had swept over her like
the devouring billows of the sea; when her tears had flowed sufficient,
if tears have efficacy, to wash away every crimson stain.
"If he who is without sin casts the first stone, Margaret, you need have
no fear of the condemnation of men. Tune up the fine, invisible
instrument of your better nature and let the words of the Divine Man
ever sound there: 'Neither do I condemn thee.'"
Margaret slipped from her chair, and on her knees buried her face in
Mrs. Thorpe's lap; and her form shook and quivered with the passion of
her sobs.
"Mrs. Thorpe," she said, "I want my mother--my poor, broken-hearted,
forsaken mother--mother--mother--and little, suffering Jamie!"
Mrs. Thorpe laid her hand caressingly on the girl's dark hair, and her
own face was wet with tears.
"Tell me about your mother, Margaret. Where is she now, and what is she
doing?"
"I have not seen her for over a year. I knew then that she never wished
to see my face again--oh, poor mother! But a longing to hear from her
came over me, and I asked Geraldine to-day if she had seen her. She told
me that mother has given up sewing again, and that she goes out to
service wherever she can get a day's work, and be with Jamie at night."
"We will go and see her, Margaret, you and I. It will gladden her heart
to see her Lassie again, and it will do you good, too. We will go
to-morrow, and I am sure we shall find some way to assist her."
"Now go to your rest, my child, and never doubt that all good belongs to
you and yours."
*CHAPTER XVI*
*MRS. THORPE'S WORK*
"The work of men--and what is that? Well we may, any of us, know very
quickly, on the condition of being wholly ready to do it.
"But many of us are for the most part thinking, not of what we are to
do, but of what we are to get; and the best of us are sunk into the sin
of Ananias, and it is a mortal one--we want to keep back part of the
price; and we continually talk of taking up our cross, as if the only
harm in a cross were the weight of it--as if it were only a thing to be
carried instead of to be crucified upon.
"'They that are His have crucified the flesh with the affections and
lusts.'
"Does that mean, think you, that in times of national distress, of
religious trial, of crises for every interest and hope of humanity--none
of you will cease jesting, none will cease idling, none put themselves
to any wholesome work, none take so much as a tag of lace off their
footmen's coats to save the world? Or does it rather mean that they are
ready to leave houses and lands and kindred--yes, and life if need be?
Life! Some of us are ready enough to throw that away, joyless as we
have made it. But station in life--how many are ready to quit that? Is
it not always the great objection when there is a question of finding
something useful to do--we cannot leave our stations in life?"--(John
Ruskin.)
[Illustration: "LITTLE BROTHER, LITTLE BROTHER, LET ME TELL YOU A STORY
AS I USED TO" (Page 195)]
Margaret found her mother ill. She had been working beyond her
strength, and the exposure and hardship of the work had worn her out;
and her eyes, tried beyond their strength, had almost failed her. Dr.
Eldrige Jr. had told her that the only hope of saving them lay in rest
and quiet. But how impossible was this; she had no means, for years she
had worked beyond her strength to keep herself from beggary. Jamie, the
cripple, was not able to leave his couch without help. Day after day,
while his mother worked for the pittance that kept them alive, he lay on
his little cot, alone; often in pain, always lonely, counting the hours
until his mother's return.
"We will take your mother and Jamie home with us, Margaret," Mrs. Thorpe
said. "We can all live together until your mother is well again, and
Jamie need not be alone."
Margaret consented to the plan. She understood the power that ruled
Mrs. Thorpe's life and prompted her actions. She had looked into her
face and found it warm with kindness, and with keener vision she had
looked into her heart and found it touched with the feeling of another's
infirmities. She knew that this thing that she proposed to do was not
an act of charity prompted by the desire to save the harrowing of her
own feelings, but because of her loving kindness she desired to do it.
Mrs. McGowan was too much overcome by the restoration of her girl to
protest, and Jamie was radiant at the prospect. Mrs. Thorpe called on
Mrs. Mayhew and left Margaret alone with her mother for a time. And
afterwards Mrs. Mayhew sent her carriage to take Mrs. McGowan and Jamie
to Mrs. Thorpe's cottage. Before parting, Mrs. Mayhew pressed a
banknote into Mrs. Thorpe's hand.
"You shall not have all the merit there is in the case, you loving soul,
you good Samaritan," she said. "Let me share your good deed with you."
The day passed quietly at the cottage. It was mild and clear and the
first indications of spring were visible. The great banks of snow were
beginning to show reefs along their sides and the atmosphere contained a
suggestion of the change of seasons.
Margaret was more like the winsome lass of former years than she had
been for many months, and her mother's eyes followed her lovingly.
Faith and Hope, immortal sisters, what magic in the tones they cause to
vibrate upon the human heart-strings! All the world and all the glory
of it is ours when Faith and Hope sing for us their seraphic song.
Margaret took Jamie to her room at bedtime.
"You shall have a little cot near me, my boy," she said. "I am going to
be your nurse, and whatever your wants may be it shall be my pleasure to
supply them."
The boy smiled happily.
"It is a good world, after all, Margy," he said, when they were alone
for the night. "I have always tried to make mother believe it is a good
world. Mother's eyes will get better now, wont they, sister?"
"There is a great Physician who heals all kinds of infirmities, Jamie.
He used always to be especially kind to the blind."
"Did He pity them more because it is so very bad not to see?"
"Perhaps that was the reason. He was always very, very kind."
"Have you seen Him, this great man, Margy?"
"I have felt His healing power, little brother."
"Do you suppose--sister--could He make me walk like other boys, and
run--oh, Margy, do you suppose I ever can run?"
"There is nothing the great Physician cannot do, Jamie."
Margaret reached for her Bible, one that Mrs. Thorpe had given her. She
turned the leaves until she found the place that she desired.
"I am going to read you something that I have read many times, Jamie,
and always with thoughts of you in mind:
"'And a certain man, lame from his mother's womb, was carried, whom they
laid daily at the gate of the temple which is called Beautiful, to ask
alms of them that entered into the temple.
"'Who, seeing Peter and John about to go into the temple, asked an alms.
"'And Peter, fastening his eyes upon him with John, said: "Look on us."
"'And he gave heed unto them, expecting to receive something of them.
"'Then Peter said: "Silver and gold have I none; but such as I have I
give to thee. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, rise up and
walk." And he took him by the right hand and lifted him up, and
immediately his feet and ankle bones received their strength.
"'And he, leaping up, stood and walked and entered with them into the
temple, walking and leaping and praising God.'"
When the boy saw his sister take up a familiar-looking black book and
begin turning the pages, his heart fell within him. He listened while
she read of the compassionate act of love, then he covered his face with
his hands and burst into tears.
"Oh, Margy, I didn't think you would--that's the Bible, Margy, the book
mother used to read out of--the one Mr. Thorpe used to preach from--only
the Bible, and I thought you meant it really, about the great doctor!"
"Only the Bible!" Margaret looked at the child and saw the
disappointment in his face; and through him she seemed to see a great
world of suffering people. This frail child, crippled, distorted,
disappointed and faithless, seemed to her a symbol of the great
suffering overwhelming the world, and his piteous cry an echo of the
voice of the world: "Only the Bible!"
The whole world calling for power and turning dully from the great
fountain-head of Power; crying for strength and ignoring that which
constitutes all strength; desiring health and clasping close in their
embrace the image of disease; pleading for light and joy and peace and
turning their eyes resolutely away from the waiting angels standing
ready to minister to them. "Only the Bible!"
Margaret knelt by the child's couch and put her arms about him.
"Little brother," she said, "little brother, let me tell you a story, as
I used to do, Jamie.
"Once there was a great mine of gold, beautiful, shining gold, layer
upon layer of it; and many men mined for it, and some dug in the ground,
and a great many people worked day after day, some in one way and some
in another, to find it. And many of the people disagreed about the best
way to get at it. Some dug about the outer edges of the mine, and when
they found a very few grains of gold they went away and told all the
people that they had found all the gold there was; that they had
explored the whole mine and knew all about it. Others did not dig deep
enough to find the great golden layers, but they found a few glittering
nuggets of the precious gold, and they went away and told all the people
that they had gone to the bottom of the mine and had found all the gold
there was there.
"Thousands and thousands of people went to the mine. Some found gold
enough to satisfy them, others found only a few shining grains, and many
went away disappointed. But the strange part of it was that all those
who found any gold at all, even if it was only a tiny spark, believed
they had found all there was.
"There were so many different opinions about it, and so many theories
and beliefs, that after a time the people began to wonder whether there
was really any gold in the mine at all. Some doubted and disbelieved,
and a great many walked all about over the mine and had not faith enough
to dig beneath the surface.
"Yet the gold was there, Jamie--it is there--a great mine of beautiful,
shining gold. There is enough for everyone; yet few have obtained a
supply sufficient for their own needs."
The story was finished and there was silence in the room. Then the thin
little hand crept into Margaret's.
"Is that the way you think about the Bible, Margy?"
"Yes, Jamie. The Bible is a great mine of Truth; few, if any, have
found the whole of it, and many, many have not found sufficient for
their needs."
The boy's eyes were grave and serious; a grain of truth had been sown in
fertile soil. Then after a time the blue-veined lids fluttered and
closed and the boy fell asleep.
The spring opened early; the great drifts of snow yielded beneath the
sun's warm rays and miniature rivulets and rills rushed and babbled down
the hillside. Bare brown patches of earth showed here and there over
the Flat, and unsightly piles of rubbish and debris were again laid
bare; the mantle that had covered them melted and slipped away as though
glad to be free.
The children of the Flat, long housed in close, cramped quarters, were
hilarious at sight of the brown Mother Earth; and this great-hearted
Mother to whom they turned instinctively never fails and never
disappoints, but remains always heart to heart with the best in human
nature. Poor waifs of children they were, unkept and ill-clad in spite
of the efforts that had been made in their behalf.
There was no school on the Flat; the children who went to school climbed
the long hill and went over into Edgerly and entered the ranks with the
Edgerly fledglings. But many of these children never climbed the long
hill, never saw the Christian city and never entered a schoolhouse.
Mrs. Thorpe had long felt that these children should be gathered
together and instructed; now the conviction came to her that it must be
done.