pretentious than the house where the old doctor lived; but there were
shrubs and flowers in the yard; the grass was well kept and vines grew
over the door. A woman, partly screened by the greenery, was sitting on
the porch rocking back and forth in a wicker chair, a woman with golden
hair coiled about her head and soft, clustering curls about her face.
And tenderly in her arms she was cradling a wee bit of a rosy child.
Perhaps she was crooning a lullaby; the little one put out his hand, a
little roseleaf hand, and the mother bent her head and laid her lips
upon it.
The man, in passing, saw the mother and child, and his face lighted with
a smile. During his absence his friends had kept him informed about the
happenings at home. He knew that the woman with the crown of golden
hair was married; his sister had written him about it at the time, and
he remembered now that the news had brought him no sadness and no
regret, but that in his heart he had been glad that it was so. And as he
went on his way his thoughts went back to that far-away foreign land, to
an island of the sea where he had been when this letter of his sister's
reached him. For weeks he, with his regiment, had been in the deep
heart of a forest and sometimes there were marshes to cross and streams
to ford and their beds at night was the damp, black ground. In fancy it
all came back to him now: the dusky natives with their scant raiment;
the towering forests with their weird majesty, and the call and cry of
the wild creatures that inhabited them; the smell of the reeking mould,
where year after year the decaying mass of vegetation had not been
disturbed; the reedy marshes where all through the lonesome nights the
wind sighed and moaned in the long marsh grass.
And there in that sun-kissed, tropical land, where the stars came out at
night, calm and familiar as in his native land, as he stretched his
weary limbs on his blanket for his night's repose, sometimes a cool hand
would be laid on his brow and a sense of peace and rest would steal over
him, and then, sometimes, in the mist and clinging darkness a face would
appear before his vision, and it was not the fair face of the woman with
the shining golden hair, but a dark, slender face with great, dark eyes
burning into his soul; pain and pleading and the anguish of a woman's
heart were written there. And once on a misty night, when the darkness
was thick and heavy with moisture and all the moaning forest was
dripping wet, a white circle was outlined in the blackness and a slight,
supple form glided close to him and knelt beside him in the mist and
dripping rain; the thin fingers that he remembered so well were clasped
in anguish and the face was wet as the dripping foliage about him--wet
with a woman's tears. All the heart within him rose in anguish to meet
her, and he would have given his life and soul to take her in his arms
and soothe the remorse and despair from her anguished face; but when he
put out his hand to touch her, a great fear came over her and she
recoiled from him and shrank and shuddered in the darkness and was gone.
"Margaret!" he cried, and his heart broke within him--"Margaret!" The
cry sounded dully through the heavy silence and a comrade partly awoke
and asked him why he was moaning and calling in the night.
The man, with his thoughts still partly in the past and partly on the
familiar objects about him, passed on through the streets of Edgerly and
slowly, as one who toils, he climbed the incline up to the church. He
seated himself on the church steps to rest for a time, and then perhaps
he would go back--or perhaps--but his thoughts again became reminiscent;
the spirit of the past was with him. His mind went over the long weeks
spent in the hospital, where the doctors had pronounced his case
hopeless and the nurses believed that he must die. Long, weary days he
had lain on his bed of pain, and in his heart waged open rebellion
against the power that held him there; then for many, many days he lay,
too weak to struggle, too helpless to care. Down into the dark valley
where the air was damp and dank, where gruesome things, weird and
fantastic, glided noiselessly among the shadows--shadows ever growing
deeper, darker, closer--down in the dark valley he left the last remnant
of his vaunted power and felt himself a child--just a child--with the
Everlasting Arms, the abiding, sustaining force of the universe, about
him. And like a gnarled and cankered plant that the gardener cuts to
the root that it may put forth a more vigorous and healthful growth,
little by little he came again into the sunshine, and a new heaven and a
new earth opened before him.
The great purpose of God is absolute in the universe; it reaches out,
covers and enfolds the purposes of man as the shades of night cover and
enfold the earth at eventide. All the struggling, sin-tossed creatures
of earth are folded tenderly close to the great heart of God; yet our
vain imaginings and foolish desires often take us a long and weary way,
over mountains and vale and sea, before we lift up our eyes and know
that God is love. When passion has burned itself out, when lust is
dead, when the human is crucified and laid in the grave to rise again
divine; when all the mocking demons of false belief and evil thought are
rebuked and sent cowering from before our consciousness, then the soul
comes into its own and the Kingdom of Heaven is ours.
Margaret was seated on a ledge of rock by the brook. Her eyes were
strained far off to the dim blue hills in the distance; her heart was
torn with restless pain, and her life's hunger was in her face, but her
soul was anchored safe and secure.
"Expiation!" she murmured. "Dear God, only keep me from day to
day--keep me--keep your child." Softly over her memory floated a
fragment of the words that Mrs. Thorpe had read that morning: "He that
keeps thee will not slumber."
The brook babbled at her feet and the curious droning voices of the
woodland came to her. Every sense was alive; the wild seclusion of the
place appealed to the turbulent passion within her, its peace and beauty
enthralled her.
"Give unto me the strength of the towering forest pines," she whispered,
"the humility of the woodland flowers, the steadfastness of the
mist-hung hills."
A squirrel, intent upon his winter's store, was making little journeys
from an acorn-filled treetop to his home at the tree's gnarled root;
from the woods came the muffled drumming of a partridge. The call of a
bird-note, faint in the distance, the nearby chirp of a cricket and the
whispering of the wind in the treetops mingled with the low, vague
sounds of the forest and blended into a symphony soft and sweet, then
weird and haunting, as the falling of a leaf or the snapping of a twig
broke the harmony.
The girl, with her eyes on the far-away hills, was bound by the spell of
it all; yet to her finer sense there was wafted from the soft, thrilling
melody and the fluttering breath of the forest a knowledge, vague,
evanescent, yet so quickening and compelling that the past, the future,
the present--life itself--trembled before it. A shower of leaves
scattered by the provident squirrel fell at her feet; a twig snapped
sharply and there was a rustling sound in the path beside her. But she
did not move nor stir, and her eyes did not leave the hilltops--but she
knew--she could not fail to know his presence, and when he came to her
side, and stood close beside her, she shrank and shuddered, and yet her
heart cried out with the exquisite pain of it.
"Margaret," he said, "Margaret, I have come over land and across seas.
Have you no welcome for me? No word nor look?"
He had left the church and passed through the crooked, unkept street of
the Flat and on past the old Resort out to Cedar Brook. Exhausted with
his long walk, he seated himself on the ledge of rock. Margaret sank
down on the soft, clinging moss beside the rock and buried her face in
her hands.
"Have you no word for me, Margaret? After all this time, not one word
for me?" But he did not touch her; he dared not lay his hand on her.
And she made no reply nor raised her face to his until she had gained
complete control of herself; then she arose and stood before him.
He had heard of her reformation; he expected to find her changed, but he
was not prepared for that which had had its birth and growth since he
last saw her; and in this first moment of their meeting no other
characteristic seemed so patent to him. He regarded her in silence.
Here was the girl that he had known, the passionate, turbulent Margaret,
but blended with her, permeating her personality, guarding and
protecting her, was this other self--the ideal enshrined in his heart.
Whence had she obtained this unnamable quality which, unvoiced and
without conscious effort, aroused the reverence in his manhood? Always
before he had controlled her, dominated her, often against her will by
his superior force; now her personality, her selfhood stood out before
him, silent yet indomitable, subtle, intangible, yet absolute.
Reverently he extended his hand to her, and his voice was deep with
pleading.
"Margaret, speak to me, all unworthy though I am to hear your
voice--trust me, though I did so abuse your girlish trust--forgive me,
forgive me and let me prove myself to you."
She took his proffered hand and looked unfalteringly into his eyes.
"You should not take all the blame," she said. "I, too, need to be
forgiven."
He held her hand between his palms, then raised it to his lips.
"Margaret," he said, "you are the only woman I have ever loved."
"Max!" The word fell from her lips like a sob. "Max!"
He drew her to him and kissed the dark hair where it lay smooth against
her forehead.
"Will you be my wife, Margaret, my loved and honored wife?"
Her eyes scanned his face; not a line of pain, not a mark of suffering
escaped her. All his struggles, his rebellion, his victories, and all
the soul within him lay bare before her deep-seeing eyes. She laid her
hand on his face, that dear face so intense and strong, and wondered
keenly in how many ages, how many worlds, how many lives, she had known
him.
The squirrel, disturbed by their presence, stopped midway on the tree
trunk and chattered noisily; again the drumming of the partridge and the
woodland voices blended, now rich and full in a glad song of triumph,
praise, victory.
*CHAPTER XIX*
*"WHERE IS YOUR FAITH?"*
Max and Margaret were quietly married in Mrs. Thorpe's little parlor.
They made their home in a comfortable, roomy cottage which Max erected
on the outskirts of the Flat not far from the old Resort.
Now, as never before, Max devoted himself to his business affairs and
took stock of the amount of his wealth. He was part owner of a
manufacturing plant in Edgerly, and before the year was out he had sold
his interest and announced his intention of building a factory on the
Flat. From the man Bolton he obtained possession of the Flat district.
To tear down the old, decaying buildings, to clear the ground of rubbish
and lay off straight, square lots and build comfortable cottages was no
small task; but all this was accomplished while the new factory was
building. In planning and executing this great amount of work Max found
Mrs. Thorpe's counsel and advice invaluable. There were many interests
to be considered and some obstacles to be overcome, and her knowledge of
the work and acquaintance with the people helped him to plan wisely and
to use judgment and discretion in his work.
He called at the school for Margaret one evening at the close of her
day's work, and lingered for a talk with Mrs. Thorpe.
"I think we shall be able to have a regular school here another year,"
he said.
"I am sure all good things will come to the people here in time," she
said. "What a world ours would be if every such place as this Flat had
such a friend as you, Max."
"The work is yours, Mrs. Thorpe; you must know that it is all yours," he
replied; and then after a moment's silence he continued: "There are
emotions that words seem to degrade, this is why I have never attempted
to put into words my admiration for what you have done for the people on
this Flat, nor my gratitude for what you have done for me. But, after
all, it is not protestations, desires nor words, but the way he lives
his life that proves a man. My work among these people, my life devoted
to the alleviation of needy humanity, these must be my spokesmen, to you
first, Mrs. Thorpe, and to my fellow men; these must testify to the
transformation of the man, and stand as a monument to his faith, a
thank-offering to his God."
Mrs. Thorpe checked the sudden tears that sprang to her eyes. Years
before she had believed that it was service that was demanded of her,
and she had besought the Lord that she might see the fruit of her
endeavor, the harvest of her labor; that a visible sign might be given
her. Dare she doubt that her prayer was answered, or hesitate to
recognize the answer? Dare she turn her eyes from this Infinite love, or
escape this deluge of blessing, even though it overwhelmed and
overpowered her? She thought of the children of Israel, how they had
besought Moses to veil his face after he had talked with God. Was she,
too, unable to bear the brightness of the light? Must she beseech the
Lord to again draw the veil between her and His kingdom that the ecstasy
of answered prayer might not become too great for her soul to bear?
Margaret, who had been assisting a girl who had lingered over her task,
now crossed the room and joined them.
"Come with us to tea, Mrs. Thorpe," she urged. "We love to have you with
us. Mother and Jamie will expect you to-night, I am sure."
"Yes, come with us, sister," added Max. "We are always wishing for your
presence in our home."
"Very well," Mrs. Thorpe replied, "your hospitality is sweet to me."
After the evening meal was over they sat out on the broad cottage porch
and discussed various aspects of their work. From adjoining cottages
could be heard the chatter and laughter of children's voices. The air
was sweet with the scent of flowers; the sun was nearing the horizon and
its radiance lay over the Flat, no longer the unlovely Flat, but a
collection of comfortable homes whose inmates, sure of employment and,
more than this, sure of justice and equity, had in a measure fallen into
harmony with the forces that make for righteousness.
The air of peace and quiet that had fallen over the little group on the
porch was broken by the arrival of a carriage at the gate. Dr. Eldrige
assisted his wife to alight, and Margaret and Max went down the walk to
meet them. There was cordial frankness in their greeting, sincere and
whole-hearted. As they neared the steps Mrs. Thorpe came forward, and
after greeting Geraldine, stooped and put her arms about the child; he
put his chubby arms close about her neck and laid his soft, pink cheek
against her face. How dear to her heart was the love of this child!
The two men walked leisurely up to the house; Geraldine, in a simple
white gown that caused her face with the golden hair above it to appear
like the petals of some rare-tinted flower, stood against the dark
outline of vines that screened the porch. All that her girlhood
promised had blossomed into womanhood; maternity had developed all that
was best and noblest in her.
From a nearby cottage a ripple of childish laughter floated out on the
evening air. Geraldine turned to her companions.
"Does earth contain sweeter music than the laugh of a child?" she said.
"I often think that the transformation of this Flat is more wonderful
than any of the fairy tales that enchanted our childhood."
"It is a demonstration of the brotherhood of man, almost beyond belief,"
Dr. Eldrige replied.
"To do what lies before us, just that which comes to our hand to do, to
be true to the best within us, is not so remarkable a thing to do," Max
replied, and his eyes met Geraldine's honestly. "It is in the results
that the wonder lies."
After a time the two men fell into a discussion of ways and means
concerning both the health and morals of the laborers on the Flat, and
Margaret took Geraldine to see her garden. Mrs. Thorpe accompanied
them, and Mrs. McGowan and Jamie joined them. The child, with Jamie for
an escort, played about the garden paths and filled his hands with
flowers, and Margaret and her companions made themselves comfortable on
a rustic garden seat.
Margaret had a gift of understanding that made it possible for her to
read her husband's wishes and to know his needs; now she knew that he
would join them, unless for some reason he wished to be alone with his
friend. The loyal friendship of Dr. Eldrige Jr., freely given, had, she
knew, been meat and drink to Max, and had been invaluable to him in his
work.
After the matter concerning the work on the Flat was disposed of, the
two men continued their talk.
"Old Edgerly is still in throes of incredulity over your operations on
this side of the hill, Max," the doctor said.
"Yes, I have heard her groanings from afar; queer why the old town
should suffer so!"
"Yes, it is strange; father has been roaring like a lion, but he has
taken to silence, absolute silence!"
Max smiled at thought of the stormy old man reduced to silence.
"I had not supposed it was so bad as that," he said.
There was the best of comradeship between the two men, although little
had been said concerning the past. Events had run their course in such
a manner that Dr. Eldrige Jr. felt that he had no grievance to cherish;
and however slow one might be to accept the reformation in Max
Morrison's character, the transformation in his life and work was patent
to all.
Max leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands back of his head.
"It's a queer world we live in, doctor," he said, "a queer old world."
Dr. Eldrige Jr. regarded him in silence; he was not quite sure of Max's
attitude toward conditions, as he had found them since his return to his
native land, and he had no desire to probe an old wound nor to inflict a
new one. And, at best, Dr. Eldrige was a man of few words.
"I used to live over in Edgerly," Max continued, ignoring the doctor's
silence, "over in Christian Edgerly. I had, I think, the heart of a man
in me, yet I was a villain--you know what I was--I ought to have been
shot, shot like a cur--yet Edgerly favored me, sought and pampered me.
But now that I have put my hand to an honest work--to help the needy, to
feed and clothe the poor--the good old town has at least every other day
a new motive, each more sinister than the other, to impute to my
actions." He sprang to his feet and walked the length of the porch and
back. "Eldrige," he said, "I had thought never to impose on your
friendship by bringing up the past; but I feel to-night as though I may
break my good resolutions."
"Do not be afraid of imposing on my friendship, Max; speak of the past
as freely as you like. You know me--we know each other."
"You know my temperament, Eldrige; I have always been a devil of a
fellow when aroused; and the attitude of those good people over there
beyond the hill arouses me a bit. There is a little woman here on the
Flat that chides me for this attitude, and tells me that I am wasting
good strength fighting windmills. But I have not arrived at a place
where I can view other people's unaccountable conduct and shortcomings
in the calm, unruffled manner in which Mrs. Thorpe views them."
"I find no difficulty in seeing Mrs. Thorpe's viewpoint, Max. She
proves by her daily life and work that she is a follower of the one
perfect Man; she heals the sick and reforms the sinner through her
understanding of the Divine Law. This, to me, seems simple and natural,
and she allows nothing to fret or trouble her. But I am going to be
perfectly frank with you, and tell you that I cannot so readily
understand your attitude. I think I have never deluded myself into
believing that I understand you, Max; a man who has it in him to do the
work that you are doing here on this Flat, aroused by adverse
criticism--why man--"
"There, Eldrige, stop, please! I thought you understood me better than
that. Why, man, criticism tones me up--puts me in good working order;
antagonism exhilarates me, persecution inspires me. But what of those
who criticise, antagonize and persecute? There's the rub--that's what
arouses me. Why should professing Christian people hold up their hands
and shout themselves hoarse because some fellow does an act of kindness
to his fellow men? It's not criticism that I care for, but it does
arouse the very devil in me to see Christian people stand in wide-eyed,
open-mouthed astonishment before a Christian deed. You see, I have not
the religion that Mrs. Thorpe has; in fact, I am not at all sure that I
have any religion whatever. I think it possible, and I may say that I
really hope it possible that I may some day come into the scientific
understanding of life that Mrs. Thorpe has attained; but at present I am
trying only to do the square thing by my fellow men."
The doctor looked him over deliberately.
"If ever I am able to understand the man you are, Max, I think it will
be when I am a better man myself than I am now. You may not call
yourself a religious man, but there is a force back of your life, a
force of some kind that I did not know that the universe contained;
there is some secret here that I have not been able to find out."
"I don't agree with you there, Eldrige; there's no secret about it,
there's nothing hidden nor concealed; all is open and clear as the sun
in mid-heaven. The trouble is our eyes are holden, we are blind and
dumb and dead--I wish I could make you see things from my
viewpoint--there are a thousand things I would tell you if I could."
Max was not looking at the doctor now; his eyes were far away upon the
distant horizon. "I would tell you something of the influence of my
early bringing up," he said, "a pampered child of wealth; something of
the force of Christianity, as it was taught and lived in my home;
something of the time when I passed from boyhood to manhood, idle, with
more money than I could spend--honestly; something of the day when I
first looked into the eyes of the woman I love--innocent, beseeching--"
He arose again and walked back and forth across the porch.
"I can't do it, Eldrige--I've no words to make you understand," he said,
"you who have lived a clean life, you who have always worked--" He drew
his chair up near to the doctor and sat down again. "I really think,"
he said, in a quieter tone, "that during that period of my life I was
not so much bad as blind and dead--the man in me had never been born; I
was a clod, a lump of clay, with the instincts of the beast. Our
civilization! Our Christianity!--Damn!--I'll try not to be profane,
doctor. But this is why I say I am not a religious man; I tell you I
had as soon trust the chances of the brownest skinned, dumb beast of a
man that I knew on those far islands of the sea as the chances of the
son of the average wealthy Christian parents in this Christian land.
"I am not going to be profane, not if I can help it, and I am not going
to allow myself to become unduly excited, but the rashest language that
our vocabulary contains could not portray the fires of hell that burned
within me when I left my native land, beaten and broken. I was
furious--furious because I had missed the heart and center of life--why
should I have missed it? I desired the beautiful, satisfying things of
life; I had the base and unclean; and I was furious with myself, my
family, society--the whole world."
There was silence for a few moments. The doctor said nothing; then Max
spoke again: "I know, Eldrige, and you know, that the truth and purity
in your wife's heart was the whip and scourge that drove me to my
manhood."
The doctor extended his hand, and met Max's hand in a firm, keen clasp.