THE VERGE OF TREMBLING
When the news of Martin Rutland's ignominy reached Beryl Heathcote all
the light and joy passed out of her life. At first she could not believe
it possible, and hoped against hope that there had been some terrible
mistake. In a few days, however, she had to realise that it was only too
true, and that the man in whom she had trusted so implicitly was an
outcast not only from society but from the Church as well. She tried to
bear up and face the storm which raged so furiously in the parish. On
every side she was forced to listen to the most scathing denunciations
of the deposed clergyman. People seemed to take a fiendish delight in
calling upon her to discuss the affair and to express their undesired
sympathy. No word of blame or complaint passed her lips. At first she
cherished the feeble hope that Martin would either return or write to
her, that he would prove himself innocent. But as the days slowly edged
into weeks, and no word came, a heavy despair settled upon her. The
strain proved too much to bear, and she succumbed to a long serious
illness, from which it was believed at one time that she could not
recover.
When at last she was able to sit up she was but the shadow of her former
happy buoyant self. "Oh, if I had only died!" she moaned. "What a relief
it would have been. How can I face life again with this terrible weight
upon my heart!"
When she was stronger she became determined to leave Glendale, the
Gethsemane of her young life, and to go where she would no longer hear
the story of shame, and where curious eyes would not follow her whenever
she moved abroad.
Her only sister lived in a western city and thither she made her way.
What a relief it was to her burdened heart to have the comfort of her
sister's love. Here she could rest and endeavour to gather up as far as
possible the tangled and broken threads of her life.
This, however, she found to be most difficult, and months passed before
she was able to compose her mind and think of the future. She felt that
she should be doing something, and thus not depend upon others. To
return to her old home to the love and attention which would be hers
there she could not. She must remain away from the scene of her great
sorrow.
In work, Beryl believed, she could in a measure forget herself. But what
work could she do? Music was the only thing in which she had been
thoroughly trained. But the idea of turning to it now, and taking in
pupils, was most repugnant. Not since that night when she had played in
her old home, when Martin Rutland was watching longingly through the
window, had she touched the keys of any instrument. Neither had she sung
a single note. Music had passed out of her life, and the clear sweet
voice which had thrilled the hearts of so many was stilled.
At length, after discussing the matter with her sister, Beryl decided to
become a nurse. Not that she cared at all for the profession, but it
was the only thing that seemed to offer, and she must keep her mind and
hands employed if she were to forget the past. That she must forget she
was determined, and she believed that in time the deep wound her heart
had received would be at least partly healed.
During the months of her inactivity she had brooded much over what had
taken place in her life. Many were the battles she had fought, silent
and alone. At times a bitterness, so foreign to her loving nature,
possessed her. Then it was that her faith in God and man weakened. Was
there a Father in heaven who cared? she would ask herself over and over
again. If so, why had He allowed her bright young life to be so clouded
and blighted? Then she would think of Martin and how much he had meant
to her. Though she had always defended him, or remained silent when
others had condemned, nevertheless in her own heart the thought of what
he had done rankled sore. But her love was too strong for such feelings
to last for any length of time, and so she was always able to come forth
unscathed from the fierce struggles.
Beryl threw herself with much energy into the work of her new
profession. She made rapid progress, and all who came into contact with
her were charmed by her gentleness of manner, and the sweetness of her
disposition. To the patients, especially, she was an angel of light. No
voice was as comforting, and no hand as soothing as hers, and they would
always watch eagerly for the nurse who had the sunny smile of cheer.
Though her own heart might be heavy, she revealed nothing of her sorrow
to the world, but radiated sunshine wherever she went.
But Beryl found it a severe strain to be always presenting to the world
a bright face, and by the time her course of training was almost over
she felt that it was impossible for her to do so much longer. Every day
it was necessary for her to force herself to her duties, and to assume
that lightness of heart which she did not feel. She had little to give
her that zest for her work which would make each task a joy. Must she go
through life, lacking the needful inspiration? she often asked herself.
She knew the difference between work done in the spirit of duty and
love. One was mechanical, a mere tread-mill round; the other was of the
heart.
She was thinking of these things one Sunday night during service in the
church where she generally attended, and which was the nearest to her
sister's home. As a rule she was a most devoted and attentive
worshipper. But to-night her thoughts wandered. They would go back to
Glendale, and to that little church, where for years she had been
organist. Again she saw Martin conducting the service just as he used to
do before his fall.
Somehow it seemed to Beryl that he was near her this night. Once she
glanced partly around as if expecting to see him in the church. She
could not account for the idea, as she never had such a feeling before.
With an effort she checked her wandering thoughts, and fixed them upon
what the clergyman in the pulpit was saying. At once her interest became
aroused, and she followed him with the deepest attention. He was
speaking about Service, and referred to the noble work nurses were doing
both at home and in the mission field. He told also about the Red Cross
Society, and paid a tribute to Florence Nightingale. He then quoted one
verse of Longfellow's "Santa Filomena":
"A lady with a lamp shall stand
In the great history of the land,
A noble type of good,
Heroic womanhood."
As he uttered these words a strange new thrill swept through Beryl. Her
heart beat fast, and her face flushed with living interest--the first
time in years. Almost in an instant she became transformed. Hitherto she
had been trembling on the verge of uncertainty, with nothing definite in
life. Now she had a purpose, which, like a star of hope, burst suddenly
into view.
The last hymn was given out, and the congregation rose, and joined in
the singing. Beryl knew the words and had no need of a book, though she
held one in her hand. An impulse now stirred her heart, her lips moved,
and at last, like a wild bird escaped from its cage, she lifted up her
voice, and sang for the first time in years. And it was that voice which
Martin heard, where he crouched in a back seat, and which thrilled his
entire being.
When the service was over, Beryl left the church and hurried to her
sister's house. She knew nothing of the lonely outcast, who yearningly
followed her, and then paced the street for hours after the door had
closed behind her.
When alone with her sister that night, Beryl related her experience in
the church and the new purpose which had come into her life. They were
seated before an open fire, and the light illumined their fair faces
with a soft glow.
"Yes," Beryl told her, "I have at last made up my mind. I am going to
offer for the mission field. I care not to what place I am sent so long
as it is somewhere."
"You will need training, perhaps, in that special work," her sister
replied.
"I know it, Lois. But you see, when I have graduated I shall take a
course in preparatory mission work. I understand there is such a school
in this city connected with our Church. I shall then know where I shall
be sent."
"It will be a grand work, Beryl," and Lois Hardinge laid her hand
lovingly upon that of her sister's. "It will take you out of yourself,
and make you forget the past."
"It can never make me forget," and Beryl gazed thoughtfully into the
fire as she spoke. "I can never forget him, and I don't want to now. No
matter what people say, I cannot believe that he is a bad man, even
though he has fallen and is an outcast from the Church. Oh, Lois, do you
know I had the feeling to-night that he was near me during service. It
was only a fancy, of course, but it seemed so real. Since then I have
the idea that somewhere, sometime, I shall meet him, that we shall
understand each other, and that all will be well."
"God grant it so, dear," her sister fervently replied. "If it will
comfort you in your work hold fast to that hope."