CHAPTER XTHE DISCERNMENT OF TRUTHMrs. Thorpe was sitting one day in the familiar seat by the window, and her thoughts were centered on the conditions about her. Outside the vine was putting forth new buds and tender leaves; a bird on a swinging bough was singing his mating song; the grass was growing green on the incline that led up to the church. The winter had not destroyed the heart and life of that which it had blasted outwardly, and Nature was emerging into newness of life.A world of growing things, abundant, forceful, alive, are springing from the brown, fructuous earth; spring is pregnant, alive with a power beyond human conception. Boundless, limitless, infinite Power!Now questions that at first seemed to come to her timid, elusive, quivered before Mrs. Thorpe's mental vision and insinuated themselves into her consciousness. Was this material evidence before her eyes the substance and reality of that which she saw, or was there something hidden from her mortal vision, something in this scene before her which her senses could not recognize? Here before her was the seed-bed, the seed and the form of the fruitage; but were these the reality, or were they but the fleeting forms of matter, and the divine Idea the only reality? Which is real, the plant and the flower, or the life of the plant and the flower? These questions that had come to her haltingly, falteringly, gradually assumed larger proportions until they included herself, the universe, and all that the universe contains. Time, place, conditions, and all material relations shifted and changed, and she saw God's world, and God's power controlling it; a just and majestic God asking only conformity to the perfect conditions he has created.Now all of Mrs. Thorpe's preconceived knowledge vanished and melted away. Every structure that she had built had been founded on shifting, undulating sand, upon her belief of life in matter. The ideas and conceits of her childhood, the ardor and energy of her young womanhood, and all the strain of recent years all passed before her, and all were empty, vain, human and finite. She saw mortals bowed and broken, guided by finite wisdom and helped by finite power, trying to do God's work; struggling and agonizing, trying to aid Infinite strength, and to supplement Infinite wisdom.She saw man--upright, holy, divine--yet dominated by his false beliefs and his conceptions of evil, believing himself the sinful, unclean thing that his distorted vision pictures him to be; ignorant, misguided, toiling in pain and sorrow. Christ, ah, Christ! Who would not be a Christ, a Savior of men; who would not sacrifice this stage of life, yea, die a thousand deaths, if by pain and sacrifice he might show this bruised and broken people the perfection of life, and the harmony of the condition in which Infinite love has placed them?Every cord that held her to the moorings of her old belief gave way, and Mrs. Thorpe found herself alone on a shoreless, fathomless sea; no sail was in sight, no hand reached out to her. Adrift--alone--there was no measuring of time or space. But she was not afraid, for the science of Being had been revealed to her. Alone--yet he whose voice stilled the sea, he whose voice stills human passion, fear, pain and suffering was with her, and she walked upon the water with this Man of Galilee.In their blindness and error men have produced that which is not beautiful, and which is not good, but there are no blemishes in God's world, and there are no iniquities. The God of love has put beauty, and grace, and joy, and gladness into everything that He has created.Now Mrs. Thorpe saw before her all that has been, all that is, and all that is to be; and her eyes were not holden to the emblems and symbols through which the solution of God's world was hers. "Neither death nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature," shall be able now to separate her from the love of God.The peace that passeth understanding is like a calm on mighty waters, like the strength of rugged forests, like the blending of many melodies. Mrs. Thorpe fell on her knees and buried her face in her hands. But this attitude was not taken to humble herself before the God that she had found; this Deity that was revealed to her was the great and perfect Whole, and herself she recognized as the spiritual image and likeness of God."There is a Spirit in man and the inspiration of the Almighty giveth him understanding." "The inspiration of the Almighty;" there is no other source of supply, no other way to understand than to let the Spirit speak to the "Spirit in man." Mrs. Thorpe's mind was emptied of worldly wisdom; the tablets of her heart were renewed clean as an unwritten page. Freed from the thought of her material selfhood, and her intellectual beliefs, she was receptive, ready and waiting in the hands of the Master of men.The preparation of the clay that is to be molded into a work of art is of first importance; and when this preparation is completed the artist begins his work of bringing beauty and grace out of a pliable, yielding mass ready to his hand. When a piece of ground is to bring forth a harvest of golden grain or succulent fruit the ground must first be prepared. There must be an upheaval; the weeds and tares must be uprooted; the plow-share and the harrow must do their work; the soil must be torn and broken and turned up to the mellowing sun, and then the seed is sown.Upon her knees Mrs. Thorpe was not denied the knowledge that her years of suffering were years of preparation; that the anguish and pain wrought by her great desire had not been in vain. When she arose to her feet she knew that she had found the Kingdom of Heaven; it was within her.A flood of sunshine lay over the room; each familiar object was in its place, yet all was changed. She stepped to the window and looked out, and the transfigured earth, and air, and sky greeted her; yet even in this first newness of her joy she knew that this change which glorified all things was in her own heart. And that which tongue has never named and pen has never described descended upon her and enfolded her like a garment; and henceforth and forever she was secure from harm; she had come into her own. She felt her heart overflowing and exulting; the vigor of the spring was in her veins, the unseen growth of the vine was expanding her soul, and the birds' song filled her with joy.Then like a flash, like the cut of a knife, the sting of a lash, a black, evil thought darted into the radiance. The phantoms--where were they? The dark visage, the black wings, the hissing, shrieking voice--where were these? She looked fearfully about her with dilated eyes; but all was quiet, and there was neither form nor shape visible. The room lay bathed in sunshine, and there was a soft balminess in the air. Yet for one awful moment she felt that she was losing this wonderful thing that she had found, she was afraid--led into the wilderness and tempted. Then with a supreme courage she put it to the test; she stood upright and looked over her shoulder. The space behind her was empty! Trembling, agonized, yet in ecstasy, she looked again--the space was empty! Not even in dimmest outline, half-hidden, elusive as her enemy sometimes appeared, did he now show his face; not the faintest flutter of wings was discernible; no whisper came to her. She turned and walked across the room and back again to the window. She could not yet be satisfied that she was free; the sickening horror, the awful dread had not left her, and she turned and looked again over her right shoulder, where her phantom most often appeared, then over her left shoulder, where it sometimes surprised her by lurking. The space was empty! Now she felt that if she longer held her peace the very furnishings of the room must cry out. "Father, Spirit, God of Truth," she cried, "Love has liberated me!"Had a miracle been wrought for her deliverance? Mrs. Thorpe had always known that it was her imagination, her own distorted fancy against which she battled and fought. A phantom is not a reality, however real it may appear. The truth is always true, however distorted our view of it may be. When Mrs. Thorpe fixed her mind on the central Truth of creation, and spiritually discerned it, she realized that all the doubts and fears that had held her were but distortions of her material sense. All of her questionings and perplexities, vain fancies and evil imaginings were obliterated; her mental conception was changed, the hallucination dispelled, and she was free.Free! Men have been freed from the dungeon and from chains; reprieves have come at a moment when prisoners were to meet at the hands of their fellow men a violent death; floods and flames have been faced and deliverance miraculously given. These are physical horrors, relieved by physical causes. Mrs. Thorpe's deliverance was from a mental foe, one who would destroy not only her physical frame, but who would twist and warp and dethrone her reason as well; her deliverer was the royal Truth of life. Now indeed she had burst her chrysalis, she was no longer a worm of earth, but clothed with the spirit of immortality, she saw God's creation, not as human weakness has interpreted it, but as a loving Father designed it.Pauline, ever watchful and alert, was the first to notice a change in Mrs. Thorpe. She noted the returning vigor and observed the unusual buoyancy of spirit. There was also a consideration and thoughtful kindness in her manner that Pauline had never noticed before. A great deal of charity must be manifested toward one who is ill and in pain, unpleasant manners and disagreeable ways must be overlooked. Pauline had had the tact and patience to do this; she was not one to judge a sick woman unkindly. But now there was a winsomeness about this woman whom she had long looked upon as her charge, an optimism that she found it difficult to adjust to Mrs. Thorpe's former attitude.CHAPTER XIA SUMMER'S VACATIONMr. Thorpe noticed the change in his wife and rejoiced in her recovery. Her quiet manner and uniform cheerfulness brought to his mind the early days of their wedded life, and he felt that perhaps the many prayers that he had offered for her recovery had reached the throne of mercy.But the pastor's own cares were pressing him sorely. All that he had gained by the Easter service he had lost, and more. His congregation grew smaller each succeeding Sabbath, and with bitterness and despair he admitted that he was not obliged to look outside of himself for the cause. He felt his strength slipping from him, and in some way that he could not analyze nor comprehend, and his mental capacity seemed dwarfed and contracted. Thoughts of beauty and grandeur flitted through his brain, but when he tried to fix them there, to put them into words or on paper they eluded him, mocked and evaded him.When spring merged into summer a council of his church convened and voted him a vacation for the summer months. This was gratefully accepted; for he felt that a season's rest, a long vacation in which to recuperate and regain his lost powers would put him in condition again for his work in the autumn.Mrs. Thorpe was to accompany him, and they planned to spend the summer with an uncle who lived in a small village in an adjoining state. This uncle was a retired minister, who for forty years had preached the Gospel. Now with his wife still beside him, he was spending what was left of his life in well-earned peace and quiet. He sent an earnest invitation to his nephew to come to him and spend his vacation in this quiet, restful village.After the vacation was arranged, and the invitation accepted, Mr. Thorpe threw himself with all of his remaining strength and energy into the preparation of a farewell sermon. He desired this to be of high excellence, and especially adapted to the occasion; he wished to say something that would appeal to the hearts of his people, and cause them to remember him, and to be ready to welcome him back in the autumn. For days he worked on this sermon, comparing words and phrases, seeking just the shade of meaning he desired, harmonizing sentences, and striving for an agreeable rise and flow of language.Mrs. Thorpe, who had attended church for several Sundays, accompanied her husband on this last Sunday morning. She walked beside him now with easy grace, and mingled with her friends and seemed not to notice their wondering looks and incredulous glances; she met them without self-consciousness, neither shrinking nor boasting.When the pastor entered the pulpit, and the deep, sweet tones of the organ sounded, her soul glad and worshipful, left every care and material thought. Then she heard her husband's voice in prayer, praying for his people, and for the great world of humanity. But she did not follow the prayer closely; her new conception of God's creation enabled her to know that the Lord's blessing was already upon these people, that they needed only to realize and accept it. She saw toiling millions begging for a blessing that has been theirs forever, and that can never in any manner possibly cease to be theirs.For his text the pastor had taken, "To him that overcometh," and he dwelt largely on the reward ready for those who are able to endure to the end.As the sermon progressed, Mrs. Thorpe was reminded of her old troubled conception of the Father and His children in the field. She did not wonder that this idea had once possessed her; for was not this the very interpretation of life that her husband was presenting? But now before her vision she saw a kind and compassionate Father, and man in His spiritual likeness.She had found that the propensity of mortal man to worship images of belief that he himself has created, rather than to hold as his own that which God has created for him, and has bestowed without limit or stint upon him, is the cause of man's woe, the cause of all his grief and pain. God has given man only good; He could give nothing else, for He has created or fashioned nothing else. She heard the sermon through, however, without inward questioning or discord. Since the deep, sweet Truth of life had become the bread and wine of her existence she was not troubled by another's conception of truth. All truth, however small, however great, is a part of the Truth, just as every drop of the ocean, or rippling wave, or mighty billow is a part of the sea.Mrs. Thorpe knew something of the hard toil and effort this sermon had cost her husband; she knew that he had builded it word upon word, sentence upon sentence, and she understood the intensity of his purpose, the sincerity of his belief; but the thought came to her forcibly at this time that the laws of God are not influenced by man's conception of life and truth, but that, perfect and harmonious, they go undeviatingly on, regardless of what man believes or teaches.After the service Mrs. Thorpe noticed that there was no change in the rigidity of the manner that marked the worshipers. All was orderly and formal; those nearest to her spoke in subdued tones, and expressed a cold pleasure at seeing her again. This concourse of people, each heart carrying its own peculiar burden, had come to the service, listened to the music, heard the Scripture read and the sermon delivered; now each went again his own way without solace or comfort, his burden not one whit the lighter.It was a dull, gray morning; lowering clouds hung threateningly about, and a fine, penetrating mist filled the air."This dampness and mist is as bad as a pouring rain," said Pauline, on the way from church. "You had better fasten your muffler close about your throat, Maurice, and turn up your coat collar; I fear this will bring on your cough again."When they reached the parsonage Pauline saw that the fires were built and the rooms warmed and dried, although it was early summer. The dry, hacking cough that Mr. Thorpe was subject to was something to be fought and doctored continually. And in this instance Pauline's fears seemed to be well grounded; soon after dinner Mr. Thorpe was seized with a paroxysm of coughing, followed by a spell of weakness. By evening a low fever had developed and it was thought best to send for Dr. Eldrige.The old doctor came, examined the patient and gave minute directions for his care; after this he came every day for a week. At the end of this time Mr. Thorpe's condition was greatly improved, and one day when alone with him Dr. Eldrige broached a subject that had been much in his mind since he began calling at the parsonage."Thorpe," he said, in his usual blunt manner, "what has brought about your wife's recovery? A few months ago she was a stricken invalid; now we see her in the full flush of health. Some great physician must have been consulted--or some occult power. It might be well for you to get around with your explanations if you value her reputation or your own."Had Dr. Eldrige unsheathed a dagger and stabbed his patient, the blow could scarcely have been keener felt. For a time he repented his blunt words, for Mr. Thorpe's distress and agitation were alarming. The doctor mixed a stimulating draught and gave it to him, and at the same time, in a quiet, smooth manner, introduced another topic of conversation and soon after took his departure. He congratulated himself on being an adept at dealing crushing blows."I have, I think, given our pious pastor something to think about," he chuckled as he left the parsonage.At the end of another week the delayed preparations for their departure were resumed, and a few days later the family separated, Pauline to spend the summer in the old home town with a relative and the pastor and his wife enroute for the little village among the mountains.The old couple gave Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe a warm greeting and a hearty welcome to their simple, wholesome home. They acquainted them with the resources of the place; gave them directions for reaching the mountain peaks; showed them the mountain stream where the speckled trout abounded; pointed out to them the woodland path that led to the lake and the glades and dells where the wild flowers grew, and then left them to make their own plans and find their own amusements.To Mrs. Thorpe the place seemed like a fairy bower, a land of enchantment--one of her old daydreams come true. Here were the beauties of God's world, indescribable, luxurious, exquisite. Why had He made the hills and mountains so fair? Why were the skies so azure blue, the air so rare and sweet with the breath of flowers? Why do the waters of the rippling lake lay smiling in the sun? And why does the sun bathe woodland and field, mountain and lake in golden glory and flaming splendor? One of the books that she had read, the work of a popular scientist, told her that Nature's works are fixed and fashioned regardless of man; that in the plan of the universe no account was taken of his needs, and no cognizance of his desires. She recalled another book which told her that man is the central object of the universe and that all things are created to minister to his needs and desires. But deep in her own heart she believed the realities of life, all beauty, truth and harmony to be reflections of the one Life."It may be that mine was a case of too many books," she thought. "I depended too much on the knowledge that can be derived from the works of man, and considered too little the wisdom that comes from God, and can never come in any other way than by direct revelation--the heart of God speaking to the heart of man: 'Be still and know that I am God.'" And in this stillness, this sanctuary and solemn grandeur, there opened before her an unwritten book--the overreaching Law of Love, the compelling goodness of God.That which has been spoken and that which has been written pertains to the material sense; but that which has been heard in the silence, and seen in "the light that no man can approach unto," and experienced in the grandeur of the limitless life--this is God--no tongue has told it, no pen has portrayed it, yet in letters of glory we all may read it. From the mountains and the hills, from the summer skies and the smiling water, the leaves of this unwritten book unfolded before Mrs. Thorpe and she read the deep hidden things of God.The long golden days came and went like a radiant, glorified dream, each with its share of pleasure, some new joy, some added gladness. There were days when the summer rain beat upon the roof in mellow cadence; when the gray, leaden skies emphasized the cheer and comfort of the plain mountain home. Then, Mrs. Thorpe with some light work in hand, would listen while her hostess, the dear old aunt, related chapters from the past and told incidents and anecdotes from her long experience as a pastor's wife. There were days when the damp earth, warm beneath the sun, gave forth a blissful fragrance of growing things and the green, swelling buds burst into showers of bloom; when the mountain brook, swelled by the rain, babbled in wild, sweet song and dashed its turbulent waters into the placid lake.There were days when the pastor renewed his boyhood and spent long hours on the shaded banks of the mountain stream with his fishing tackle, baiting for speckled trout. Mrs. Thorpe always accompanied him and sought to divert his mind from every care; while he fished, or perhaps tramped through the woods and sought the homes of the feathered songsters, she would busy herself with some piece of needlework, and when he threw himself on the velvet grass beside her she would read to him from some book, bright, crisp and care-destroying. Sometimes the noonday lunch was carried in a basket and eaten at the foot of the towering, blue-hung mountain, and then together they scaled the mountain's height and from its summit viewed the valleys and woodlands below; saw the lake like a silver basin and the stream like a white thread; and all the world below seemed hushed and at rest, and their individual cares and perplexities seemed to shrink and fall away, and they breathed the life-giving ozone and felt that Life is so much greater thing than its material forms can ever demonstrate. These were days that long afterward lay in the memory like gems, rare, radiant, exquisite.Mr. Thorpe spent a considerable time with his venerable kinsman, the old minister, and together they lived in the past, a past peopled with father and mother and the sadly lamented brother cut down in his prime, and other dear ones gone to the far, fair shore. When alone Mr. Thorpe's thoughts tended to carry him back to a time when no shadows clouded his life, when no fears regarding physical or spiritual strength assailed him. With the ready assurance which is a phase of the disease from which he was suffering, he felt that he was regaining his health, and believed that full bodily vigor would be restored to him. But where were the hopes and aspirations of his life, once so strong and indomitable? Where the joy and gladness he had once felt in his work?A dull despair filled him now. Willingly, gladly, he had put his all in his work; and what had he received in return? He felt his heart "Smitten and withered like grass." And the people to whom he had ministered, to whom he had laid bare his heart and life, whom he had sought with all the passion and pleading of his soul, was there anything in their deeds or actions to indicate that their lives were marked with the impress of the Master? And always amid his introspection, there came the thought of his wife. The woman he loved had departed from the beliefs of his life, from the tenets of his faith, she had not followed him; her footsteps had taken a strange, new road, which must lead her ever farther and farther from him. Yet this, that she had not followed him, bitter as it was, was not the bitterest drop in his cup, was not the worst aspect of the trouble that weighed upon him. He had so cultivated the reverence in his nature for that which appealed to him in religion, and so stimulated his devotion to that which he worshiped, that he did not know that any soul-saving righteousness could exist outside the orbit in which his mind revolved. Then it was not only that she had not followed him--when he had so loved her--but it must follow that she was a lost soul.After long deliberation, Mr. Thorpe, feeling the burden and responsibility of his wife's departure too great to be borne alone, he laid the case before his venerable uncle.The old man, thoughtful and considerate, heard him through without a word. Then in his gentle voice, slightly tremulous, he said:"I think you made a mistake, Maurice, when you adopted a lenient attitude toward that which your judgment condemned. From your account, the book you found on your wife's table was rank heresy, openly opposed to established forms of religion. I have thought that perhaps this false conception of the works of Christ, this spurious growth that we know is gaining ground in the world to-day, is the very anti-Christ against which we have been so strenuously warned. It certainly is your duty to show your wife the falsity and error of these attacks on established creeds and doctrines. This blasphemy about spiritual healing is the most egregious error, the most harmful and misleading thing, the most damned and baneful thing that the enemies of pure religion have ever devised. I cannot understand how any honest person can adopt a neutral attitude toward it."Mr. Thorpe was silent for a few moments, and when he spoke the life and spirit had gone out of his voice, and the shadow that had darkened his life brooded over him."There is nothing neutral nor conciliatory in my mind toward this 'wind of doctrine,'" he said. "In my opinion there is no greater sacrilege than for man to claim the power of Christ." He hesitated a moment and then continued as one who forces down the last drop of a bitter draught. "Evelyn was a Christian woman when I married her," he said, "orthodox as you or I; she has been very near to me in all my work, yet she has departed from me; she has not been able to feed and live on that which I could give. And if this woman, whom I have loved and trusted, has failed to find spiritual food under my teaching, how shall I judge my life's work?""This is a serious question, Maurice, and far-reaching; but your outlook is morbid and unfair to yourself. Have no scruples about your life's work; never doubt that the Lord has need of your service; let nothing turn you from this. If there is any condemnation upon you it is because you have allowed your heart to pervert your judgment."There was silence again for a few moments, while a smile flickered across the old man's wrinkled face; a smile that spoke of many things; demons met and battles fought and every trace of human affection subservient to the creed that rules his life. Nowhere in the history of paganism do we find such atrocities as have been committed in the name of Religion. The blood of the martyrs had within it the principle that would condemn another to martyrdom and at the same time, if put to the test, face, undaunted, an atrocious death. And the devotee to the creeds and doctrines of our orthodox church will, for his faith, flay alive the quivering soul of a loved one and yield his own soul to be flayed with equal readiness. The smile, or the trace of it, lingered on the old minister's face."I have a thought, Maurice," he said, "that it is the old story, old as the Garden of Eden, of man's yielding to the witchery of woman. The curse of Adam's weakness is in our veins, but there is no extenuation for us in yielding to it. Were I in your place I should either root this obnoxious thing from Evelyn's mind, or else deal with her exactly as I should with any other heretic in the church. Go and read Mark 9, from 43 to 49."At the end of the summer when the first frost had touched the leaves and dressed them in red and yellow garb; when a blue haze hung over the landscape and the air was balmy with the summer's departing fragrance, the pastor and his wife bade an affectionate farewell to the friends who had been so kindly hospitable, and returned to Edgerly.Pauline, capable, willing and always considerate, preceded them and had the parsonage aired and renovated when Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe arrived.Mrs. Thorpe expostulated: "You should have waited and allowed me to help you," she said. "I can never repay you for all your kindness.""The dust and close air would have been bad for Maurice," Pauline replied. "And, my dear," she said, "you have been with Maurice constantly and perhaps you cannot see as I can that the summer has not improved his health. To me he seems thinner and more broken than when he went away."[image]"WHY, PERMIT ME TO ASK, DO YOU NOT TURN SOME OF YOUR WITCHCRAFT ON HIM?" (page136)CHAPTER XIITHE MINISTER'S DECLINEThe family had not been home many days before Mr. Thorpe's cough again became alarming; weakness and fever followed, and Dr. Eldrige was again summoned. The old doctor prescribed and commanded. The patient must be kept quiet, but nothing to indicate his condition must be manifested by the family. He also advised that Mr. Thorpe resign his position as pastor."He cannot preach this winter," he said, "and it will be the death of him to try. Let him resign and have all care off his mind."Mr. Thorpe objected to this and wished to obtain a substitute for a time; Mrs. Thorpe agreed with him that this would be the better way; and Pauline, although she said nothing, felt that his resignation would be a tacit admission that he would never regain his health.Dr. Eldrige fumed and stormed, as he always did when he met with opposition. He told Mrs. Thorpe and Pauline to go on and have their way, but to remember his words when they heard the clods upon the coffin lid. And Mr. Thorpe's resignation was duly sent in.As was his custom, Dr. Eldrige discussed his patient with his son. He made a pretense of scoffing at his son's methods and manners, yet he was always ready to lay his cases before him, and counted more upon the young doctor's opinions and depended more upon his judgment than he would under any circumstances admit."Our pious pastor is going to die," he said to his son. "Pious or devilish, we all come to the same place at last, and we all go through the same door and out into the same black hole."Dr. Eldrige Jr. made no comment, but gave the consent of silence to his father's statements; he felt that they needed no corroboration.After a few moments the elder doctor spoke again: "Perhaps, though, a man's better off dead than alive when he has a witch-wife," lie said."A witch-wife!" the young man ejaculated, and there was both incredulity and remonstrance in his voice; but he said no more; he knew better than to question his father outright, and he half regretted that he had allowed the exclamation to escape him."Yes," the old man stormed; "a witch-wife, a distracted, wild-eyed manes who has had seven devils--seventy for what I know--cast out of her and now blooms forth in pristine freshness. When witches inhabit the earth the doctors can seek another world in which to practice their vile profession of medicine; their services will not be required in this one. However, when our witch friend gets out among people she may find that she has fewer friends in her health than she had in her sickness. She may be able to ride over chimney tops on a broomstick and hobnob with black cats in the forest for a time--but it may be a short time."Heretofore the young doctor had given little heed to his father's bluster about Mrs. Thorpe's recovery; but now he understood that his words contained a covert threat. In the course of their relations together the son had fallen into the way of arbiter between his father and his father's patients, and many times he was able to prevent his father's malevolent designs and to heal the wounds that he inflicted. Now he looked up from the book that he was reading; he did not look full into his father's face, but scanned it surreptitiously, and he admitted to himself that his father's malady was working upon him again. The harsh grating of his voice and his evil, malicious words had portrayed it; and the fleeting glance at the old man's face had revealed the purplish tinge, the swollen veins, and the murderous gleam of his eyes.Never could he forget the day that he had discovered his father's secret--the disease that was ravaging body and brain. He had come upon him suddenly, unexpectedly, and had turned hastily from him, partly in recoil at what he saw and also to shield his father from the knowledge that he had discovered his trouble. And from that time, as he valued his life, he had given no hint of what he knew, although there was a silent understanding regarding it between him and his father. And this understanding had enabled him to know his choleric parent as he had never known him before. He felt that the anger and malignity and rancor to which his father gave vent were but the outflow, the suppuration of the horror which held him in its grasp; and he dared not put the question to himself, whether it might not be that this thing of horror was but his father's evil moods materialized in the flesh. And now he read an expression of his father's virulence in his remarks concerning the pastor and his wife, and had he read no more than this he would have made no reply, but he feared that his father's words contained a menace to the peace of those to whom he was ministering, and he believed it was time for him to ascertain the state of affairs at the parsonage."If Mr. Thorpe's decline is, as you say, slow and gradual," he said, "so long as there are no complications, you may as well let me take the case." His manner was quiet, free from curiosity, and indicated that he was not interested in the matter of Mrs. Thorpe's recovery. "I have calls that will take me in that part of the town to-morrow," he continued, "and I will see Mr. Thorpe for you if you like."Dr. Eldrige Jr. felt that he had scored a victory that was worth while. His father would get a new grievance bye and bye, and then, if he saw no more of the Thorpes, he would forget this one.He called at the parsonage the next afternoon and found Mr. Thorpe resting comfortably. The cough was better and the other symptoms less pronounced. After this he continued his calls at different times for several days; then a call came that took him out of town for a few days and the old doctor made the call on Mr. Thorpe.After the visit he said to Mrs. Thorpe, who had accompanied him to the hall: "The present treatment seems to be working so well that it will not be necessary for me to call again until Mr. Thorpe is taken worse; but be sure and let me know at the first return of the unfavorable symptoms." He spoke of this contingency as though it were a foregone conclusion; that it was only a matter of time.This was the first real intimation that Mrs. Thorpe had had that her husband's condition was serious. For the first moment she felt as if her heart had ceased to beat, or was it that she was blind that the daylight should be so black? Then she felt that a burden so heavy that she could not bear it had been suddenly and rudely thrust upon her. She felt that she staggered and was unsteady on her feet. But she faced the doctor and spoke as bravely as she could, although her voice sounded in her ears like a voice that she had never heard before. Yet in her consciousness there mingled with this deadly certainty that the doctor expressed something of her new-found faith in a higher power, and so she said:"If he is taken worse we will let you know at once."Dr. Eldrige lowered his head and looked at her over his glasses; he was in a villainous mood, and that little flame of faith that had shot out in her words had not escaped him."If," he roared; "indeed, Mrs. Thorpe, there is no 'if' about it; he will be taken worse." Then with the heart of one who knows he has maimed, but craves to kill, he said: "Don't you know that your husband is going to die?"Mrs. Thorpe paled to the lips. She looked the man steadily in the face, but no words came to her.He saw that she did not shriek nor cry aloud; she did not faint nor fall; and with all the malevolence in his nature he made another thrust."There was a time," he said, "when I believed that you would leave your husband free in the world, but the tables have turned. Why, permit me to ask, do you not turn some of your witchcraft on him? What is fair for one ought to be fair for another. You saved yourself by some devilish machination, but you are little inclined, it seems, to save your husband by the same process."The horror and resentment of Mrs. Thorpe's outraged soul were depicted upon her face and gleamed from her dilated eyes. She had trained her mind to dwell on the divine attributes in man; but alas, how human, how very human, she felt this passion to be that possessed her now! Her blood was like fire in her veins, a strange noise was in her ears and hot, scathing words leaped to her lips."Dr. Eldrige," she said, and the words came keen and sharp; all her anguish and passionate anger were there, but she caught her breath sharply and stopped. Then again: "Dr. Eldrige--" Her voice wavered, fell and broke. She turned and walked to the window. The doctor began drawing on his gloves, his hand was on the door. Then she walked back to him. Her face was white, her eyes fathomless. "You are my husband's physician," she said. "I have no quarrel with you." Her voice was even, guardedly calm.The doctor regarded her curiously. He had read her horror and resentment and with the utmost exactness he read her passion and her anguish; now he as surely read her victory. His ill-will toward her did not soften. He stood with his cane and medicine case in his hand, ready to go, and without a word he turned and left her.A lightning flash will sometimes cause objects and outlines to stand out with more distinctness than does the noonday sun. The keen flash of her bitter passion revealed to Mrs. Thorpe what the long summer days had not disclosed.Why had she not been free and frank with her husband and confessed to him the change that had come into her life? Why had she shut her blessing in her own heart and uttered no word to those about her?The consciousness that had come to her of the power of Truth over all evil and error never wavered nor failed. The actual demonstration of what she had experienced was manifested in her own life.God's truth is not a complex thing, difficult to explain and hard to demonstrate; it is simple and natural. Health is the natural condition; sickness is abnormal. Righteousness is the simple state of man; sin is a distortion. But to live and demonstrate these truths in this many-sided, complex life requires all the wisdom that Christ came to earth to teach.Mrs. Thorpe never doubted that could the saving power of Truth be revealed to her husband his infirmities would fall from him; yet with this message warm in her heart she had not broken the silence that lay between them. In this course that she had taken she had shielded herself behind the conviction that her husband would not accept this message; and she had put back with a quieting touch, hushed and kept asleep that which all the time had been to her so patent--that she was deceiving her husband--afraid to make known to him her new conception of the Christ-love and its transforming power.Mr. Thorpe was in his study one morning, sorting and arranging his books. The disease from which he was suffering has been known to play with its victims as a cat delights to play with a mouse, and this was one of the times when Mr. Thorpe fully believed that he was to regain his health. He was finding great pleasure in his books this morning; he had been away from them so long that now as he handled them they seemed to him like dearest friends. Mrs. Thorpe tapped at the door of the study and he bade her enter."It seems good to find you here, Maurice," she said; "like old times again.""Old times!" How the thought stirred his spirit--the time when there was no barrier between them. The sunshine streamed through the window and lay, a golden bar, on the floor; symbolic, he thought, of the barrier that had insinuated itself between him and this fair, smiling woman who stood before him; a barrier silent, far-reaching, heaven-high.Mrs. Thorpe's eyes also were on the shaft of light."See how the sunshine lies like a bridge between us," she said; "a beautiful golden bridge. I hope I may be able to build as fair a one, Maurice, between your confidence and mine. I have been keeping something from you. I wish to talk to you about it--about the new belief--the light that has come to me."Her heart was beating tumultuously. Her hand rested on a table beside her husband and he noticed the firm, white flesh of her arm, where once pitiful emaciation had marked it. He looked into her face and saw the signs of health and vigor there--evidence that she had cast her lot with some foreign power--some ungodly fetish!"Evelyn," he said, "I have not questioned your belief nor demanded an explanation concerning this new, strange doctrine which you have embraced.""No," she said, "you have not questioned nor demanded. I feel that you have trusted me, you have been kind--""No, Evelyn! Not that--I have been weak, culpable, a coward--fearing to ask lest from your own lips I get confirmation of the worst."Mrs. Thorpe felt that her husband had thrust her suddenly outside the pale of his sympathy. The hope in her heart grew cold and all her glad words that she had been ready to speak deserted her; yet she answered bravely:"This is no evil thing that has come into my life, you need not dread or fear it." Then, more eagerly: "Oh, Maurice, can you not see that it has restored my health, taken away my infirmities, blessed my life and made me whole?" The flood-gates were opened and the fullness of her soul poured forth. "It is the Truth that has made me free; there is no real power in the world save God's power. There is a better conception of life than that which admits sickness and disease to be real and powerful. Have not we to-day the same Savior who walked the Galilean shore healing all forms of sin and sickness? God is the same yesterday, to-day and forever. Is not our Christ just as tender, as compassionate, as able, now as then?" She stopped at the sight of her husband's face. The light had gone out of it; it was grim and set."That which I feared has come upon me," he said. "I had hoped that this folly of yours might pass; I have prayed daily that you might be delivered from this fallacy, and restored to the fold; but I see that you have gone from me--gone from me, from my church and my God."Mrs. Thorpe had felt sure that her husband would not approve of her new belief, and in her darkest moments she had feared that by confessing to him the change that had come into her life, the perfect trust and confidence between them might be broken. But what was this that his words portended? Gone from his church--his God--from him! Was there anything--anything on earth or in Heaven that could compensate her for this? Yet with the question still passionate in her soul she realized that were it possible, for the sake of the mortal love her soul so craved, for her to deny her conception of the Infinite, she could never retrace her steps. With her own free hand she had torn down the old relationship between herself and her husband. For the moment she felt that she had plucked from its stem the fairest flower that ever blossomed; now it must wither and die, no power on earth could prevent it.The glistening sunlight radiated sparks of living fire, then reeled in darkness. Suddenly she found herself as one who departs on a strange, new road, and finds all other paths barred and blocked. A tremor shook her form and her breath came with a sob. Even though she find that the night awaits her in Gethsemane and Calvary looms on before, she must go on--but not alone--she has beside her One whose feet had passed that way before.Her husband sat before her with bowed head."Maurice," she said gently, yet with the keenness of her heart's pain in her voice, "the sternest judge does not condemn without a hearing, much less should you who have always been kind and just condemn me before you have investigated the views I hold.""I have no desire to investigate your views, Evelyn. This assertion that you have made, that a weak and sinful human being has power to overcome sickness and disease, is placing mortals on a level with the Son of God and is a defamation of the very character of God Himself. I would have given my life for you rather than that you should have embraced so heretical and blasphemous a doctrine. Yet even though this cup prove more bitter than I can bear; even though it blights my life and destroys my affection, I will not ask you to spare me now. I desire to know how far you have gone--I would like to know how far you are from me."Mrs. Thorpe felt herself alone; her isolation closing in about her. Never before had her husband thrust her from him, never before had he been unsympathetic and unkind. Then the thought came to her that in all the years of her married life she had never before arrayed herself in open opposition to him; and she realized now, for the first time, that although she had loved this man she had also feared him with an awful, shrinking fear. Now she felt that he had not only thrust her from him, but that he had aimed deliberately to pain and wound her, and with this thought a new element sprang to life within her--a dauntless, unflinching courage."Maurice," she said, "you have thrown down the gauntlet which, were I to 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 X
THE DISCERNMENT OF TRUTH
Mrs. Thorpe was sitting one day in the familiar seat by the window, and her thoughts were centered on the conditions about her. Outside the vine was putting forth new buds and tender leaves; a bird on a swinging bough was singing his mating song; the grass was growing green on the incline that led up to the church. The winter had not destroyed the heart and life of that which it had blasted outwardly, and Nature was emerging into newness of life.
A world of growing things, abundant, forceful, alive, are springing from the brown, fructuous earth; spring is pregnant, alive with a power beyond human conception. Boundless, limitless, infinite Power!
Now questions that at first seemed to come to her timid, elusive, quivered before Mrs. Thorpe's mental vision and insinuated themselves into her consciousness. Was this material evidence before her eyes the substance and reality of that which she saw, or was there something hidden from her mortal vision, something in this scene before her which her senses could not recognize? Here before her was the seed-bed, the seed and the form of the fruitage; but were these the reality, or were they but the fleeting forms of matter, and the divine Idea the only reality? Which is real, the plant and the flower, or the life of the plant and the flower? These questions that had come to her haltingly, falteringly, gradually assumed larger proportions until they included herself, the universe, and all that the universe contains. Time, place, conditions, and all material relations shifted and changed, and she saw God's world, and God's power controlling it; a just and majestic God asking only conformity to the perfect conditions he has created.
Now all of Mrs. Thorpe's preconceived knowledge vanished and melted away. Every structure that she had built had been founded on shifting, undulating sand, upon her belief of life in matter. The ideas and conceits of her childhood, the ardor and energy of her young womanhood, and all the strain of recent years all passed before her, and all were empty, vain, human and finite. She saw mortals bowed and broken, guided by finite wisdom and helped by finite power, trying to do God's work; struggling and agonizing, trying to aid Infinite strength, and to supplement Infinite wisdom.
She saw man--upright, holy, divine--yet dominated by his false beliefs and his conceptions of evil, believing himself the sinful, unclean thing that his distorted vision pictures him to be; ignorant, misguided, toiling in pain and sorrow. Christ, ah, Christ! Who would not be a Christ, a Savior of men; who would not sacrifice this stage of life, yea, die a thousand deaths, if by pain and sacrifice he might show this bruised and broken people the perfection of life, and the harmony of the condition in which Infinite love has placed them?
Every cord that held her to the moorings of her old belief gave way, and Mrs. Thorpe found herself alone on a shoreless, fathomless sea; no sail was in sight, no hand reached out to her. Adrift--alone--there was no measuring of time or space. But she was not afraid, for the science of Being had been revealed to her. Alone--yet he whose voice stilled the sea, he whose voice stills human passion, fear, pain and suffering was with her, and she walked upon the water with this Man of Galilee.
In their blindness and error men have produced that which is not beautiful, and which is not good, but there are no blemishes in God's world, and there are no iniquities. The God of love has put beauty, and grace, and joy, and gladness into everything that He has created.
Now Mrs. Thorpe saw before her all that has been, all that is, and all that is to be; and her eyes were not holden to the emblems and symbols through which the solution of God's world was hers. "Neither death nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature," shall be able now to separate her from the love of God.
The peace that passeth understanding is like a calm on mighty waters, like the strength of rugged forests, like the blending of many melodies. Mrs. Thorpe fell on her knees and buried her face in her hands. But this attitude was not taken to humble herself before the God that she had found; this Deity that was revealed to her was the great and perfect Whole, and herself she recognized as the spiritual image and likeness of God.
"There is a Spirit in man and the inspiration of the Almighty giveth him understanding." "The inspiration of the Almighty;" there is no other source of supply, no other way to understand than to let the Spirit speak to the "Spirit in man." Mrs. Thorpe's mind was emptied of worldly wisdom; the tablets of her heart were renewed clean as an unwritten page. Freed from the thought of her material selfhood, and her intellectual beliefs, she was receptive, ready and waiting in the hands of the Master of men.
The preparation of the clay that is to be molded into a work of art is of first importance; and when this preparation is completed the artist begins his work of bringing beauty and grace out of a pliable, yielding mass ready to his hand. When a piece of ground is to bring forth a harvest of golden grain or succulent fruit the ground must first be prepared. There must be an upheaval; the weeds and tares must be uprooted; the plow-share and the harrow must do their work; the soil must be torn and broken and turned up to the mellowing sun, and then the seed is sown.
Upon her knees Mrs. Thorpe was not denied the knowledge that her years of suffering were years of preparation; that the anguish and pain wrought by her great desire had not been in vain. When she arose to her feet she knew that she had found the Kingdom of Heaven; it was within her.
A flood of sunshine lay over the room; each familiar object was in its place, yet all was changed. She stepped to the window and looked out, and the transfigured earth, and air, and sky greeted her; yet even in this first newness of her joy she knew that this change which glorified all things was in her own heart. And that which tongue has never named and pen has never described descended upon her and enfolded her like a garment; and henceforth and forever she was secure from harm; she had come into her own. She felt her heart overflowing and exulting; the vigor of the spring was in her veins, the unseen growth of the vine was expanding her soul, and the birds' song filled her with joy.
Then like a flash, like the cut of a knife, the sting of a lash, a black, evil thought darted into the radiance. The phantoms--where were they? The dark visage, the black wings, the hissing, shrieking voice--where were these? She looked fearfully about her with dilated eyes; but all was quiet, and there was neither form nor shape visible. The room lay bathed in sunshine, and there was a soft balminess in the air. Yet for one awful moment she felt that she was losing this wonderful thing that she had found, she was afraid--led into the wilderness and tempted. Then with a supreme courage she put it to the test; she stood upright and looked over her shoulder. The space behind her was empty! Trembling, agonized, yet in ecstasy, she looked again--the space was empty! Not even in dimmest outline, half-hidden, elusive as her enemy sometimes appeared, did he now show his face; not the faintest flutter of wings was discernible; no whisper came to her. She turned and walked across the room and back again to the window. She could not yet be satisfied that she was free; the sickening horror, the awful dread had not left her, and she turned and looked again over her right shoulder, where her phantom most often appeared, then over her left shoulder, where it sometimes surprised her by lurking. The space was empty! Now she felt that if she longer held her peace the very furnishings of the room must cry out. "Father, Spirit, God of Truth," she cried, "Love has liberated me!"
Had a miracle been wrought for her deliverance? Mrs. Thorpe had always known that it was her imagination, her own distorted fancy against which she battled and fought. A phantom is not a reality, however real it may appear. The truth is always true, however distorted our view of it may be. When Mrs. Thorpe fixed her mind on the central Truth of creation, and spiritually discerned it, she realized that all the doubts and fears that had held her were but distortions of her material sense. All of her questionings and perplexities, vain fancies and evil imaginings were obliterated; her mental conception was changed, the hallucination dispelled, and she was free.
Free! Men have been freed from the dungeon and from chains; reprieves have come at a moment when prisoners were to meet at the hands of their fellow men a violent death; floods and flames have been faced and deliverance miraculously given. These are physical horrors, relieved by physical causes. Mrs. Thorpe's deliverance was from a mental foe, one who would destroy not only her physical frame, but who would twist and warp and dethrone her reason as well; her deliverer was the royal Truth of life. Now indeed she had burst her chrysalis, she was no longer a worm of earth, but clothed with the spirit of immortality, she saw God's creation, not as human weakness has interpreted it, but as a loving Father designed it.
Pauline, ever watchful and alert, was the first to notice a change in Mrs. Thorpe. She noted the returning vigor and observed the unusual buoyancy of spirit. There was also a consideration and thoughtful kindness in her manner that Pauline had never noticed before. A great deal of charity must be manifested toward one who is ill and in pain, unpleasant manners and disagreeable ways must be overlooked. Pauline had had the tact and patience to do this; she was not one to judge a sick woman unkindly. But now there was a winsomeness about this woman whom she had long looked upon as her charge, an optimism that she found it difficult to adjust to Mrs. Thorpe's former attitude.
CHAPTER XI
A SUMMER'S VACATION
Mr. Thorpe noticed the change in his wife and rejoiced in her recovery. Her quiet manner and uniform cheerfulness brought to his mind the early days of their wedded life, and he felt that perhaps the many prayers that he had offered for her recovery had reached the throne of mercy.
But the pastor's own cares were pressing him sorely. All that he had gained by the Easter service he had lost, and more. His congregation grew smaller each succeeding Sabbath, and with bitterness and despair he admitted that he was not obliged to look outside of himself for the cause. He felt his strength slipping from him, and in some way that he could not analyze nor comprehend, and his mental capacity seemed dwarfed and contracted. Thoughts of beauty and grandeur flitted through his brain, but when he tried to fix them there, to put them into words or on paper they eluded him, mocked and evaded him.
When spring merged into summer a council of his church convened and voted him a vacation for the summer months. This was gratefully accepted; for he felt that a season's rest, a long vacation in which to recuperate and regain his lost powers would put him in condition again for his work in the autumn.
Mrs. Thorpe was to accompany him, and they planned to spend the summer with an uncle who lived in a small village in an adjoining state. This uncle was a retired minister, who for forty years had preached the Gospel. Now with his wife still beside him, he was spending what was left of his life in well-earned peace and quiet. He sent an earnest invitation to his nephew to come to him and spend his vacation in this quiet, restful village.
After the vacation was arranged, and the invitation accepted, Mr. Thorpe threw himself with all of his remaining strength and energy into the preparation of a farewell sermon. He desired this to be of high excellence, and especially adapted to the occasion; he wished to say something that would appeal to the hearts of his people, and cause them to remember him, and to be ready to welcome him back in the autumn. For days he worked on this sermon, comparing words and phrases, seeking just the shade of meaning he desired, harmonizing sentences, and striving for an agreeable rise and flow of language.
Mrs. Thorpe, who had attended church for several Sundays, accompanied her husband on this last Sunday morning. She walked beside him now with easy grace, and mingled with her friends and seemed not to notice their wondering looks and incredulous glances; she met them without self-consciousness, neither shrinking nor boasting.
When the pastor entered the pulpit, and the deep, sweet tones of the organ sounded, her soul glad and worshipful, left every care and material thought. Then she heard her husband's voice in prayer, praying for his people, and for the great world of humanity. But she did not follow the prayer closely; her new conception of God's creation enabled her to know that the Lord's blessing was already upon these people, that they needed only to realize and accept it. She saw toiling millions begging for a blessing that has been theirs forever, and that can never in any manner possibly cease to be theirs.
For his text the pastor had taken, "To him that overcometh," and he dwelt largely on the reward ready for those who are able to endure to the end.
As the sermon progressed, Mrs. Thorpe was reminded of her old troubled conception of the Father and His children in the field. She did not wonder that this idea had once possessed her; for was not this the very interpretation of life that her husband was presenting? But now before her vision she saw a kind and compassionate Father, and man in His spiritual likeness.
She had found that the propensity of mortal man to worship images of belief that he himself has created, rather than to hold as his own that which God has created for him, and has bestowed without limit or stint upon him, is the cause of man's woe, the cause of all his grief and pain. God has given man only good; He could give nothing else, for He has created or fashioned nothing else. She heard the sermon through, however, without inward questioning or discord. Since the deep, sweet Truth of life had become the bread and wine of her existence she was not troubled by another's conception of truth. All truth, however small, however great, is a part of the Truth, just as every drop of the ocean, or rippling wave, or mighty billow is a part of the sea.
Mrs. Thorpe knew something of the hard toil and effort this sermon had cost her husband; she knew that he had builded it word upon word, sentence upon sentence, and she understood the intensity of his purpose, the sincerity of his belief; but the thought came to her forcibly at this time that the laws of God are not influenced by man's conception of life and truth, but that, perfect and harmonious, they go undeviatingly on, regardless of what man believes or teaches.
After the service Mrs. Thorpe noticed that there was no change in the rigidity of the manner that marked the worshipers. All was orderly and formal; those nearest to her spoke in subdued tones, and expressed a cold pleasure at seeing her again. This concourse of people, each heart carrying its own peculiar burden, had come to the service, listened to the music, heard the Scripture read and the sermon delivered; now each went again his own way without solace or comfort, his burden not one whit the lighter.
It was a dull, gray morning; lowering clouds hung threateningly about, and a fine, penetrating mist filled the air.
"This dampness and mist is as bad as a pouring rain," said Pauline, on the way from church. "You had better fasten your muffler close about your throat, Maurice, and turn up your coat collar; I fear this will bring on your cough again."
When they reached the parsonage Pauline saw that the fires were built and the rooms warmed and dried, although it was early summer. The dry, hacking cough that Mr. Thorpe was subject to was something to be fought and doctored continually. And in this instance Pauline's fears seemed to be well grounded; soon after dinner Mr. Thorpe was seized with a paroxysm of coughing, followed by a spell of weakness. By evening a low fever had developed and it was thought best to send for Dr. Eldrige.
The old doctor came, examined the patient and gave minute directions for his care; after this he came every day for a week. At the end of this time Mr. Thorpe's condition was greatly improved, and one day when alone with him Dr. Eldrige broached a subject that had been much in his mind since he began calling at the parsonage.
"Thorpe," he said, in his usual blunt manner, "what has brought about your wife's recovery? A few months ago she was a stricken invalid; now we see her in the full flush of health. Some great physician must have been consulted--or some occult power. It might be well for you to get around with your explanations if you value her reputation or your own."
Had Dr. Eldrige unsheathed a dagger and stabbed his patient, the blow could scarcely have been keener felt. For a time he repented his blunt words, for Mr. Thorpe's distress and agitation were alarming. The doctor mixed a stimulating draught and gave it to him, and at the same time, in a quiet, smooth manner, introduced another topic of conversation and soon after took his departure. He congratulated himself on being an adept at dealing crushing blows.
"I have, I think, given our pious pastor something to think about," he chuckled as he left the parsonage.
At the end of another week the delayed preparations for their departure were resumed, and a few days later the family separated, Pauline to spend the summer in the old home town with a relative and the pastor and his wife enroute for the little village among the mountains.
The old couple gave Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe a warm greeting and a hearty welcome to their simple, wholesome home. They acquainted them with the resources of the place; gave them directions for reaching the mountain peaks; showed them the mountain stream where the speckled trout abounded; pointed out to them the woodland path that led to the lake and the glades and dells where the wild flowers grew, and then left them to make their own plans and find their own amusements.
To Mrs. Thorpe the place seemed like a fairy bower, a land of enchantment--one of her old daydreams come true. Here were the beauties of God's world, indescribable, luxurious, exquisite. Why had He made the hills and mountains so fair? Why were the skies so azure blue, the air so rare and sweet with the breath of flowers? Why do the waters of the rippling lake lay smiling in the sun? And why does the sun bathe woodland and field, mountain and lake in golden glory and flaming splendor? One of the books that she had read, the work of a popular scientist, told her that Nature's works are fixed and fashioned regardless of man; that in the plan of the universe no account was taken of his needs, and no cognizance of his desires. She recalled another book which told her that man is the central object of the universe and that all things are created to minister to his needs and desires. But deep in her own heart she believed the realities of life, all beauty, truth and harmony to be reflections of the one Life.
"It may be that mine was a case of too many books," she thought. "I depended too much on the knowledge that can be derived from the works of man, and considered too little the wisdom that comes from God, and can never come in any other way than by direct revelation--the heart of God speaking to the heart of man: 'Be still and know that I am God.'" And in this stillness, this sanctuary and solemn grandeur, there opened before her an unwritten book--the overreaching Law of Love, the compelling goodness of God.
That which has been spoken and that which has been written pertains to the material sense; but that which has been heard in the silence, and seen in "the light that no man can approach unto," and experienced in the grandeur of the limitless life--this is God--no tongue has told it, no pen has portrayed it, yet in letters of glory we all may read it. From the mountains and the hills, from the summer skies and the smiling water, the leaves of this unwritten book unfolded before Mrs. Thorpe and she read the deep hidden things of God.
The long golden days came and went like a radiant, glorified dream, each with its share of pleasure, some new joy, some added gladness. There were days when the summer rain beat upon the roof in mellow cadence; when the gray, leaden skies emphasized the cheer and comfort of the plain mountain home. Then, Mrs. Thorpe with some light work in hand, would listen while her hostess, the dear old aunt, related chapters from the past and told incidents and anecdotes from her long experience as a pastor's wife. There were days when the damp earth, warm beneath the sun, gave forth a blissful fragrance of growing things and the green, swelling buds burst into showers of bloom; when the mountain brook, swelled by the rain, babbled in wild, sweet song and dashed its turbulent waters into the placid lake.
There were days when the pastor renewed his boyhood and spent long hours on the shaded banks of the mountain stream with his fishing tackle, baiting for speckled trout. Mrs. Thorpe always accompanied him and sought to divert his mind from every care; while he fished, or perhaps tramped through the woods and sought the homes of the feathered songsters, she would busy herself with some piece of needlework, and when he threw himself on the velvet grass beside her she would read to him from some book, bright, crisp and care-destroying. Sometimes the noonday lunch was carried in a basket and eaten at the foot of the towering, blue-hung mountain, and then together they scaled the mountain's height and from its summit viewed the valleys and woodlands below; saw the lake like a silver basin and the stream like a white thread; and all the world below seemed hushed and at rest, and their individual cares and perplexities seemed to shrink and fall away, and they breathed the life-giving ozone and felt that Life is so much greater thing than its material forms can ever demonstrate. These were days that long afterward lay in the memory like gems, rare, radiant, exquisite.
Mr. Thorpe spent a considerable time with his venerable kinsman, the old minister, and together they lived in the past, a past peopled with father and mother and the sadly lamented brother cut down in his prime, and other dear ones gone to the far, fair shore. When alone Mr. Thorpe's thoughts tended to carry him back to a time when no shadows clouded his life, when no fears regarding physical or spiritual strength assailed him. With the ready assurance which is a phase of the disease from which he was suffering, he felt that he was regaining his health, and believed that full bodily vigor would be restored to him. But where were the hopes and aspirations of his life, once so strong and indomitable? Where the joy and gladness he had once felt in his work?
A dull despair filled him now. Willingly, gladly, he had put his all in his work; and what had he received in return? He felt his heart "Smitten and withered like grass." And the people to whom he had ministered, to whom he had laid bare his heart and life, whom he had sought with all the passion and pleading of his soul, was there anything in their deeds or actions to indicate that their lives were marked with the impress of the Master? And always amid his introspection, there came the thought of his wife. The woman he loved had departed from the beliefs of his life, from the tenets of his faith, she had not followed him; her footsteps had taken a strange, new road, which must lead her ever farther and farther from him. Yet this, that she had not followed him, bitter as it was, was not the bitterest drop in his cup, was not the worst aspect of the trouble that weighed upon him. He had so cultivated the reverence in his nature for that which appealed to him in religion, and so stimulated his devotion to that which he worshiped, that he did not know that any soul-saving righteousness could exist outside the orbit in which his mind revolved. Then it was not only that she had not followed him--when he had so loved her--but it must follow that she was a lost soul.
After long deliberation, Mr. Thorpe, feeling the burden and responsibility of his wife's departure too great to be borne alone, he laid the case before his venerable uncle.
The old man, thoughtful and considerate, heard him through without a word. Then in his gentle voice, slightly tremulous, he said:
"I think you made a mistake, Maurice, when you adopted a lenient attitude toward that which your judgment condemned. From your account, the book you found on your wife's table was rank heresy, openly opposed to established forms of religion. I have thought that perhaps this false conception of the works of Christ, this spurious growth that we know is gaining ground in the world to-day, is the very anti-Christ against which we have been so strenuously warned. It certainly is your duty to show your wife the falsity and error of these attacks on established creeds and doctrines. This blasphemy about spiritual healing is the most egregious error, the most harmful and misleading thing, the most damned and baneful thing that the enemies of pure religion have ever devised. I cannot understand how any honest person can adopt a neutral attitude toward it."
Mr. Thorpe was silent for a few moments, and when he spoke the life and spirit had gone out of his voice, and the shadow that had darkened his life brooded over him.
"There is nothing neutral nor conciliatory in my mind toward this 'wind of doctrine,'" he said. "In my opinion there is no greater sacrilege than for man to claim the power of Christ." He hesitated a moment and then continued as one who forces down the last drop of a bitter draught. "Evelyn was a Christian woman when I married her," he said, "orthodox as you or I; she has been very near to me in all my work, yet she has departed from me; she has not been able to feed and live on that which I could give. And if this woman, whom I have loved and trusted, has failed to find spiritual food under my teaching, how shall I judge my life's work?"
"This is a serious question, Maurice, and far-reaching; but your outlook is morbid and unfair to yourself. Have no scruples about your life's work; never doubt that the Lord has need of your service; let nothing turn you from this. If there is any condemnation upon you it is because you have allowed your heart to pervert your judgment."
There was silence again for a few moments, while a smile flickered across the old man's wrinkled face; a smile that spoke of many things; demons met and battles fought and every trace of human affection subservient to the creed that rules his life. Nowhere in the history of paganism do we find such atrocities as have been committed in the name of Religion. The blood of the martyrs had within it the principle that would condemn another to martyrdom and at the same time, if put to the test, face, undaunted, an atrocious death. And the devotee to the creeds and doctrines of our orthodox church will, for his faith, flay alive the quivering soul of a loved one and yield his own soul to be flayed with equal readiness. The smile, or the trace of it, lingered on the old minister's face.
"I have a thought, Maurice," he said, "that it is the old story, old as the Garden of Eden, of man's yielding to the witchery of woman. The curse of Adam's weakness is in our veins, but there is no extenuation for us in yielding to it. Were I in your place I should either root this obnoxious thing from Evelyn's mind, or else deal with her exactly as I should with any other heretic in the church. Go and read Mark 9, from 43 to 49."
At the end of the summer when the first frost had touched the leaves and dressed them in red and yellow garb; when a blue haze hung over the landscape and the air was balmy with the summer's departing fragrance, the pastor and his wife bade an affectionate farewell to the friends who had been so kindly hospitable, and returned to Edgerly.
Pauline, capable, willing and always considerate, preceded them and had the parsonage aired and renovated when Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe arrived.
Mrs. Thorpe expostulated: "You should have waited and allowed me to help you," she said. "I can never repay you for all your kindness."
"The dust and close air would have been bad for Maurice," Pauline replied. "And, my dear," she said, "you have been with Maurice constantly and perhaps you cannot see as I can that the summer has not improved his health. To me he seems thinner and more broken than when he went away."
[image]"WHY, PERMIT ME TO ASK, DO YOU NOT TURN SOME OF YOUR WITCHCRAFT ON HIM?" (page136)
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"WHY, PERMIT ME TO ASK, DO YOU NOT TURN SOME OF YOUR WITCHCRAFT ON HIM?" (page136)
CHAPTER XII
THE MINISTER'S DECLINE
The family had not been home many days before Mr. Thorpe's cough again became alarming; weakness and fever followed, and Dr. Eldrige was again summoned. The old doctor prescribed and commanded. The patient must be kept quiet, but nothing to indicate his condition must be manifested by the family. He also advised that Mr. Thorpe resign his position as pastor.
"He cannot preach this winter," he said, "and it will be the death of him to try. Let him resign and have all care off his mind."
Mr. Thorpe objected to this and wished to obtain a substitute for a time; Mrs. Thorpe agreed with him that this would be the better way; and Pauline, although she said nothing, felt that his resignation would be a tacit admission that he would never regain his health.
Dr. Eldrige fumed and stormed, as he always did when he met with opposition. He told Mrs. Thorpe and Pauline to go on and have their way, but to remember his words when they heard the clods upon the coffin lid. And Mr. Thorpe's resignation was duly sent in.
As was his custom, Dr. Eldrige discussed his patient with his son. He made a pretense of scoffing at his son's methods and manners, yet he was always ready to lay his cases before him, and counted more upon the young doctor's opinions and depended more upon his judgment than he would under any circumstances admit.
"Our pious pastor is going to die," he said to his son. "Pious or devilish, we all come to the same place at last, and we all go through the same door and out into the same black hole."
Dr. Eldrige Jr. made no comment, but gave the consent of silence to his father's statements; he felt that they needed no corroboration.
After a few moments the elder doctor spoke again: "Perhaps, though, a man's better off dead than alive when he has a witch-wife," lie said.
"A witch-wife!" the young man ejaculated, and there was both incredulity and remonstrance in his voice; but he said no more; he knew better than to question his father outright, and he half regretted that he had allowed the exclamation to escape him.
"Yes," the old man stormed; "a witch-wife, a distracted, wild-eyed manes who has had seven devils--seventy for what I know--cast out of her and now blooms forth in pristine freshness. When witches inhabit the earth the doctors can seek another world in which to practice their vile profession of medicine; their services will not be required in this one. However, when our witch friend gets out among people she may find that she has fewer friends in her health than she had in her sickness. She may be able to ride over chimney tops on a broomstick and hobnob with black cats in the forest for a time--but it may be a short time."
Heretofore the young doctor had given little heed to his father's bluster about Mrs. Thorpe's recovery; but now he understood that his words contained a covert threat. In the course of their relations together the son had fallen into the way of arbiter between his father and his father's patients, and many times he was able to prevent his father's malevolent designs and to heal the wounds that he inflicted. Now he looked up from the book that he was reading; he did not look full into his father's face, but scanned it surreptitiously, and he admitted to himself that his father's malady was working upon him again. The harsh grating of his voice and his evil, malicious words had portrayed it; and the fleeting glance at the old man's face had revealed the purplish tinge, the swollen veins, and the murderous gleam of his eyes.
Never could he forget the day that he had discovered his father's secret--the disease that was ravaging body and brain. He had come upon him suddenly, unexpectedly, and had turned hastily from him, partly in recoil at what he saw and also to shield his father from the knowledge that he had discovered his trouble. And from that time, as he valued his life, he had given no hint of what he knew, although there was a silent understanding regarding it between him and his father. And this understanding had enabled him to know his choleric parent as he had never known him before. He felt that the anger and malignity and rancor to which his father gave vent were but the outflow, the suppuration of the horror which held him in its grasp; and he dared not put the question to himself, whether it might not be that this thing of horror was but his father's evil moods materialized in the flesh. And now he read an expression of his father's virulence in his remarks concerning the pastor and his wife, and had he read no more than this he would have made no reply, but he feared that his father's words contained a menace to the peace of those to whom he was ministering, and he believed it was time for him to ascertain the state of affairs at the parsonage.
"If Mr. Thorpe's decline is, as you say, slow and gradual," he said, "so long as there are no complications, you may as well let me take the case." His manner was quiet, free from curiosity, and indicated that he was not interested in the matter of Mrs. Thorpe's recovery. "I have calls that will take me in that part of the town to-morrow," he continued, "and I will see Mr. Thorpe for you if you like."
Dr. Eldrige Jr. felt that he had scored a victory that was worth while. His father would get a new grievance bye and bye, and then, if he saw no more of the Thorpes, he would forget this one.
He called at the parsonage the next afternoon and found Mr. Thorpe resting comfortably. The cough was better and the other symptoms less pronounced. After this he continued his calls at different times for several days; then a call came that took him out of town for a few days and the old doctor made the call on Mr. Thorpe.
After the visit he said to Mrs. Thorpe, who had accompanied him to the hall: "The present treatment seems to be working so well that it will not be necessary for me to call again until Mr. Thorpe is taken worse; but be sure and let me know at the first return of the unfavorable symptoms." He spoke of this contingency as though it were a foregone conclusion; that it was only a matter of time.
This was the first real intimation that Mrs. Thorpe had had that her husband's condition was serious. For the first moment she felt as if her heart had ceased to beat, or was it that she was blind that the daylight should be so black? Then she felt that a burden so heavy that she could not bear it had been suddenly and rudely thrust upon her. She felt that she staggered and was unsteady on her feet. But she faced the doctor and spoke as bravely as she could, although her voice sounded in her ears like a voice that she had never heard before. Yet in her consciousness there mingled with this deadly certainty that the doctor expressed something of her new-found faith in a higher power, and so she said:
"If he is taken worse we will let you know at once."
Dr. Eldrige lowered his head and looked at her over his glasses; he was in a villainous mood, and that little flame of faith that had shot out in her words had not escaped him.
"If," he roared; "indeed, Mrs. Thorpe, there is no 'if' about it; he will be taken worse." Then with the heart of one who knows he has maimed, but craves to kill, he said: "Don't you know that your husband is going to die?"
Mrs. Thorpe paled to the lips. She looked the man steadily in the face, but no words came to her.
He saw that she did not shriek nor cry aloud; she did not faint nor fall; and with all the malevolence in his nature he made another thrust.
"There was a time," he said, "when I believed that you would leave your husband free in the world, but the tables have turned. Why, permit me to ask, do you not turn some of your witchcraft on him? What is fair for one ought to be fair for another. You saved yourself by some devilish machination, but you are little inclined, it seems, to save your husband by the same process."
The horror and resentment of Mrs. Thorpe's outraged soul were depicted upon her face and gleamed from her dilated eyes. She had trained her mind to dwell on the divine attributes in man; but alas, how human, how very human, she felt this passion to be that possessed her now! Her blood was like fire in her veins, a strange noise was in her ears and hot, scathing words leaped to her lips.
"Dr. Eldrige," she said, and the words came keen and sharp; all her anguish and passionate anger were there, but she caught her breath sharply and stopped. Then again: "Dr. Eldrige--" Her voice wavered, fell and broke. She turned and walked to the window. The doctor began drawing on his gloves, his hand was on the door. Then she walked back to him. Her face was white, her eyes fathomless. "You are my husband's physician," she said. "I have no quarrel with you." Her voice was even, guardedly calm.
The doctor regarded her curiously. He had read her horror and resentment and with the utmost exactness he read her passion and her anguish; now he as surely read her victory. His ill-will toward her did not soften. He stood with his cane and medicine case in his hand, ready to go, and without a word he turned and left her.
A lightning flash will sometimes cause objects and outlines to stand out with more distinctness than does the noonday sun. The keen flash of her bitter passion revealed to Mrs. Thorpe what the long summer days had not disclosed.
Why had she not been free and frank with her husband and confessed to him the change that had come into her life? Why had she shut her blessing in her own heart and uttered no word to those about her?
The consciousness that had come to her of the power of Truth over all evil and error never wavered nor failed. The actual demonstration of what she had experienced was manifested in her own life.
God's truth is not a complex thing, difficult to explain and hard to demonstrate; it is simple and natural. Health is the natural condition; sickness is abnormal. Righteousness is the simple state of man; sin is a distortion. But to live and demonstrate these truths in this many-sided, complex life requires all the wisdom that Christ came to earth to teach.
Mrs. Thorpe never doubted that could the saving power of Truth be revealed to her husband his infirmities would fall from him; yet with this message warm in her heart she had not broken the silence that lay between them. In this course that she had taken she had shielded herself behind the conviction that her husband would not accept this message; and she had put back with a quieting touch, hushed and kept asleep that which all the time had been to her so patent--that she was deceiving her husband--afraid to make known to him her new conception of the Christ-love and its transforming power.
Mr. Thorpe was in his study one morning, sorting and arranging his books. The disease from which he was suffering has been known to play with its victims as a cat delights to play with a mouse, and this was one of the times when Mr. Thorpe fully believed that he was to regain his health. He was finding great pleasure in his books this morning; he had been away from them so long that now as he handled them they seemed to him like dearest friends. Mrs. Thorpe tapped at the door of the study and he bade her enter.
"It seems good to find you here, Maurice," she said; "like old times again."
"Old times!" How the thought stirred his spirit--the time when there was no barrier between them. The sunshine streamed through the window and lay, a golden bar, on the floor; symbolic, he thought, of the barrier that had insinuated itself between him and this fair, smiling woman who stood before him; a barrier silent, far-reaching, heaven-high.
Mrs. Thorpe's eyes also were on the shaft of light.
"See how the sunshine lies like a bridge between us," she said; "a beautiful golden bridge. I hope I may be able to build as fair a one, Maurice, between your confidence and mine. I have been keeping something from you. I wish to talk to you about it--about the new belief--the light that has come to me."
Her heart was beating tumultuously. Her hand rested on a table beside her husband and he noticed the firm, white flesh of her arm, where once pitiful emaciation had marked it. He looked into her face and saw the signs of health and vigor there--evidence that she had cast her lot with some foreign power--some ungodly fetish!
"Evelyn," he said, "I have not questioned your belief nor demanded an explanation concerning this new, strange doctrine which you have embraced."
"No," she said, "you have not questioned nor demanded. I feel that you have trusted me, you have been kind--"
"No, Evelyn! Not that--I have been weak, culpable, a coward--fearing to ask lest from your own lips I get confirmation of the worst."
Mrs. Thorpe felt that her husband had thrust her suddenly outside the pale of his sympathy. The hope in her heart grew cold and all her glad words that she had been ready to speak deserted her; yet she answered bravely:
"This is no evil thing that has come into my life, you need not dread or fear it." Then, more eagerly: "Oh, Maurice, can you not see that it has restored my health, taken away my infirmities, blessed my life and made me whole?" The flood-gates were opened and the fullness of her soul poured forth. "It is the Truth that has made me free; there is no real power in the world save God's power. There is a better conception of life than that which admits sickness and disease to be real and powerful. Have not we to-day the same Savior who walked the Galilean shore healing all forms of sin and sickness? God is the same yesterday, to-day and forever. Is not our Christ just as tender, as compassionate, as able, now as then?" She stopped at the sight of her husband's face. The light had gone out of it; it was grim and set.
"That which I feared has come upon me," he said. "I had hoped that this folly of yours might pass; I have prayed daily that you might be delivered from this fallacy, and restored to the fold; but I see that you have gone from me--gone from me, from my church and my God."
Mrs. Thorpe had felt sure that her husband would not approve of her new belief, and in her darkest moments she had feared that by confessing to him the change that had come into her life, the perfect trust and confidence between them might be broken. But what was this that his words portended? Gone from his church--his God--from him! Was there anything--anything on earth or in Heaven that could compensate her for this? Yet with the question still passionate in her soul she realized that were it possible, for the sake of the mortal love her soul so craved, for her to deny her conception of the Infinite, she could never retrace her steps. With her own free hand she had torn down the old relationship between herself and her husband. For the moment she felt that she had plucked from its stem the fairest flower that ever blossomed; now it must wither and die, no power on earth could prevent it.
The glistening sunlight radiated sparks of living fire, then reeled in darkness. Suddenly she found herself as one who departs on a strange, new road, and finds all other paths barred and blocked. A tremor shook her form and her breath came with a sob. Even though she find that the night awaits her in Gethsemane and Calvary looms on before, she must go on--but not alone--she has beside her One whose feet had passed that way before.
Her husband sat before her with bowed head.
"Maurice," she said gently, yet with the keenness of her heart's pain in her voice, "the sternest judge does not condemn without a hearing, much less should you who have always been kind and just condemn me before you have investigated the views I hold."
"I have no desire to investigate your views, Evelyn. This assertion that you have made, that a weak and sinful human being has power to overcome sickness and disease, is placing mortals on a level with the Son of God and is a defamation of the very character of God Himself. I would have given my life for you rather than that you should have embraced so heretical and blasphemous a doctrine. Yet even though this cup prove more bitter than I can bear; even though it blights my life and destroys my affection, I will not ask you to spare me now. I desire to know how far you have gone--I would like to know how far you are from me."
Mrs. Thorpe felt herself alone; her isolation closing in about her. Never before had her husband thrust her from him, never before had he been unsympathetic and unkind. Then the thought came to her that in all the years of her married life she had never before arrayed herself in open opposition to him; and she realized now, for the first time, that although she had loved this man she had also feared him with an awful, shrinking fear. Now she felt that he had not only thrust her from him, but that he had aimed deliberately to pain and wound her, and with this thought a new element sprang to life within her--a dauntless, unflinching courage.
"Maurice," she said, "you have thrown down the gauntlet which, were I to 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.