Читать книгу The Winepress - Christine Beals - Страница 3

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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Evelyn at the Window . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Frontispiece

"He took her in his arms as though she were a little child"

"Why, permit me to ask, do you not turn some of your witchcraft on him?"

"Little Brother, Little Brother, let me tell you a story as I used to"

THE WINEPRESS

CHAPTER I

THE CHURCH

The church was conspicuously situated on an elevation which had a dignity of its own; there was nothing steep nor abrupt about the incline, its long, smooth slopes extended smoothly and symmetrically. No fitter place could be found for a house of worship, and here those worshipfully inclined had builded this structure of architectural beauty with many embellishments, and dedicated it to their God. Here and there the long slopes were ornamented by neat dwellings and prosperous looking homes, while the town of Edgerly lay on the plain below. And the church, crowning the work of God, seemed a thing removed from the busy mart; a sentinel with a living, throbbing heart keeping watch, with eyes that slumbered not nor slept.

Was not this temple builded there, stone upon stone, to stand before the children of men, a living force to represent all that is best and most worthy, an aid to truth and purity, the earthly home of the spirit of the lowly One? And as its tireless eyes look upon the busy throng is it not the mission of this church of God to extend a helping hand to the fallen, to cheer the downcast and to bind up the broken-hearted? Are any of earth's children beyond its love and power?

The parsonage to which the pastor took his bride had about it an air of prosperity, a touch of exclusiveness that reflected creditably on this church on the summit. The grounds were well kept, the grass was velvet green, the flowers and shrubs and vines thrifty and vigorous in their springtime beauty.

The Rev. Maurice Thorpe and his wife established themselves in this modern, well-ordered home, and looked with fearless eyes into the future. A future that was to be devoted to their fellowmen, dedicated to the church of God.

The first love of the man's heart was given to his church; not even the fair and gracious woman whom he had wooed and wed came before this; and into its treasury he poured the first vigor and strength of his earnest manhood. There had been a time when he had inclined toward celibacy for the ministry. Although he had never doubted the aid and comfort the right sort of a wife could be to a pastor, there was in his heart a lurking horror of being yoked to a woman who was not in very truth, his second self, flesh of his flesh, soul of his soul, mind of his mind.

But no misgivings came to him as he watched the girlish figure of his wife at her varied duties, or as she pored over some volume in his study, or her honest eyes met his across the table at meal time. His sense of satisfaction grew from day to day, as he realized that his wife that he had won was not only good to look upon, and a comfort in his home, but that she was capable of becoming an aid and assistant to him in his work.

Mrs. Thorpe found much to occupy her time and thoughts during these first days in her new home. The house was in perfect order, and a middle-aged woman was established in the kitchen; but her ideal of a home was one where the mistress has every detail of the work well in hand, and to this end she gave every branch of the work her personal supervision. There was the arranging of the rooms to suit her taste, and the placing of the articles that she had brought with her to her new home; all the vivifying touches that convert a house into a home, and mark it with the personality of its keeper.

On the side of the house facing the church a room had been fitted up for Mrs. Thorpe's special use. Here in a curtained alcove she hung her bookshelves and placed her books. There was a small library table, some easy chairs, and a desk where she would write her letters. From the window there was an excellent view of the church; there was the smooth incline that led up to the stately edifice, and the wooded hills and blue sky in the distance.

Mrs. Thorpe stood at her window at the close of one fair day, and drank in the beauty of earth and sky. The sun was sinking behind the distant hilltops, and it bathed the church in a mellow glow, and caused the narrow taper windows to radiate halos of golden light. Mrs. Thorpe's eyes lingered upon the scene until the light faded into shadow, then she slipped into a chair near the window. Her mind had a trick of eluding her vigilance at times, of slipping its leash when she least expected it, and carrying her into strange, disquieting realms of thought. Mysteries hung about her, and enveloped her as a mist-hung world envelopes a wanderer who has lost his way. The mystery of life--her life--what does it mean? For what purpose is it given? Happiness--what is it? Contentment and peace with God--to whom are these vouchsafed? Or by what virtues do mortals attain them? Is it not through service that these things are attained? Active, honest, energetic service, this was to be her magic wand, her Aaron's rod, by means of which she was to feed her soul, keep alive the fountains of her love, and consecrate and glorify her mortal life. And yet the vague, elusive mystery of it all--the motives that actuated her--the ceaseless longing. She drew her hand across her brow as though to change her mental vision, for well she knew the futility of this line of thought.

The evening wind swayed the curtain at the window and wafted the perfume from the garden to her. A bird trilled in a treetop near by, and a blush-rose nodded just outside the window. She leaned back in her cushioned chair and yielded to the quieting influences about her.

As a child she had been diffident and retiring, questioning much, but silently. All things that came into her small world were carefully weighed and analyzed. Her surroundings and the conditions of her existence were sifted and searched in a manner that would have astonished her elders had they known of it; and the conclusions that she arrived at were final with her. She worked out problems of the gravest importance, accepted her own solutions, and lived according to her own convictions; which living was a sort of dream life. A favorite pastime was a conceit of her childish brain to look upon the life that she was living as a dream, an unreality, from which she eventually would awaken.

She reasoned in her small way with herself--always with herself alone, she never mentioned her conceits and fancies to others--that when troubled dreams came to her at night she could not know that she was dreaming. How, then, she questioned, was she to know at any time whether she was dreaming or awake?

Especially did she indulge in these fancies when things in her small world were not to her liking.

"Never mind," she would comfort herself, "this is only a dream; bye and bye I shall awaken, and then--ah, then!"

The gladness and ecstasy that awaited her were never clearly defined in her mind, but that it would be satisfying and all-sufficient her child mind never doubted.

Once when she was a small girl she was allowed to look upon the face of a playmate who had died. It was the first time that the question of death had confronted her; but she had been told that when good children die they go to live with God in Heaven. She looked at the face of the dead child, then, gently, without the least dread or fear, she laid her warm little hand on the cold hand of her late playmate. She said no word, and showed no agitation. The act was to ascertain whether the child was truly robbed of life and action. This point settled, she turned and walked away, and the firm conviction in her little heart was: "If I had been God, I would not have done it."

She spoke no word in regard to the dead child to anyone, but while the other children romped and played, and forgot the absent one, she was quiet and silent, and she pondered the question for many days. Every phase of it that her childish mind could grasp was weighed and considered, and finally the verdict came. A God who loves little children would not have taken her playmate away. There must be two Gods, a good one and a bad one. Then her imagination lived for days in a conflict between these two Gods. The conflict always ended in the restoration of the dead child to his mother and playmates.

As she grew toward womanhood there was the usual joyousness and vivacity of girlhood, but she was thoughtful and reticent, a dreamer still. When she was wooed and won by the pastor, Maurice Thorpe, she was an educated woman, gentle and thoughtful, but her real nature, and the traits in her character that were to shape her life, were as the unturned pages of a book.

Mr. Thorpe entered the room unnoticed and stood by his wife's side. He thought she appeared very frail and girlish in her attitude of abandonment.

"What does the future hold for her and for me?" he questioned. Would the hidden fountains of her life unite with his and flow in an even stream until Eternity should engulf them in her countless ages? He felt no fear, no premonition of evil to come, yet his heart was strangely stirred.

"My dear one," he whispered, "may truth, purity and peace be yours."

Yet in the years that came, this petition was granted in so different a manner from any in which he had desired it to be, that had it been in his power, he would not have hesitated to recall it.

Mrs. Thorpe, aroused by the intuition of her husband's presence, sat upright in her chair, and, catching a glimpse of her face in a mirror on the wall, she brushed the fluffy brown hair from her temples.

"I sank down here in this delightful easy chair," she said, "and its seductive restfulness, together with the twitter of the birds, the breath of the flowers, and the hum of insects conspired, I do believe, to beguile me into the land of dreams."

"I am glad to see you resting," he said. "You have been finding a great deal to keep you busy. I hope you are not overtaxing your strength."

"I am not tired," she said, but her face grew grave and the shadow of her troubled thoughts lay in her eyes. "I am anxious to get household affairs running smoothly, so that I may have leisure for other work."

And as though in answer to her restless questioning, rather than to her spoken thought, he replied: "We shall find our happiness in our work and our love." He laid his hand caressingly against her hair. "What a wonderful thing it is," he said, "this service in the Vineyard, and what a beautiful thing, Evelyn, that we two can live and love and work together."

The twilight deepened as they sat together, silent mostly, yet conscious of that understanding and sympathy that is dearer than words. The sweet summer night closed in about them and enfolded them as a perfume-laden garment; and the sea of life stretched before them, without a ripple visible on its tranquil surface.

Later in the evening, as Mrs. Thorpe made her customary round of the house before retiring, she found her serving woman still busy in the kitchen.

"Not through with your work yet, Mary?" she said.

The woman was bustling about with flushed face and somewhat unsettled manner.

"The work being new to me, comes a little awkward at first," she said. "But I think I shall get it in hand before long."

Mrs. Thorpe suspected that the woman had been out during the afternoon, or for some reason had neglected her work, else she would not be thus belated. Before leaving the kitchen she said:

"I have been making some plans about the work, Mary; we will talk them over in the morning."

Mary signified her willingness, but her face took on an even deeper flush, and when her mistress had gone she sat down and covered her face with her hands.

But it was only for a few moments, then she arose and resolutely finished her work and went her way, carrying her own peculiar burdens.

Mrs. Thorpe, as she prepared for her night's repose, looked again toward the church, now dimly outlined in the night, and the thought came to her that something of the sacredness and power that pervaded it might perhaps in some way reflect upon her life and sanctify it, and lead her into green pastures, and beside still waters. She saw the church spire, tall and spectral in the moonlight.

"It is like a guardian angel," she thought, "watching through the day and through the night."

CHAPTER II

MARGARET

Mary McGowan, the serving woman, was a woman whose life was nearing its meridian. Her form, somewhat stooped, spoke of a life of labor; her hair, combed smoothly back from her face, was well sprinkled with gray.

When Mrs. Thorpe met her in the dining-room the next morning, there was something in the woman's face that for a moment appealed to her. A careworn face it was, not beautiful, but stamped unmistakably with an expression of refinement. For a moment the mistress hesitated; should she meet her cordially, gain her confidence and make a friend of her? The girlish impulse lasted but a second, and Mrs. Thorpe had herself well in hand again, and she covered what she believed to be her weakness with a somewhat severer dignity than she had assumed before, and came at once to business.

After arriving at a satisfactory understanding in regard to the work, they came to the question of hours.

"You are to have one afternoon each week, and the service hour on Sunday; the rest of your time I shall expect you to spend here," Mrs. Thorpe announced.

A sudden flush spread over Mrs. McGowan's face. She did not reply, but bowed her head in assent, and Mrs. Thorpe, satisfied with the interview, went at once to other duties.

In the kitchen a grim-faced woman went steadily about her work; but there was something in her countenance that made one believe the world not always kind to the children of men.

"Yet, after all," she thought, "what does it matter, if only Margaret gets through the school." And at the thought of her girl, her bonny Margaret, her heart grew warm within her.

The days passed by, and Mrs. Thorpe adhered with rigid precision to the rules and regulations she had established in her home, and devoted her leisure time in a systematic manner to the various societies and organizations conducted by the church.

Returning home one afternoon earlier than she had expected, she went to the kitchen on some small errand and found that Mary was not in. She waited for her return, and confronted her with unruffled mien.

"What excuse have you to offer for your absence this afternoon?" she asked.

"I have no excuse to offer."

"And is this the manner in which you keep your agreement?"

"Mrs. Thorpe, it is necessary for me to be away from the house at times, but I shall not fail in my duties here."

"You say that it is necessary for you to be away, yet you understood my terms and accepted them. Mary, this must not happen again."

"Then I must leave your employ, Mrs. Thorpe."

"Very well," replied the mistress, a red spot burning on either cheek; "I shall find someone else as soon as possible."

After supper Mrs. McGowan again left the parsonage and hurried along the street until she came to a small house a few blocks away.

"Why, mother mine, home so soon?" said a tall, dark-faced girl, as the mother entered the room. "What is it, mother? You look tired and worn. Is the work too hard for you?" The girl drew a stool to her mother's side and took a worn hand in hers. "I feel so badly to have you working so hard for me, mother, but when I finish school, oh, you shall be a lady then, mother! I shall take care of you and Jamie then."

The mother laid her tired head back against the chair and waited long before she replied. She felt faint and sick at heart. She had seen much in life that was hard to bear; widowhood and poverty had been hers for many years. Her only boy was a helpless cripple. Her one joy in life was Margaret, her blithesome girl. Her one great aim had been to keep her in school until she should obtain sufficient education to place her independently among the world's workers.

When she took her place at the parsonage, it was with the expectation that Mr. Thorpe, who knew her circumstances and seemed interested in her family, would be willing for her to spend what time she could spare from her duties in her own home. But now she saw that this could not be, and there was nothing left but for Margaret to go into the factory. It was a bitter blow, but deeper and keener than her own pain, she felt what it would mean to the girl. Margaret, with her willful, passionate nature, had not learned to be patient, nor to bow to the inevitable, as she, the mother, had learned to do.

"What is it, mother?" persisted the girl. "What troubles you?"

"Lassie, I cannot work for Mrs. Thorpe any longer."

Margaret sprang to her feet and stood like a young deer, with head erect and dilated nostrils.

"Mother, what has happened? Tell me what has happened."

"It is nothing, lass, nothing at all, only Mrs. Thorpe must have someone who can spend all her time at the parsonage. She does not know how often I have been away, nor that I have spent the nights here with you and Jamie. She was displeased to-day when she found me gone."

Disappointment keen and sharp, anger wild and unreasoning, met in the girl's heart. Passionate, turbulent Margaret!

"Come, lassie, don't take it so hard; we can find some other way after a time, perhaps."

"Yes, mother, you can go to the pastor again with your trouble. You believed him to be so good a man. Good!--how I hate, hate and detest good people! They talk of helping the poor and needy--we have been poor, mother, poor and in need ever since I can remember--many times we have been hungry, and Jamie has never had the help that he should have had--else he might now be strong as other boys; and what have these good people of the church done for us? This man, your pious pastor, came here and offered you this place, and now his wife, the detestable hypocrite, has turned you off. Good people! Oh, I wish some great wave would sweep them from the face of the earth!"

"Margaret, Margaret, girl, this is terrible; you must not, Margaret!"

"Yes, mother, it is terrible; terrible for me to say what I think, but you know it is true. Those people have been good to your face; they have talked and sympathized, but what has anyone of them done for us? Not one of them would lift a finger or go one step out of his way to help us."

The girl's face was transformed with passion, and there was a glitter in her eyes that even the mother had never seen before.

"There is Amy Mayhew, the deacon's daughter," the girl continued, "who spends more for ribbons and rings and bracelets than my whole wardrobe costs. To-day at school she was showing a new ring; it cost only ten dollars, and while she was saying it her eyes were on my ragged shoes--oh, mother!" With a flood of tears the girl buried her face in her mother's lap. Poor Margaret, she had not yet learned to look with unthinking, unheeding vision on the wrongs of humanity, her own included. Little more than a child, she had looked at life with a child's vision, and wrong, to her, had been wrong, and right was right. The distribution of property that gives one person more than enough and another less than sufficient, can never seem just to a mind unbiased by worldly wisdom. And when once the exact balance between right and wrong is disturbed, the equilibrium lost, a sort of moral chaos is likely to disturb all questions of righteousness and honor.

The mother laid her hand on the girl's crown of dark hair. She could not know--mercifully could not know--of the transformation taking place in the heart of her child. She well knew that many temptations lay in the girl's pathway; and Margaret had not always been tractable and easily controlled. Exuberant of spirit and naturally willful, a sort of restlessness seemed to possess her. But the mother believed that a few years more would tide her child over this trying time, and her one great desire was to get her away from the town, and engaged in some active, responsible work. And while the failure of her plans had bitterly disappointed the daughter, it had all but broken the mother's heart.

Had no thoughts come to Margaret other than those of the disappointment and uncongenial toil, she might still have retained her crown of womanhood unsullied--but alas, and alas! Beside the factory and the honest toil that her willful heart rebelled against, there arose in her mind forms and phantoms of many shapes and colors, tempting, taunting, alluring; and when her untutored mind endeavored to grasp their significance, they evaded her, and with seductive wiles eluded her. Poor girl! tempted by the sparkle of the foam on the cup. And while her heart was sore she sipped the first draught of the poison wine; and later she found, as all who taste must find, that the dregs were more bitter than anything that unsullied girlhood can conceive.

The next morning Mrs. McGowan was not able to leave her bed. A sleepless night, and the care and perplexities that multiplied ahead of her, left her nervous and exhausted. At her earnest request Margaret went to the parsonage and prepared the morning meal.

"Good morning, Margaret, I am glad to see you," said Mr. Thorpe, pleasantly. "I am sorry your mother is ill."

Mrs. Thorpe thought the girl's dark face very sullen and unattractive, and she wondered how even her husband could be kind and patient with people who seemed to care so little for his interest in them.

After Margaret had served the meal, and had left the room, Mr. Thorpe asked his wife what she knew about Mary's illness.

"Mary gave me warning yesterday that she must leave my service, but made no mention of feeling indisposed," Mrs. Thorpe replied. "She gave me to understand that she could not give me all her time. I was not aware that she has a family."

"Then you do not know about the little cripple boy?"

"No; Mary has never mentioned any member of her family to me."

"I feel a special interest in this woman and her children, and I believed that after you learned her circumstances you could arrange to give her certain hours away from the house."

"But you never mentioned her circumstances to me, Maurice."

"No; I have thought several times of inquiring about her, but I have been very busy. I hope we may be able to find someone to take Mary's place soon, and perhaps after a time she will be able to come back."

"Perhaps the girl will remain. If I find her satisfactory, it will save me further trouble."

"Margaret is in the high school and ought not to miss a single day. You had better try to find someone else, and in the meantime it will be well to look in and see if there is anything the family needs."

"I will do so. I regret that I did not know about the family. And this girl is in the high school here?"

"Yes; one year after this one takes her through. Mrs. McGowan has great hopes for the future. A relative some place in the country has promised to secure Margaret a position as a teacher when she finishes the school here. For years Mary supported herself and her family by taking in sewing, but her eyesight began to fail, and she decided to try a change of work; so I offered her the position here. And Jamie, the cripple, consented to stay alone while Margaret was at school. I wish there was someone to take Margaret's place to-day."

An impulse came to Mrs. Thorpe to do the work herself that day and let Margaret go, but she remembered that she was a member of a church committee that was to meet that afternoon to transact some business for the church, and she felt that it would be hardly right for her to fail to meet with them.

So during the day Margaret swept and dusted and cooked and served, and no one knew of the disastrous thoughts that surged through her heart and brain.

Mrs. Thorpe called at the little house where Mary lived, but she found her reticent and little inclined to talk of family affairs.

"Margaret will go into the factory," she said. "There is no other way at present."

When Mrs. Thorpe told her husband of this he was surprised at the mother's decision; she had seemed so anxious about the school. But he thought that after all Margaret might have given up the school of her own accord. Perhaps he had overestimated the girl; some way she had not seemed so bright and winsome that day as he had believed her to be.

It happened a few days later that Mr. Thorpe was called to see a poor parishioner who lived on the outskirts of the town. In order to reach this house he was obliged to pass through a neighborhood commonly known as the Flat. This was a disreputable district on the other side of the hill from Edgerly. When the town was in its infancy this Flat district was bought by a man named Bolton, who tried to throw the balance of power and interest on this side of the hill. To this end he erected a number of houses for tenants, built a saloon and hired the right sort of a man to run it. He also built a theatre. The Bolton stamp never left the Flat, and in time it came to be peopled by the lowest of the poor class. The saloon still did a flourishing business, and the theatre, known as the Flat theatre, answered for such plays and entertainments as more cultured and Christian Edgerly would not tolerate.

As Mr. Thorpe was returning from his call he saw a man and woman standing in the shadow of the theatre. The moon was full, and by its light he recognized the woman as Margaret. The man's face was turned from him, and he could not so readily make out his identity. But he knew it boded no good to Margaret to be there at that hour. He stopped, hesitated a moment, and caught the sound of voices. The girl spoke rapidly, and he thought she seemed in an ill-conditioned mood. The man's voice was more even and conciliatory. He drew the girl's arm through his and together they entered the theatre. The light from a lamp at the door fell upon them as they entered, and Mr. Thorpe recognized the man.

"Max! Max Morrison!" he exclaimed under his breath. He went on his way, thoughtful and troubled.

It must be true that he had overestimated Margaret, but he would speak to his wife, and see if her woman's tact could not devise some way to save the girl from the evil that threatened her.

CHAPTER III

UNDERCURRENTS

The seasons passed as seasons have a way of passing. The spring gave place to effulgent, luxurious summer; the summer slipped into autumn, and winter followed on, with bluster and storm. It was spring again at the parsonage. There was the song of birds, the hum of insects, and the rare perfume wafted from the garden.

One sweet spring evening Mrs. Thorpe stood again at her open window. A hush seemed to have fallen over the earth, and the silent moon and stars looked benignly down. A rush of emotion, restful, worshipful, swept over her. If only she might escape the stress and turmoil of life, and become a part of the quiet and calm that belong to nature!

The year had been one of honest effort, faithful, loyal service. Twice every Sabbath, morning and evening, Mr. Thorpe had stood in the pulpit and expounded the truths of the Gospel as they had been revealed to him. Mrs. Thorpe, capable and willing, had been drawn into church, charitable and benevolent work, until her hands were full of work, and her life full of care; and her thoughts were vastly more troubled than they had ever been before. She realized that where once her thoughts had been vague, half-formed, that now, full-fledged and forceful, they were overmastering her. The mysteries that had once hung about her, dim and misty, now arose like walls of blackness, forbidding and awe-inspiring; and the things that she had once gazed upon with curious eyes now shocked and terrified her.

When she started in her life's work, her ideas of religion and the truths of life were but dream-like, shadowy conceptions; reflections, as it were, from the theories and dogmas of her elders and so-called spiritual leaders. There are many people who never get beyond these reflections, these traditions of religion, these second-hand conceptions. To some natures they are satisfying; they ease the mind, point a way to safety for the future, and afford a solace in time of trouble.

Mrs. Thorpe, however, was one who was destined to abide but a very short time in the consolation afforded by this kind of religion. Yet, when she attempted to step out from the creeds that cramped and dwarfed her soul, to thrust from her theories and premises that depressed and antagonized her, she found no other ground on which to place her feet, and felt herself naked and alone, without a garment of righteousness with which to clothe herself, and without compass or guiding star. She doubted, and in agony condemned herself for her doubts; later she rebelled, yet with her own hand she would have torn her rebellious heart from her bosom, had it been in her power to do so, and cast it from her as an unclean thing, an enemy to her peace, a treachery to her soul. She believed it treason to allow her mind to wander into fields of religious research other than those that had been carefully explored and marked as safe; and to her consciousness she pleaded guilty of the charge.

Before her, life stretched barren and desolate, and not even in her dreams could she find a light to guide her feet. She longed for peace, and believed the fault all hers that she had not found it; she lacked wisdom, and believed the power to attain it had been denied her.

And as she stood alone in the sweet spring night, her thoughts and emotions became complex, conflicting and tumultuous. Strange, alien thoughts flashed before her vision, and, like things alive, seemed to glow and quiver in the darkness. She covered her face with her hands. "God has hidden His face from me," she whispered, "I have never known Him."

Now before her in a fleeting vision she saw her Savior, but it was not the man Jesus as she had thought of him, with his crown of thorns and his nail-pierced hands beckoning to her, asking for her adoration and worship; but in this vision he came as a friend and teacher, one who has solved and proven all of life's problems, and stood ready to help her with all that troubled and perplexed her. He offered her not redemption through his death, but life through the understanding of God's love.

But so foreign was this vision of a Christ, to her orthodox conception of Him, that for a moment she was overwhelmed by it; then instantly she felt her strange thoughts to be intruders, vagaries of her brain, and her first impulse was to refuse them audience, to resist and destroy them. She had no intention of countenancing for a moment a thought that cast any shade of disapprobation on the work in which she and her husband were united, or which differed in any manner from the way in which they were working.

She turned and walked back and forth through the room. "This unrest always attacks me when I am tired and undone," she thought. "These troublesome thoughts will leave me when I am rested and myself again."

She went back to the window and breathed deep of the sweet night air. Something deeper than her consciousness, more potent than her faith, greater than her understanding, was striving for recognition within her. The heart of all things, the force and strength of the universe, the science of Life itself was unfolding before her; but she steeled her heart against it. Her mind had not yet burst its chrysalis; she was still a child of earth.

When Mrs. Thorpe found herself beset by the strife and unrest of her inner life, she turned instinctively to a strong, true friend that she had found. This was a Mrs. Mayhew, the wife of one of the deacons of the church. She was a woman older than Mrs. Thorpe and possessed of rare tact, and the sympathy that soothes and comforts without conscious effort.

This woman's life was a busy one; heart and hands were full. She had wealth at her disposal, and social duties made their demands upon her; church work appealed to her, and her family of children knew her as their counselor and best friend. If there were past chapters in this woman's life that caused her to be especially tender and sympathetic toward the young wife of her pastor, and yet gave her the wisdom to know that the trouble lay too deep for mortal hand to touch, she made no sign and spoke no word, but in the silence her heart spoke to the troubled heart of her friend. And Mrs. Thorpe never named her trouble, or by the slightest word disclosed the doubts that came to her. Whatever help she received she imbibed from her friend's personality and gleaned from her quiet, well-balanced life.

Unable to rid herself of her troubled thoughts, the next day Mrs. Thorpe dropped in upon this friend. And during the call she discussed the church choir with Mrs. Mayhew's niece, Geraldine, who was the church organist.

"I think we should have some new music," Mrs. Thorpe said. "Since Max Morrison has consented to sing in the choir, with his strong tenor voice we can undertake some things which we could not before. I am glad that Max has promised to help us. So much depends on the choir. People will go where they can hear good music."

Geraldine made some suggestions regarding the new music, and Mrs. Mayhew readily agreed with Mrs. Thorpe that the choir has much to do with the success of the modern church.

At the service the next Sunday morning Mr. Thorpe gave a strong, scholarly address. But it was not the sermon, neither was it the strong tenor, nor the new music that caught Mrs. Thorpe's attention. She was coming to regard the service hour on Sunday as the hardest time of the week. For strive, struggle and pray as she would, she could not always bring herself into a proper frame of mind; could not keep the spirit of worship.

Sometimes a thought from her husband's sermon would flash out before her, confront her and torment her. At this stage of her life the thought, "I do not believe," never confronted her boldly and openly; but always there was the subtle insinuation, "Do you believe?" Sometimes her soul's agony was caused by the attitude of the people, lavishly dressed, ostentatiously worshipful. Then instead of worship in her own heart she would be possessed by scathing scorn. But this morning it was the songs that caused her undoing. Her husband took his place in the pulpit and the choir sang the opening hymn; and a line, a thought from the song attacked Mrs. Thorpe:

"Lord Jesus, look down from thy throne in the skies,

And help me to make a complete sacrifice."

Mrs. Thorpe felt herself without rudder or sail, her bark at the mercy of a stormy sea. Her mind was chaotic:

"The Lord Jesus Christ then was sitting comfortably, contentedly upon His throne in the skies! What wonder that His people are straying in many forbidden paths? What wonder that they are wandering, scattered and lost? Are they not as sheep without a shepherd? If He is the Savior of men, why is He not among His people--oh, his people who so sorely need Him?"

The thought brought the tears to her eyes; but the next thought choked them abruptly:

"If He had taken Himself to His shining throne in Heaven, what right had she or this concourse of people to conjure Him to come down?"

Instead of the submissive attitude of one desiring to make a "complete sacrifice," a wild, unreasoning rebellion arose within her; but a stoical calm covered every emotion. But she was not yet to be let off the rack; the worst was to follow. The sermon was devoted to the work and needs of missions, and the pastor made a strong appeal for funds with which to carry on the Master's work. After the sermon the first lines of song rang out with a pleasing melody:

"I have read of a beautiful City,

Far away in the Kingdom of God:

I have read how its walls are of jasper,

How its streets are all golden and broad."

Mrs. Thorpe's sense of humor, which sometimes leaped suddenly into life and overmastered all her troubled thoughts and melancholy broodings, now came near finishing the tragedy of the service hour. Those "Streets all golden and broad--" If it was gold the world needed--and her husband had told them so emphatically that it was--why just a section of the street up there--only think what could be accomplished with a block--"all golden!"

But perhaps her humor was not of a healthy sort this morning; for her heart was cold as ice, and she feared that she might shriek aloud in fiendish glee.

During the weeks that followed she found her work difficult to perform; all her tasks were irksome. But with a desperate courage, and a resolution born of her will, she held herself to the minutest details of every task that came to her. As the weeks slipped by a peculiar strained look grew upon her face. Her husband noticed that the bloom was fading from her cheeks and an unattractive pallor taking its place, and the thought came to him that perhaps his wife was burdened with too many cares.

"Are you not so well as usual, Evelyn?" he asked her one day.

A nervous flush covered, for the time, the tired look on her face.

"Not so well, perhaps, just of late," she replied. She raised her eyes to his, and he noticed a strange expression in their depths.

But with a sort of supreme despair she clung to her work, and devoted herself to her various duties. Yet she found herself little by little obliged to give up much that she had undertaken, for there were days when pain and physical weakness overcame her.

One evening after his usual hour of study, Mr. Thorpe laid aside his books and went in search of his wife. She was indisposed and had kept her room during the day. He found her noiselessly walking back and forth through the room, with her hands pressed close against her temples. She wore a loose gown, which fell in long folds about her, and revealed her tall and ghost-like in the dim light. Mr. Thorpe stood for a moment and regarded her in silence. Her face was haggard, and her eyes were set in dark circles. Her movements were slow and mechanical, as though her body was a thing apart from the spirit which impelled it. Her whole attitude and appearance suggested the embodiment of an overmastering pain.

Mr. Thorpe stepped to her side. "Evelyn, my dear," he said, "you are in great pain. Why did you not call me? You should have help; direct me and I will bring you some remedy."

"I have tried many remedies," she said. "I do not believe anything will relieve me. A headache has to have its own time."

She assured her husband that there was nothing that he could do to relieve her, and begged him to retire and leave her alone.

In the small hours of the night she crept to her bed, pale and worn, like some wounded thing that has been engaged in deadly combat with a foe. The pain had burned itself out, and the sleep of exhaustion came to her.

The severity of his wife's attacks alarmed Mr. Thorpe, and he begged her to lay down still more of the burden of her work. But she was not ready to do this, and continued her self-appointed tasks with all the strength at her command. Yet there was something in look and manner, something indescribable, unlike her real self, that caused Mr. Thorpe a vague feeling of apprehension for the future.

It was at this time that Mr. Thorpe's cousin, Pauline, came to make her home at the parsonage. She was a middle-aged woman, strong and vigorous and possessed of a goodly share of common sense and plain practicality. Having missed making a home for herself, she very sensibly made herself at home wherever she was.

"I love the Lord with all my heart," she was wont to say, "and I can work for him quite as well in one place as in another."

There was something in her strong and wholesome personality that caused one to trust her instinctively. And gradually, as Mrs. Thorpe was obliged to lay them down, she assumed the household cares; and cheerfully from day to day she took upon herself the burden of the work, and managed the girl in the kitchen with more tact and discretion than Mrs. Thorpe had ever been able to command.

"I do not believe that life holds any problems for Pauline," was Mrs. Thorpe's mental comment, "or that she has any doubts or fears with which to contend."

Now Mr. Thorpe pleaded with his wife and tried to induce her to lay aside all her cares in order that she might regain her health. But she insisted that she was not ill, and that she should not fail in her work; and she devoted herself with renewed zeal to her outside duties. Yet the days came closer together when she was obliged to keep her room, and not infrequently her bed for the day.

At such times Mr. Thorpe had fallen into the way of summoning the family physician, Dr. Eldrige.

The old doctor would shake his head and declare it to be a case of "nerves." And one day when Mrs. Thorpe's suffering was unusually severe, he said to Mr. Thorpe in his characteristically blunt, brusque manner:

"If you wish to keep that wife of yours out of the grave or the lunatic asylum, you will have to put a stop to this eternal gad and go she persists in."

Mr. Thorpe's face paled.

"I have tried to induce my wife to give up her work," he said, "but she clings to it persistently."

"Well, she will not cling to anything in this world much longer unless she changes her course," was his gruff rejoinder. He saw the pain in Mr. Thorpe's face, and noted the look of fear that leaped into his eyes; but it did not affect him. Other people's troubles never caused him a moment's concern. He often assured himself that a man who ministered to the ills of the human family needed a level head and a good hard heart to go with it.

Pauline, who overheard the conversation, made no mention of it to Mrs. Thorpe, but said:

"I cannot understand how Dr. Eldrige holds his popularity. He seems a rough, unfeeling man."

"He has the reputation of being the best physician in town," Mrs. Thorpe replied. "I always feel that I dare not be ill any longer after I have faced him. I have heard, too, that he treats his patients most skillfully when he is partially under the influence of liquor."

"I do not see how you and Maurice dare trust him, Evelyn. The human organism at the mercy of a half-drunken man! This, to me, seems like a terrible thing."

"You lose sight of the main facts, Pauline, and cavil at minor things. We of the human family must have a physician; with our sensitive bodies, our nerves so finely adjusted to feel the slightest discord, and to sting and quiver with pain, we must have a physician. Providence sends our ills, and it takes a skillful physician to correct them, and so if only he be skillful, there is nothing else that counts."

This was not the first time that Pauline had detected a strain of covert bitterness in Mrs. Thorpe's speech, and the tone in which she spoke more than the words alone troubled her now. In her philosophy all that which she could not understand was "Providence," and to yield to the iron Hand of it was the whole duty of a Christian. Yet there was a tone of pleading, rather than anything dictatorial, in her voice as she replied:

"We can trust the hand of Providence, Evelyn, whatever of pain and sickness comes to us."

There was a slight uneasiness in Mrs. Thorpe's manner and her breath fluttered in her throat:

"It is hard to be quiet under the rod, sometimes, Pauline."

"God knows what is best for us, dear. You do not believe that one moment's pain or suffering comes to you without His knowledge and consent."

At just this time Mrs. Thorpe's mental condition was such that every word of Pauline's was to her soul as red hot steel to the quivering flesh. Her breath fluttered and caught; there was a haze before her eyes. She felt herself possessed of two distinct personalities. She heard her answer to Pauline:

"Yes, I try to trust Him." But the second personality, forceful, insistent--what wildness, what frenzy was this?

"There is no God! There is no power in Heaven above, nor in Hell below, nor on this earth, that has a right to create a man and then by slow degrees to torture him to death! To rot the flesh from living bones, to crush and pollute and deform! It is not true! If this is God--cursed be God! If this is the Christ--"

With a strong effort, a quick, nervous movement, she recovered herself. She felt a wild impulse to fly from the room, from the house, but most of all from herself.

Pauline was by her side, with her cool hand on her forehead.

"What is it, Evelyn?" she asked. "Are you ill?"

"Only a spell of giddiness, I think, and my head feels badly. I will go to my room and lie down for a time."