It was late one night when Dr. Eldrige Jr. left a poor home where he had been attending a patient. A wretched, ill-kept home it was, whose inmates seemed a thing apart from the divine creation. He stepped out into the night, bared his head and breathed deep of the fresh, sweet air. Above him was the tent of night, jeweled with stars, and at his feet the dew-wet grass, the dwelling place of tiny dumb creatures that cling to the earth's damp mold, and before him, like a blemish on Nature's canvas, the home built and fashioned and kept by man.
He was a reverent man, with no inclination to shift the responsibility of humanity's ignominious burden back upon the Maker. He had no solution to offer for the problem of human sin and woe, and he did not undertake to place the iniquity of existing conditions. His mission was to minister to those who needed his service, and this he did whether he found his patient in a palace or in a hovel.
Leaving the poor home where the sufferer lay, he came to the one pretentious street of the Flat. There had been some sort of a performance at the theatre, and the people were pouring out of the door. He was hurrying by, anxious to avoid the crowd, when his attention was attracted to a man and woman standing under the light of a lamp. The man was talking in a low, rapid manner, and the woman seemed but half inclined to agree to what he was saying. The doctor passed them directly under the lamplight; but neither of them noticed him or looked his way, he thought it very likely that they did not care to be seen by him. But as he went on his way a very tempest of rage burned within him.
"And that," he ejaculated to himself, "is Max Morrison, the man who is welcomed in the best homes in Edgerly! And Margaret, little Margaret, whom the children used to call 'Lassie'!" His mind went back to his boyhood days, when his father lived in a small village, and he and Margaret went to the same school. That was before Margaret's father died; he was the village blacksmith then, a hearty, whole-souled Scotchman. And what a laughing, rosy child the little Lassie was then. He remembered her temper, too, as did all who knew her at that time. He was a well-grown boy then and Margaret but a bit of a girl, but he had never forgotten her bright and winsome ways. Could this girl with the hard lines on her dark face ever have been the child that he recalled? He walked rapidly, his anger and indignation burning within him. He climbed the long hill that led from the Flat up to the church, and descended on the other side; past the parsonage with its sleeping inmates, and on to his own home. Here he again bared his head and stood quietly beneath the stars. The events of the evening oppressed him. That Margaret had been beguiled from her home was, he knew, an open secret in Edgerly. His face set in grim, hard lines.
"No one who cared to know," he was sure, "could be ignorant of the character of the man who had led her to her downfall."
The next morning the doctor visited his poor patient again, and found his condition improved. The light of reason was again in his eyes, and it was evident that he clung to life with as much desire as the most favored prince of earth clings to it.
On his return he passed the Mayhew home. A party of young people, with Mrs. Mayhew as chaperon, were starting for a day's outing among the hills. A carriage stood at the curb; he bowed to Max Morrison, who was holding the spirited horses. Geraldine Vane, who was ready to enter the carriage, greeted him pleasantly. He lifted his hat to her, and she looked into his face.
"Is not this a beautiful morning for a drive?" she said.
"It is indeed a beautiful morning," he replied, but there was a coldness in his voice and his brows were contracted. Yet, as he went on his way he was sure that Geraldine's pure white face was the fairest that God's sun ever shone upon. He watched the carriage as it turned a corner into a street that led to a country road; and all the heart within him cried out against the vision of those two, Max and Geraldine, drinking in the beauty of fields and byways, earth and sky--those two together!
When he reached his office he found his father in a fit of ill-temper. This, however, was quite a chronic condition with the old doctor.