There were two reasons for her rigid silence. One of these was the natural proclivity from the days of her childhood to keep within her own heart the things that troubled and puzzled her. The other reason was much more complex, and added materially to the burden that she carried. Her husband, scholarly, thoughtful, gentle and reverent, was, she knew, flint and steel where the doctrines and dogmas of his church were concerned, and would, she believed, yield up his life as readily as any martyr of old had ever done, rather than yield one principle of his faith or compromise one conviction.
Her domestic relations had been particularly happy; her husband's faith and confidence in her were complete. And dear to her as the breath to her nostrils was his love and approbation. And the more surely she felt the structure of her life, her aims and purposes, her hopes and aspirations falling in ruins about her, the more passionately she clung to this, the one thing that was left her, beautiful and unimpaired. What was all that she had suffered, or all that she could suffer while her husband's faith in her remained, compared to what must follow should he learn that she had withdrawn from him spiritually, forsaken the principles that were strong within him as the fibres of his life, repudiated the sacred tenets of his church? A sort of prayer had worded itself in her brain that she be not spared in bodily pain nor mental suffering, that no portion of the burden she bore be removed, if thereby, in life or death, her husband must know that she had proven faithless to the principles of his faith.
CHAPTER VII
MRS. THORPE'S MOUNTAINS
The ice king reigned. Ice bound, snow covered, the world lay white and still in the embrace of winter. Nature had closed her laboratory and turned the key; all the wonderful things in her store-rooms were waiting and resting. The tiny rootlets were deaf to the moaning wind; the stern and sturdy trees tossed their branches to the sky and defied the storms in their rage to tear from them the life force which they guarded; the ice-locked lakes and rivers joined in the great white stillness.
It was the time of year when the Star appeared in the East and wise men journeyed far to visit the Child; the time when the shepherds were aroused by the heavenly visitants, and angels proclaimed that the world's Redeemer was born and that the good tidings were for all men. Nevertheless, at this anniversary of the Redeemer's birth there were hearts in Edgerly in which rankled bitterness and envy, and where burned hatred and despair. Children, poorly clad, pale and thin, shivered along the streets of the city, and men and women faced the biting blast and dreamed of the return of the season that should warm and comfort them.
But these things were not in Maurice Thorpe's mind when he prepared his Christmas sermon. His purpose was to give to his people at this most blessed season something that would comfort them and bring peace, even the peace that had been proclaimed to their hearts.
The sweet hush of the Sabbath brooded over the church and lay like a benediction over the parsonage. The winter sunshine, warm and mellow, sifted through the windows and added to the warmth and glow of Mrs. Thorpe's apartment. In her clinging crimson gown, which brought into strong relief her white drawn face and luminous dark eyes, she appeared almost as though she might be a being from some other world.
"The morning is fine," said Mr. Thorpe, "and the air will do you good. It has been a long time since you attended church, Evelyn. Make yourself ready and go with me to-day."
Mrs. Thorpe avoided her husband's eyes. Could she trust herself to go? Dare she trust herself to refuse? Mr. Thorpe overruled her excuse of illness and insisted that going out would do her good.