The Bible reader was no polemic. People of every sect were gathered
under the wings of her sympathies. In vain dogmatic advisers warned her
against Unitarians who believe too little, and Swedenborgians who
believe too much. Mrs. Frankland's organ of judgment lay in her
affections and emotions, and those who felt as she felt were accepted
without contradiction, or, as she put it, mostly in Scripture phrase,
which she delivered in a rich orotund voice: "Let us receive him that is
weak in the faith, but not to doubtful disputation."
A certain sort of combativeness she had, but it was combativeness with
the edge taken off. It served to direct her choice of topics, but not to
give asperity or polemical form to her discourses. Suddenly introduced
to the very heart of Vanity Fair, she had caught her first inspiration
by opposition, and this led her to hold forth on such themes as
consecration. But as her acquaintance with people of wealth extended she
found that even they, conservative by very force of abundance, were
affected by the unbelieving spirit of a critical age. The very
prosperous are partly under shelter from the prevailing intellectual
currents of their time. Those whose attention is engrossed by things
are in so far shut out from the appeal of ideas. But thought is very
penetrating; it will reach by conduction what it can not attain by
radiation. An intellectual movement touches the highest and the lowest
with difficulty, but it does at length affect in a measure even those
whose minds are narcotized by abundance as well as those whose brains
are fagged by too much toil and care. When Mrs. Frankland became aware
that there was unbelief, latent and developed, among her hearers, the
prow of her oratory veered around, and faith became now, as consecration
had been before, the pole-star toward which this earnest and clever
woman aimed. With such a mind as hers the topic under consideration
becomes for the time supreme. Solemnly insisting on a renunciation of
all possibility of merit as a condition precedent to faith, she
proceeded to exalt belief itself into the most meritorious of acts. This
sort of paradox is common to all popular religious teachers.
Mrs. Frankland's new line of talk about the glories of faith had a
disadvantage for Phillida in that it also fell in with a tendency of her
nature and with the habits nourished in her by her father. Millard
thought he had reached the depths of her life in coming to know about
her work among the poor, but a woman's motives are apt to be more
involved than a man imagines or than she can herself quite understand.
Below the philanthropic Phillida lay the devout Phillida, who believed
profoundly that in her devotions she was able to touch hands with the
ever-living God himself. Under the stimulus of Mrs. Frankland's words
this belief became so absorbing that the common interests of life became
to her remote and almost unreal. Her work in the Mission was more and
more her life, and perhaps the necessity for accommodating herself a
little to the habits and tastes of a lover was her main preservative
from a tendency to degenerate into a devotee.
While Mrs. Frankland aroused others, her eloquence also influenced the
orator herself. Advocacy increased the force of conviction, and the
growing intensity of conviction in turn reinforced the earnestness of
advocacy. Irreverent people applied an old joke and called her "the
apostle to the genteels," and in the region to which she seemed
commissioned the warmth of her zeal was not likely to work harm. What
effect it had was in the main good. But the material in her hands was
only combustible in a slow way; the plutocratic conscience is rarely
inflammable--for the most part it smolders like punk. Nor was Mrs.
Frankland herself in any danger of being carried by her enthusiasms into
fanaticism of action. However her utterances might savor of ultraism,
she was conservative enough in practical matters to keep a sort of
"Truce of God" with the world as she found it.
But to Phillida, susceptible as a saint on the road to beatification,
the gradually augmented fervor of Mrs. Frankland's declamation worked
evil. It was especially painful to Agatha that her sister was propelled
by this influence farther and farther out of the safe lines of
commonplace feeling and action, and that every wind from Mrs.
Frankland's quarter of the heavens tended to drift her farther and
farther away from her lover. Agatha's indignation broke out into all
sorts of talk against Mrs. Frankland, whom she did not scruple to
denounce for a Pharisee, binding heavy burdens on the back of poor
Phillida, but never touching them with her own little finger.
Mrs. Frankland's discourses on faith reached their zenith on a January
day, when the carriage wheels that rolled in front of Mrs. Van Horne's
made a ringing almost like the breaking of glass in the hard frozen snow
of the streets, and when the luxurious comfort within the house was the
more deliciously appreciable from the deadly frostiness of the
bone-piercing wind without. Only Phillida of all the throng found her
comfort disturbed by remembering the coachmen who returned for their
mistresses before the end of the discourse. It cost those poor fellows a
pang to do despite to their wonted dignity of demeanor by smiting their
arms against their bodies to keep from perishing. But even a coachman
accustomed to regard himself as the main representative of the unbending
perpendicularity of a ten-million family must give way a little before a
January north wind in the middle of a cold wave, when his little fur
cape becomes a mockery and his hard high hat a misery. However admirable
Mrs. Frankland's prolonged sessions may have seemed to the ladies with
tear-stained cheeks within the house, it appeared far from laudable as
seen from the angle of a coachman's box.
The address on this day followed a reading of the eleventh chapter of
Hebrews, which is itself the rhapsody of an eloquent man upon faith. If
this were written, as some suppose, by Apollos, the orator of the early
Church, one may almost fancy that he reads here a bit of one of those
addresses wherein speaker and hearer are lifted up together above the
meanness and exigencies of mere realism. Mrs. Frankland accompanied the
reading of this summary of faith's victory by a comment consisting
largely of modern instances carefully selected and told with the tact of
a _raconteur_, so as to leave the maximum impression of each incident
unimpaired by needless details. Some of these stories were little short
of miraculous; but they were dignified by the manner of telling, which
never for an instant degenerated into the babble of a mere
wonder-monger.
As usual, Mrs. Frankland, or the oratorical part of her, which was quite
the majority of her mind, was carried away by the force of her own
speech, and in lauding the success of faith it seemed to her most
praiseworthy to push her eulogies unfalteringly to the extreme. You are
not to understand that by doing this she vociferated or indulged in
vehement gesture. He is only a bastard orator who fancies that loudness
and shrillness of tone can enforce conviction. When Mrs. Frankland felt
herself about to say extravagant things she intuitively set off her
transcendent utterances by assuming a calm demeanor and the air of one
who expresses with judicial deliberation the most assured and
long-meditated conclusions. So to-day she closed her little Oxford Bible
and laid it on the richly inlaid table before her, deliberately
depositing her handkerchief upon it and looking about before she made
her peroration, which was in something like the following words,
delivered with impressive solemnity in a deep, rich voice:
"Why should we always praise faith for what it _has_ done? Has God
changed? Faith is as powerful to-day as ever it was since this old world
began. If the sick are not healed, if the dead are not raised to-day, be
sure it is not God's fault. I am asked if I believe in faith-cure. There
is the Bible. It abounds in the divine healing. Nowhere are we told that
faith shall some day cease to work wonders. The arm of the Lord is not
shortened. O ye of little faith! the victory is within your reach, if
you will but rise and seize upon it. I see a vision of a new Church yet
to come that shall believe, and, believing as those of old believed,
shall see wonders such as the faithful of old saw. The sick shall be
healed; women shall receive their dead raised to life again. Why not
now? Rise up, O believing heart, and take the Lord at his word!"
Perhaps Mrs. Frankland did not intend that declamation should be
accepted at its face value; certainly she did not expect it.
After a hymn, beautifully and touchingly sung, and a brief prayer,
ladies put on their sealskin sacques, thrust their jeweled hands into
their muffs, and went out to beckon their impatient coachmen, and to
carry home with them the solemn impressions made by the discourse, which
were in most cases too vague to produce other than a sentimental result.
Yet one may not scatter fire with safety unless he can be sure there are
no dangerous combustibles within reach. The harm of credulity is that
it is liable to set a great flame a-going whenever it reaches that which
will burn. A belief in witches is comparatively innocuous until it finds
favorable conditions, as at Salem a couple of centuries ago, but, in
favorable conditions, the idle speculations of a pedant, or the
chimney-corner chatter of old women, may suddenly become as destructive
as a pestilence.
It was in the sincere and susceptible soul of Phillida that Mrs.
Frankland's words had their full effect. The lust after perfection--the
realest peril of great souls--was hers, and she was stung and humiliated
by Mrs. Frankland's rebuke to her lack of faith, for the words so
impressively spoken seemed to her like a divine message. The whole
catalogue of worthies in the eleventh of Hebrews rose up to reprove her.
"I suppose Mrs. Frankland's been talking some more of her stuff," said
Agatha at the dinner that evening. "I declare, Phillida, you're a victim
of that woman. She isn't so bad. She doesn't mean what she says to be
taken as she says it. People always make allowances for mere preaching,
you know. But you just swallow it all, and then you get to be so poky a
body has no comfort in life. There, now, I didn't mean to hurt your
feelings," she added, as she saw the effort her sister was making at
self-control.
Phillida lay awake that night long after the normal Agatha, with never
an aspiration of the lofty sort, slept the blessed sleep of the
heedless. And while the feeble glow of the banked-down fire in the grate
draped the objects in the room with grotesque shadows, she went over
again the bead-roll of faith in the eleventh of Hebrews and heard again
the response of her conscience to the solemn appeal of Mrs. Frankland,
and prayed for an increase of faith, and went to sleep at last
reflecting on the faith like a germinant mustard grain that should
upheave the very mountains and cast them into the midst of the sea.