The next day, though a great snow-storm had burst upon the city before
noon, Phillida made haste after luncheon to work her way first to the
Diet Kitchen and then to the Schulenberg tenement. When she got within
the shelter of the doorway of the tenement house she was well-nigh
exhausted, and it was half a minute before she could begin the arduous
climbing of the stairs.
"I thought you would not come," said Wilhelmina with something like a
cry of joy. "I have found it hard to keep on believing, but still I have
believed and prayed. I was afeard if till to-morrow you waited the black
thoughts would come back again. Do you think I can sit up wunst more
already?"
"If you have faith; if you believe."
Under less excitement than that of the day before, Mina found it hard to
get up; but at length she succeeded. Then she ate the appetizing food
that Phillida set before her. Meantime the mother, deeply affected, took
her market-basket and went out, lest somehow her presence should be a
drawback to her daughter's recovery.
While the feeble Wilhelmina was eating, Phillida drew the only fairly
comfortable chair in the room near to the stove, and, taking from a bed
some covering, she spread it over the back and seat of the chair. Then,
when the meal was completed, she read from the Acts of the Apostles of
the man healed at the gate of the temple by Simon Peter. With the book
open in her hand, as she sat, she offered a brief fervent prayer.
"Now, Wilhelmina, doubt nothing," she said. "In the name of Jesus of
Nazareth, rise up and walk!"
The invalid had again caught the infection of Phillida's faith, and with
a strong effort, helping herself by putting her hand on Phillida's
shoulder, she brought herself at length to her feet, where she stood a
moment, tottering as though about to fall.
"Walk to the chair, dear, nothing wavering," commanded Phillida, and
Mina, with much trembling, let go of Phillida's shoulder, and with sadly
unsteady steps tottered forward far enough to lay hold of the back of
the chair, and at length succeeded, with much ado, in sitting down
without assistance. For years she had believed herself forever beyond
hope of taking a step. She leaned back against the pillow placed behind
her by Phillida, and wept for very joy.
"But, Miss Callender," she said after a while, "the man you read about
in the Bible was made all well at once, and he walked and leaped; but
I--"
"Perhaps our faith isn't strong enough," said Phillida. "Maybe it is
better for us that you should get well slowly, like the man that Jesus
cured of blindness, who, when he first saw men, thought they looked like
walking trees. Let us be thankful for what we have, and not complain."
In a few weeks Wilhelmina's mental stimulation and graduated physical
exercise had made her able to sit up nearly all day, to walk feebly
about the house, and even to render some assistance in such affairs as
could be attended to while sitting. The recovery, though it went no
farther, was remarkable enough to attract much attention, and the fame
of it spread far and wide among the people in the eastern avenues and
those connected with the Mission.
This new development of Phillida's life increased her isolation. She
could not speak to her family about her faith-cures, nor to Mrs.
Hilbrough, and she did not like to confide even in Mrs. Frankland, who
would, she felt sure, make too much of the matter. Most of all, it was
not in her power to bring herself to say anything to Millard about it.
The latter felt, during the three or four weeks that followed the
treatment of Wilhelmina, that the veil between him and the inner life of
Phillida was growing more opaque. He found no ground to quarrel with
Phillida; she was cordial, affectionate, and dutiful toward him, but he
felt, with a quickness of intuition characteristic of him, that there
was some new cause of constraint between them.
"Phillida," he said one evening, a month after Phillida's work as a
faith-doctor had begun, "I wish you would tell me more about your
mission work."
"I don't like to speak of that," she replied. "It is too much like
boasting of what I am doing." She had no sooner said this than she
regretted it; her fierce conscience rose up and charged her with
uncandid speech. But how could she be candid?
"I don't like to think," said Millard, "that so large a part of your
life--a part that lies so near to your heart--should be shut out from
me. I can't do your kind of work. But I can admire it. Won't you tell me
about it?"
Phillida felt a keen pang. Had it been a question of her ordinary work
in the months that were past she might easily have spoken of it. But
this faith-healing would be dangerous ground with Millard. She knew in
her heart that it would be better to tell him frankly about it, and face
the result. But with him there she could not get courage to bring on an
immediate conflict between the affection that was so dear and the work
that was so sacred to her.
"Charley," she said slowly, holding on to her left hand as though for
safety, "I'm afraid I was not very--very candid in the answer I gave you
just now."
"Oh, don't say anything, or tell me anything, dear, that gives you
pain," he said with quick delicacy; "and something about this does pain
you."
Phillida spoke now in a lower tone, looking down at her hands as she
said, with evident effort: "Because you are so good, I must try to be
honest with you. There are reasons why I hesitate to tell--to tell--you
all about what I am doing. At least this evening, though I know I ought
to, and I will--I will--if you insist on it."
"No, dear; no. I will not hear it now."
"But I will tell you all some time. It's nothing _very_ bad, Charley. At
least I don't think it is."
"It couldn't be, I'm sure. Nothing bad could exist about you"; and he
took her hand in his. "Don't say any more to-night. You are nervous and
tired. But some other time, when you feel like it, speak freely. It
won't do for us not to open our hearts and lives to each other. If we
fail to live openly and truthfully, our little boat will go ashore,
Phillida dear--will be wrecked or stranded before we know it."
His voice was full of pleading. How could she refuse to tell him all?
But by all the love she felt for him, sitting there in front of her,
with his left hand on his knee, looking in her face, and speaking in
such an honest, manly way, she was restrained from exposing to him a
phase of her life that would seem folly to him while it was a very holy
of holies to her. The alternative was cruel.
"Another time, Charley, I mean to tell you all," she said; and she knew
when she said it that procrastination would not better the matter, and
in the silence that ensued she was just about to change her resolve and
unfold the whole matter at once.
But Millard said: "Don't trouble yourself. I'm sorry I have hurt you.
Remember that I trust you implicitly. If you feel a delicacy in speaking
to me about anything, let it go."
The conversation after this turned on indifferent matters; but it
remained constrained, and Millard took his leave early.