The more Millard thought of the mysterious reserve of Phillida, the more
he was disturbed by it, and the next Sunday but one he set out at an
earlier hour than usual to go to Avenue C, not this time with a
comfortable feeling that his visit would be a source of cheer to his
aunt, but rather hoping that her quiet spirit might somehow relieve the
soreness of his heart. It chanced that on this fine winter Sunday he
found her alone, except for the one-year-old little girl.
"I let the children all go to Sunday-school," she said, "except baby,
and father has gone to his meeting, you know."
"His meeting? I did not know that he had any," said Millard.
"W'y yes, Charley; I thought you knew. Henry always had peculiar views,"
she said, laughing gently, as was her wont, at her husband's oddities.
"He has especially disliked preachers and doctors. Lately he has got the
notion that the churches do not believe the Bible literally enough.
There were two Swedes and one Swiss in his shop who agreed with him.
From reading the Bible in their way and reading other books and papers
they have adopted what is called Christian Science. They have found some
other men and women who believe as they do, and a kind of a Christian
Science woman doctor who talks to them a little--a good enough woman in
her way, I suppose--and they think that by faith, or rather by declaring
that there is no such thing as a real disease, and believing themselves
well, they can cure all diseases."
"All except old age and hunger?" queried Millard.
The aunt smiled, and went on. "But father and his woman doctor or
preacher don't agree with your Miss Callender. They say her cures are
all right as far as they go, but that she is only a babe, unable to take
strong meat. The Christian Science woman in Fourteenth street, now, they
say, knows all about it, and works her cures scientifically, and not
blindly as Miss Callender does."
This allusion to cures by Phillida set Millard into a whirl of feeling.
That she had been doing something calculated to make her the subject of
talk brought a rush of indignant feeling, but all his training as a man
of society and as a man of business inclined him to a prudent silence
under excitement. He turned his derby hat around and around, examining
the crown by touch, and then, reversing it, he scrutinized the address
of the hatter who did not make it. Though he had come all the way to
Avenue C to make a confidante of his aunt, he now found it impossible to
do so. She had rejoiced so much in his betrothal to her friend, how
could he let her see how far apart he and Phillida had drifted? For
some minutes he managed to talk with her about her own family matters,
and then turned back to Phillida again.
"Tell me, Aunt Hannah, all you know about Miss Callender's cures. I
don't like to ask her because she and I disagree so widely on some
things that we do not like to talk about them."
His aunt saw that Charley was profoundly disturbed. She therefore began
with some caution, as treading on unknown ground, in talking with him
about Phillida.
"I don't know what to think about these things, Charley. But in anything
I say you must understand that I love Miss Callender almost as much as
you do, and if anybody can cure by faith she can. In fact, she has had
wonderful success in some cures. Besides, she's no money-maker, like the
woman doctor in Fourteenth street, who takes pay for praying over you,
and rubbing your head, maybe. You know about the cure of Wilhelmina
Schulenberg, of course?"
"No; not fully. We haven't liked to talk about it. Wilhelmina is the
poor creature that has been in bed so long."
This mere fencing was to cover the fact that Millard had not heard
anything of the miracle in Wilhelmina's case. But seeing his aunt look
at him inquiringly, he added:
"Is she quite cured, do you think--this Miss Schulenberg?"
"No; but she can sit up and walk about. She got better day after day
under Miss Callender's praying, but lately, I think, she is at a
standstill. Well, that was the first, and it made a great talk. And I
don't see but that it is very remarkable. Everybody in the tenement
house was wild about it, and Miss Callender soon came to be pointed at
by the children on the street as 'the woman doctor that can make you
well by praying over you.' Then there was the wife of the crockery-store
man in Avenue A. She had hysterical fits, or something of the sort, and
she got well after Miss Callender visited her three or four times. And
another woman thought her arm was paralyzed, but Miss Callender made her
believe, and she got so she could use it. But old Mr. Greenlander, the
picture-frame maker in Twentieth street, didn't get any better. In fact,
he never pretended to believe that he would."
"What was the matter with him?" asked Millard, his lips compressed and
his brows contracted.
"Oh, he had a cataract over his eye. He's gone up to the Eye and Ear
Hospital to have it taken off. I don't suppose faith could be expected
to remove that."
"It doesn't seem to work in surgical cases," said Millard.
"But several people with nervous troubles and kind of breakdowns have
got better or got well, and naturally they are sounding the praises of
Miss Callender's faith," added his aunt.
"Do you think Phillida likes all this talk about her?"
"No. This talk about her is like hot coals to her feet. She suffers
dreadfully. She said last Sunday that she wondered if Christ did not
shrink from the talk of the crowds that followed him more than he did
from crucifixion itself. She is wonderful, and I don't wonder the people
believe that she can work miracles. If anybody can in these days, she is
the one."
Millard said nothing for a time; he picked at the lining of his hat, and
then put it down on the table and looked out of the window. His
irritation against Phillida had by this time turned into affectionate
pity for her self-imposed suffering--a pity rendered bitter by his
inability to relieve her.
"Do you think that Phillida begins to suspect that perhaps she has made
a mistake?" he asked after a while.
"No. I'm not so sure she has. No doctor cures in all cases, and even
Christ couldn't heal the people in Nazareth who hadn't much faith."
"She will make herself a byword in the streets," said Millard in a tone
that revealed to his aunt his shame and anguish.
"Charley," said Mrs. Martin, "don't let yourself worry too much about
Miss Callender. She is young yet. She may be wrong or she may be right.
I don't say but she goes too far. She's a house plant, you know. She has
seen very little of the world. If she was like other girls she would
just take up with the ways of other people and not make a stir. But she
has set out to do what she thinks is right at all hazards. Presently she
will get her lesson, and some of her oddities will disappear, but she'll
never be just like common folks. Mind my words, Charley, she's got the
making of a splendid woman if you'll only give her time to get ripe."
"I believe that with all my heart," said Millard, with a sigh.
"I tell you, Charley, I do believe that her prayers have a great effect,
for the Bible teaches that. Besides, she don't talk any of the nonsense
of father's Christian Science woman. I can understand what Phillida's
about. But Miss what's-her-name, in Fourteenth street, can't explain to
save her life, so's you can understand, how she cures people, or what
she's about, except to earn money in some way easier than hard work.
There comes your uncle, loaded to the muzzle for a dispute," said Aunt
Hannah, laughing mischievously as she heard her husband's step on the
stairs.
Uncle Martin greeted Charley with zest. It was no fun to talk to his
wife, who never could be drawn into a discussion, but held her husband's
vagaries in check as far as possible by little touches of gentle
ridicule. But Mr. Martin was sure that he could overwhelm Charley
Millard, even though he might not convince him. So when he had said,
"How-are-yeh, and glad to see yeh, Charley, and hope yer well, and how's
things with you?" he sat down, and presently opened his battery.
"You see, Charley, our Miss Bowyer, the Christian Science healer, is
well-posted about medicine and the Bible. She says that the world is
just about to change. Sin and misery are at the bottom of sickness, and
all are going to be done away with by spirit power. God and the angel
world are rolling away the rock from the sepulchre, and the sleeping
spirit of man is coming forth. People are getting more susceptible to
magnetic and psy--psy-co-what-you-may-call-it influences. This is
bringing out new diseases that the old doctors are only able to look at
with dumb amazement."
Here Uncle Martin turned his thumbs outward with a flourish, and the air
of a lad who had solved a problem on a blackboard. At the same time he
dropped his head forward and gazed at Charley, who was not even amused.
"What are her proofs?" demanded Millard, wearily.
"Proofs?" said Uncle Martin, with a sniff, as he reared his head again.
"Proofs a plenty. You just come around and hear her explain once about
the vermic--I can't say the word--the twistifying motion of the stomach
and what happens when the nerve-force gets a set-back and this motion
kind of winds itself upward instead of downward, and the nerve-force all
flies to the head. Proofs?" Here Uncle Martin paused, ill at ease. "Just
notice the cases. The proof is in the trying of it. The cures are
wonderful. You first get the patient into a state where you can make him
think as you do. Then you will that he shall forget all about his
diseases. You make him feel well, and you've done it."
"I suppose you could cure him by forgetfulness easily enough. I saw an
old soldier with one leg yesterday; he was drunk in the street. And he
had forgotten entirely that one leg was gone. But he didn't seem to walk
any better."
"That don't count, Charley, and you're only making fun. You see there is
a philosophy in this, and you ought to hear it from somebody that can
explain it."
"I'd like to find somebody who could," said Charley.
"Well, now, how's this? Miss Bowyer--she's a kind of a preacher as well as
a doctor--she says that God is good, and therefore he couldn't create evil.
You see? Well, now, God created everything that is, so there can not be any
evil. At least it can't have any real, independent--what-you-may-call-it
existence. You see, Charley?"
"Yes; what of it?"
"Well, then, sickness and sin are evil. But this argument proves that
they don't really exist at all. They're only magic-lantern shadows so to
speak. You see? Convince the patient that he is well, and he _is_ well."
Here Uncle Martin, having pointed out the easy road to universal health,
looked in solemn triumph from under his brows.
"Yes," said Millard, "that's just an awfully good scheme. But if you
work your argument backward it will prove that as evil exists there
isn't any good God. But if it's true that sin and disease have no real
existence, we'll do away with hanging and electrocution, as they call
it, and just send for Miss Bowyer to convince a murderer that murder is
an evil, and so it can't have any real independent existence in a
universe made by a good God."
"Well, Charley, you make fun of serious things. You might as well make
fun of the miracles in the Bible."
"Now," said Millard, "are the cures wrought by Christian Science
miracles, or are they founded on philosophy?"
"They're both, Charley. It's what they call the
psy-co-what-you-may-call-it mode of cure. But it's all the same as the
miracles of the Bible," said Uncle Martin.
"Oh, it is," said Millard, gayly, for this tilt had raised his spirits.
"Now the miracles in the Bible are straight-out miracles. Nobody went
around in that day to explain the vermicular motion of the stomach or
the upward action of nerve-force, or the psychopathic value of animal
magnetism. Some of the Bible miracles would stump a body to believe, if
they were anywhere else but in the Bible; but you just believe in them
as miracles by walking right straight up to them, looking the difficulty
in the eye, and taking them as they are because you ought to." Here
Charley saw his aunt laughing gently at his frank way of stating the
processes of his own mind. Smiling in response, he added: "You believe
them, or at least I do, because I can't have my religion without them.
But your Christian psychopathists bring a lot of talk about a science,
and they don't seem to know just whether God is working the miracle or
they are doing it by magnetism, or mind-cure, or psychopathy, or whether
the disease isn't a sort of plaguey humbug anyhow, and the patient a
fool who has to be undeceived."
"W'y, you see, Charley, we know more nowadays, and we understand all
about somnambulism and hyp-what-you-may-call-it, and we understand just
how the miracles in the Bible were worked. God works by law--don't you
see?"
"The apostles did not seem to understand it?" asked Charley.
"No; they were mere faith-doctors, like Miss Callender, for instance,
doing their works in a blind sort of way."
"The apostles will be mere rushlights when you get your Christian
Science well a-going," said Charley, seriously. Then he rose to leave,
having no heart to await the return of the children.
"Of course," said Uncle Martin, "the world is undergoing a change,
Charley. A great change. Selfishness and disease shall vanish away, and
the truth of science and Christianity prevail." Uncle Martin was now
standing, and swinging his hands horizontally in outward gestures, with
his elbows against his sides.
"Well, I wish to goodness there was some chance of realizing your
hopes," said Charley, conciliatorily. "I must go. Good-by, Uncle Martin;
good-by, Aunt Hannah."
Uncle Martin said good-by, and come again, Charley, and always glad to
see you, you know, and good luck to you. And Millard went down the
stairs and bent his steps homeward. As the exhilaration produced by his
baiting of Uncle Martin's philosophy died away, his heart sank with
sorrowful thoughts of Phillida and her sufferings, and with indignant
and mortifying thoughts of how she would inevitably be associated in
people's minds with mercenary quacks and disciples of a sham science.
He would go to see her at once. The defeat of Uncle Martin had given him
courage. He would turn the same battery on Phillida. No; not the same.
He could not ridicule her. She was never quite ridiculous. Her plane of
motive was so high that his banter would be a desecration. It was not
in his heart to add to the asperity of her martyrdom by any light words.
But perhaps he could find some way to bring her to a more reasonable
course.
It was distinctly out of his way to cross Tompkins Square again, but in
his present mood there was a satisfaction to him in taking a turn
through the square, which was associated in his mind with a time when
his dawning affection for Phillida was dimmed by no clouds of
separation. Excitement pushed him forward, and a fine figure he was as
he strode along with eager and elastic steps, his head erect and his
little cane balanced in his fingers. In the middle of the square his
meditation was cut short in a way most unwelcome in his present frame of
mind.
"It is Mr. Millard, isn't it?" he heard some one say, and, turning, he
saw before him Wilhelmina Schulenberg, not now seated helpless in the
chair he had given her, but hanging on the arm of her faithful Rudolph.
"How do you do, Miss Schulenberg?" said Millard, examining her with
curiosity.
"You see I am able to walk wunst again," she said. "It is to Miss
Callender and her prayers that I owe it already."
"But you are not quite strong," said Millard. "Do you get better?"
"Not so much now. It is my faith is weak. If I only could believe
already, it would all to me be possible, Mr. Millard. But it is
something to walk on my feet, isn't it, Mr. Millard?"
"Indeed it is, Miss Schulenberg. It must make your good brother glad."
Rudolph received this polite indirect compliment a little foolishly, but
appreciation from a fine gentleman did him good, and after Charley had
gone he was profuse in his praises of "Miss Callender's man," as he
called him.