Millard went no farther through the square, but turned toward Tenth
street, and through that to Second Avenue, and so uptownward. But how
should he argue with Phillida? He had seen an indisputable example of
the virtue of her prayers. Though he could not believe in the miraculous
character of the cure, how should he explain it? That Wilhelmina had
been shamming was incredible, that her ailments were not imaginary was
proven by the fact of her recovery being but partial. To deny the
abstract possibility of such a cure seemed illogical from his own
standpoint. Even the tepid rector of St. Matthias had occasionally
homilized in a vague way about the efficacy of faith and the power of
prayer, but the rector seemed to think that this potency was for the
most part a matter of ancient history, for his illustrations were rarely
drawn from anything more modern than the lives of the Church fathers,
and of the female relatives of the Church fathers, such as Saint Monica.
Millard could not see any ground on which he could deny the reality of
the miracle in the Schulenberg case, but his common sense was that of a
man of worldly experience, a common sense which stubbornly refuses to
believe the phenomenal or extraordinary, even when unable to formulate
a single reason for incredulity.
After an internal debate he decided not to call on Phillida this
afternoon. It might lead to a scene, a scene might bring on a
catastrophe. But, as fortune would have it, Phillida was on her return
from the Mission, and her path coincided with his, so that he
encountered her in Tenth street. He walked home with her, asking after
her health and talking commonplaces to escape conversation. He went
in--there was no easy way to avoid it, had he desired. She set him a
chair, and drew up the shades, and then took a seat near him.
"I've been at Aunt Martin's to-day," he said.
"Have you?" she asked with a sort of trepidation in her voice.
"Yes." Then after a pause he edged up to what he wished to say by
adding: "I had a curious talk with Uncle Martin, who has got his head
full of the greatest jumble of scientific terms which he can not
remember, and nonsense about what he calls Christian Science. He says he
learned it from Miss Bowyer, a Christian Science talker. Do you know
her?"
"No; I have only heard of her from Mr. Martin, and I don't think I ought
to judge her by what is reported of her teaching. Maybe it is not so
bad. One doesn't like to be judged at second-hand," she said, looking at
him with a quick glance.
"Especially when Uncle Martin is the reporter," he replied.
Meantime Phillida's eyes were inquiring whether he had heard anything
about her present course of action.
"I saw Wilhelmina Schulenberg in Tompkins Square to-day," he said, still
approaching the inevitable, sidewise.
"Did you?" she asked almost in a whisper. "Was she walking?"
"Yes. Why did you not tell me she was better?"
Phillida looked down. At this moment her reserve with her lover in a
matter so personal to herself seemed to her extremely reprehensible.
"I--I was a coward, Charley," she said with a kind of ferocity of
remorse. This self-accusation on her part made him unhappy.
"You?" he said. "You are no coward. You are a brave woman." He leaned
over and lightly kissed her cheek as he finished speaking.
"I knew that my course would seem foolish to you, and I couldn't bear
that you should know. I was afraid it would mortify you."
"You have suffered much yourself, my dear."
She nodded her head, the tears brimming in her eyes at this unexpected
sign of sympathy.
"And borne it bravely all alone. And all for a mistake--a cruel
mistake."
Millard had not meant to say so much, but his feelings had slipped away
from him. However, he softened his words by his action, for he drew out
his handkerchief and gently wiped away a tear that had paused a moment
in its descent down her cheek.
"How can you say it is a mistake?" she asked. "You saw Wilhelmina
yourself."
"Yes; but it is all a misunderstanding, dear. It's all wrong, I tell
you. You haven't seen much of life, and you'll be better able to judge
when you are older." Here he paused, for of arguments he had none to
offer.
"I don't want to see anything of life if a knowledge of the world is to
rob me of what is more precious than life itself." Her voice was now
firm and resolute, and her tears had ceased.
Millard was angry at he knew not what--at whatever thing human or
supernal had bound this burden of misbelief upon so noble a soul as
Phillida's. He got up and paced the floor a moment, and then looked out
of the window, saying from time to time in response to deprecatory or
defensive words of hers, "I tell you, dear, it's a cruel mistake." Now
and then he felt an impulse to scold Phillida herself; but his
affectionate pity held him back. His irritation had the satisfaction of
finding an object on which to vent itself at length when Phillida said:
"If Mrs. Frankland would admit men to her readings, Charley, I'm sure
that if you could only hear her explain the Bible--"
"No, thank you," said Millard, tartly. "Mrs. Frankland is eloquent, but
she has imposed on you and done you a great deal of harm. Why, Phillida,
you are as much superior to that woman as the sky is--" He was about to
say, "as the sky is to a mud-puddle," but nothing is so fatal to offhand
vigor of denunciation as the confirmed habit of properness. Millard's
preference for measured and refined speech got the better of his wrath
barely in time, and, after arresting himself a moment, he finished the
sentence with more justness as he made a little wave with his right
hand--"as the sky is to a scene-painter's illusion."
Then he went on: "But Mrs. Frankland is persuasive and eloquent, and you
are too sincere to make allowance for the dash of exaggeration in her
words. You won't find her at a mission in Mackerelville. She is dressed
in purple by presents from the people who hear her, and Mrs. Hilbrough
tells me that Mrs. Benthuysen has just given her a check of a thousand
dollars to go to Europe with."
"Why shouldn't they do such things for her? They hardly know what to do
with their money, and they ought to be grateful to her," said Phillida
with heat. "Charley, I don't like to have you talk so about so good a
woman. I know her and love her. You don't know her, and your words seem
to me harsh and unjust."
"Well, then forgive me, dear. I forgot that she is your friend. That's
the best thing I ever knew about her."
Saying this, he put on his hat and went out lest he should give way
again to his now rising indignation against Mrs. Frankland, who, as the
real author of Phillida's trouble, in his judgment deserved severer
words than he had yet applied to her. But when he had opened the front
door he turned back suddenly, distressed that his call had only added to
the troubles of Phillida. She sat there, immovable, where he had left
her; he crossed the room, bent over her, and kissed her cheek.
"Forgive me, darling; I spoke hastily."
This tenderness overcame Phillida, and she fell to weeping. When she
raised her head a moment later Charley had gone, and the full confession
she had intended must be deferred.
To a man who has accepted as a divine authority all the conventions of
society, hardly anything that could befall a young woman would be more
dreadful than to become a subject of notoriety. His present interview
with Phillida had thoroughly aroused Millard, and he was resolved to
save her from herself by any means within his reach. Again the
alternative of an early marriage presented itself. He might hasten the
wedding, and then take Phillida to Europe, where the sight of a
religious life quite different from her own would tend to widen her
views and weaken the ardor of her enthusiasm. He wondered what would be
the effect upon her, for instance, of the stack of crutches built up in
monumental fashion in one of the chapels of the Church of St. Germain
des Pres at Paris--the offerings of cripples restored by a Roman
Catholic faith-cure. But he reflected that the wedding could be hardly
got ready before Lent, and a marriage in Lent was repugnant to him not
only as a Churchman but even more as a man known for sworn fealty to the
canons of fashionable society, which are more inexorable than
ecclesiastical usages, since there is no one high and mighty enough to
grant a dispensation from them. It had long been understood that the
wedding should take place some time after Easter, and it seemed best not
to disturb that arrangement. What he wanted now was some means of
checking the mortifying career of Phillida as a faith-doctor.