Casting about in his thoughts for an ally, he hit upon Mrs. Hilbrough.
In her he would find an old friend of Phillida's who was pretty sure to
be free from brain-fogs. He quickly took a resolution to see her. It was
too late in the afternoon to walk uptown. On a fine Sunday like this the
street cars would not have strap-room left, and the elevated trains
would be in a state of extreme compression long before they reached
Fourteenth street. He took the best-looking cab he could find in Union
Square as the least of inconveniences; and just as the slant sun,
descending upon the Jersey lowlands, had set all the windows on the
uptown side of the cross streets in a ruddy glow, he alighted at the
Hilbrough door, paid his cabman a full day's wages, after the manner of
New York, and sent up his card to Mrs. Hilbrough with a message that he
hoped it would not incommode her to see him, since he had some inquiries
to make. Mrs. Hilbrough descended promptly, and there took place the
usual preliminary parley on the subject of the fine day, a parley
carried on by Millard with as little knowledge of what he was saying as
a phonographic doll has. Then begging her pardon for disturbing her on
Sunday afternoon, he asked:
"Have you heard anything about Miss Callender's course as a
faith-healer?"
Mrs. Hilbrough took a moment to think before replying. Here was a
direct, even abrupt, approach to a matter of delicacy. There was a
complete lack of the diplomatic obliquity to be expected in such a case.
This was not like Millard, and though his exterior was calm and suave
enough from mere force of habit, she quickly formed an opinion of his
condition of internal ebullition from his precipitancy.
"I did not hear anything about it until Thursday, two weeks ago, and I
learned certainly about it only yesterday," she replied, resting as
non-committal as possible until the drift of Millard's inquiry should be
disclosed.
"May I ask from whom?" He was now sitting bolt upright, and his words
were uttered without any of that pleasing deference of manner that
usually characterized his speech.
"From Mrs. Maginnis--Mrs. California Maginnis," she added for the sake
of explicitness and with an impulse to relax the tension of Millard's
mind by playfulness.
"Mrs. Maginnis?" he said with something like a start. "How does Mrs.
Maginnis know anything about what takes place in Mackerelville?"
"It wasn't the Mackerelville case, but one a good deal nearer home, that
she was interested in," said Mrs. Hilbrough. "It's too warm here," she
added, seeing him wipe his brow with his handkerchief. She put her hand
to the bell, but withdrew it without ringing, and then crossed the room
and closed the register.
Millard proceeded in a straightforward, businesslike voice, "Tell me,
please, what Mrs. Maginnis had to do with Miss Callender's faith-cures?"
"Her relation to them came about through Mrs. Frankland."
"No doubt," said Millard; "I expected to find her clever hand in it."
The mordant tone in which this was said disconcerted Mrs. Hilbrough. She
felt that she was in danger of becoming an accomplice in a lovers'
quarrel that might prove disastrous to the pretty romance that had begun
in her own house. She paused and said:
"I beg pardon, Mr. Millard, but I ought hardly to discuss this with you,
if you make it a matter of feeling between you and Phillida. She is my
friend--"
"Mrs. Hilbrough," he interrupted, taking a softer tone than before, and
leaning forward and resting his left hand on his knee, and again wiping
his forehead with his handkerchief, "my whole destiny is involved in the
welfare of Phillida Callender. I haven't quarreled with her, but I
should like to show her that this faith-curing is a mistake and likely
to make her ridiculous. You said that Mrs. Frankland--"
"Mrs. Frankland," said Mrs. Hilbrough, "through somebody connected with
the Mackerelville Mission got hold of the story of the cure of a poor
German girl somewhere down about what they call Tompkins Square. Is
that the name of a square? Well, on Thursday, two weeks ago, when
Phillida was not present, Mrs. Frankland told this story--"
"Trotted it out as a fine illustration of faith," broke in Millard, with
something between a smile and a sneer, adding, "with Phillida's name
attached."
"No, she didn't give the name; she spoke of her as a noble Christian
young woman, the daughter of a devoted missionary to the heathen, which
made me suspect Phillida. She also alluded to her as a person accustomed
to attend these meetings, and again as 'my very dear friend,' and 'my
beloved young friend.' Mrs. Maginnis listened eagerly, and longed to
know who this was, for she had a little girl troubled with Saint Vitus's
dance. She had just been to see Dr. Legammon, the specialist."
"Who always begins his treatment by scaring a patient half to death, I
believe, especially if the patient has money," said Millard, who, in his
present biting mood, found a grim satisfaction even in snapping at Dr.
Legammon's heels.
"He told Mrs. Maginnis that it was an aggravated case of chorea, and
that severe treatment would be necessary," continued Mrs. Hilbrough.
"There must be eyeglasses, and an operation by an oculist, and perhaps
electricity, and it would require nearly a year to cure the child even
under Dr. Legammon; and he didn't even give her much assurance that her
child would get well at all. He especially excited Mrs. Maginnis's
apprehension by saying, 'We must be hopeful, my dear madam.' Mrs.
Maginnis, you know, is strung away up above concert-pitch, and this
melancholy encouragement threw her into despair, and came near to making
her a fit patient for the doctor's specialistic attentions in a private
retreat. She couldn't bring herself to have the eyes operated on, or
even to have electricity applied. It was just after this first visit to
the doctor, while Mrs. Maginnis was in despondency and her usual
indecision, that she heard Mrs. Frankland's address in which the cure of
the poor girl in the tenement-house was told as an illustration of the
power of prayer."
"Mrs. Frankland worked up all the details with striking effect, no
doubt," said Millard, with an expression of disgust.
"Well, you know Mrs. Frankland can't help being eloquent. Everybody
present was deeply affected as she pictured the scene. As soon as the
meeting closed, Mrs. Maginnis, all in a sputter of excitement, I fancy,
sailed up to Mrs. Frankland, and laid her troubles before her, and
wondered if Mrs. Frankland couldn't get her young friend to pray for her
daughter Hilda. Phillida, by solicitation of Mrs. Frankland, visited the
Maginnises every day for a week. They sent their carriage for her every
afternoon, I believe. At the end of a week 'the motions disappeared,' as
Mrs. Maginnis expressed it."
"I believe it isn't uncommon for children to get well of Saint Vitus's
dance," said Millard.
"You couldn't make Mrs. Maginnis believe that. She regards it as one of
the most remarkable cures of a wholly incurable ailment ever heard of.
The day after Phillida's last visit she sent her a check for three
hundred dollars for her services."
"Sent her money?" said Millard, reddening, and contracting his brows.
"Did Phillida take it?" This last was spoken in a low-keyed monotone.
"Hasn't she told you a word about it?"
"Not a word," said Millard, with eyes cast down.
"She sent back the check by the next postman, saying merely that it was
'respectfully declined.'"
"And Mrs. Maginnis?" asked Millard, his face lighting up.
"Didn't understand," said Mrs. Hilbrough. "These brutally rich people
think that cash will pay for everything, you know. Mrs. Maginnis
concluded that she had offered too little."
"It was little enough," said Millard, "considering her wealth and the
nature of the service she believed to have been rendered to her child."
"She thought so herself, on reflection," said Mrs. Hilbrough. "She also
had grace enough to remember that she might have been a little more
delicate in her way of tendering the money. She likes to do things
royally, so she dispatched her footman to Mrs. Callender with a note
inclosing a check for a thousand dollars, asking the mother to use it
for the benefit of her daughter. Mrs. Callender took the check to Mrs.
Gouverneur, and asked her, as having some acquaintance with Mrs.
Maginnis, to explain that Phillida could not accept any pay for
religious services or neighborly kindness. Mrs. Gouverneur"--here Mrs.
Hilbrough smiled--"saw the ghosts of her grandfathers looking on, I
suppose. She couched her note to Mrs. Maginnis in rather chilling terms,
and Mrs. Maginnis understood at last that she had probably given
offense. She went to Mrs. Frankland, who referred her to me, as
Phillida's friend, and she called here yesterday in a flutter of
hysterical importance to get me to apologize, and to ask me what she
_could_ do."
Millard was almost amused at this turn in the affair, but his smile had
a tang of bitterness.
"She explained that she had not understood that Miss Callender was that
kind of person," said Mrs. Hilbrough. "She had always supposed that
ministers and missionaries and their families expected presents. When
she was a little girl her father used to send a whole hog to each
minister in the village every fall when he killed his pigs. But it
seemed Miss Callender and her mother held themselves above presents.
Were they 'people of wealth'? That is her favorite phrase. I told her
that they were one of the best old families in the city, without much
property but with a great deal of pride, and that they were very
admirable people. 'You know, these very old and famous families hold
themselves rather above the rest of us, no matter how rich we may get to
be,' I said, maliciously.
"This seemed almost to subdue her. She said that she supposed people
would expect her to do something at such a time. It was always expected
that 'people of wealth' should show themselves grateful. What could she
do that would not offend such touchy people?
"I suggested that Hilda should buy some article, not too expensive, for
a love token for Miss Callender. 'Treat her as you would if she were
Mrs. Van Horne's daughter,' I said, 'and she will be content.' 'I don't
want to seem mean,' she replied, 'and I didn't think so pious a girl
would carry her head so high. Now, Mrs. Hilbrough, do you think a
Christian girl like Miss Callender ought to be so proud?' 'Would you
like to take money for a friendly service?' I asked. 'Oh, no! But then
I--you see, my circumstances are different; however, I will do just what
you say.' I warned her when she left that the present must not be too
costly, and that Hilda ought to take it in person. She was still a
little puzzled. 'I didn't suppose people in their circumstances would
feel that way,' she said in a half-subdued voice, 'but I'll do just as
you say, Mrs. Hilbrough.'"
This action of Phillida's was a solace to Millard's pride. But one grain
of sugar will not perceptibly sweeten the bitterness of a decoction of
gentian, and this overflow into uptown circles of Phillida's reputation
as a faith-doctor made the matter extremely humiliating.
When Mrs. Hilbrough had finished her recital Millard sat a minute
absorbed in thought. It occurred to him that if he had not spoken so
impetuously to Phillida and then left her so abruptly he might have had
this story in her own version, and thus have spared himself the
imprudence and indecorum of discussing Phillida with Mrs. Hilbrough. But
he could not refrain from making the request he had had in mind when he
came, and which alone could explain and justify to Mrs. Hilbrough his
confidence.
"I came here to-day on an impulse," he said. "Knowing your friendliness
for Phillida, and counting on your kindness, I thought perhaps you might
bring your influence to bear--to--to--what shall I say?--to modify
Phillida's zeal and render her a little less sure of her vocation to
pursue a course that must make her talked about in a way that is certain
to vulgarize her name."
Mrs. Hilbrough shook her head. She was flattered by Millard's
confidence, but she saw the difficulty of the task he had set for her.
"Count on me for anything I can do, but that is something that I suppose
no one can accomplish. What Phillida thinks right she will do if she
were to be thrown to the wild beasts for it."
"Yes, yes; that is her great superiority," he added, with mingled
admiration and despondency.
"You, who have more influence than any one else," said Mrs. Hilbrough,
"have talked with her. I suppose her mother has said what could be said,
and Agatha must have been a perfect thorn in the flesh to her since the
matter became known at home."
"Yes," said Millard, ruefully; "she must have suffered a great deal,
poor child!"
"I don't suppose Mrs. Gouverneur let her off cheaply," continued Mrs.
Hilbrough. "She must have made Phillida feel that she was overthrowing
the statues of her great-grandfathers, and she no doubt urged the
unhappiness she would cause you."
Millard saw at this moment the origin of Phillida's sensitiveness in
talking with him.
"I don't care for myself, but I wish to heaven that I could shelter her
a little from the ridicule she will suffer." He was leaning forward with
his hand on his knee and his eyes cast down.
Mrs. Hilbrough felt herself moved at sight of so much feeling in one not
wont to show his emotions to others.
"I will see if anything can be done, Mr. Millard; but I am afraid not.
I'll ask Phillida here to lunch some day this week."
The winter sunshine had all gone, the lights in the streets were winning
on the fast-fading twilight, and Mrs. Hilbrough's reception-room was
growing dusk when Millard slowly, as one whose purposes are benumbed,
rose to leave. Once in the street, he walked first toward one avenue and
then toward the other. He thought to go to his apartment, but he shrank
from loneliness; he would go to dinner at a neighboring restaurant; then
he turned toward his club; and then he formed the bold resolution to
make himself welcome, as he had before, at Mrs. Callender's
Sunday-evening tea-table. But reflecting on the unlucky outcome of his
interview with Phillida, he gave this up, and after some further
irresolution dined at a table by himself in the club. He had small
appetite for food, for human fellowship he had none at all, and he soon
sought solitude in his apartment.