For some time after Phillida had left Mrs. Frankland resting on the
lounge that lady had felt an additional exaltation in contemplating this
new and admirable instance of faith and devotion--an instance that
seemed to owe much to the influence of her own teachings. Her mind had
toyed with it as a brilliant having many facets. She had unconsciously
reduced it to words; she could only get the virtue out of anything when
she had phrased it. Phillida she had abstracted into a "young woman of a
distinguished family," "beautiful as the day," "who had all the
advantages of high associations," and "who might have filled to the brim
the cup of social enjoyment." The lover, whose name and circumstances
she did not know, she yet set up in her mind as "an accomplished young
man of splendid gifts and large worldly expectations." It would have
been a serious delinquency in him had he failed to answer to this
personal description, for how else could this glorious instance be
rounded into completeness? Incapable of intentional misrepresentation,
Mrs. Frankland could never help believing that the undisclosed portion
of any narrative conformed to the exigencies of artistic symmetry and
picturesque effect. She set the story of Phillida's sacrifice before her
now in one and now in another light, and found in contemplating it much
exhilaration--spiritual joy and gratitude in her phraseology. How
charmingly it would fit into an address!
But as the hours wore on the excitement of her oratorical effort
subsided and a natural physical reaction began. Her pulses, which had
been beating so strenuously as to keep her brain in a state of
combustion, were now correspondingly below their normal fullness and
rapidity, and the exhausted nerves demanded repose. It was at such times
as these that Mrs. Frankland's constitutional buoyancy of spirit sank
down on an ebb tide; it was at such times that her usually sunny temper
chafed under the irritations of domestic affairs. On this evening, when
the period of depression set in, Mrs. Frankland's view of Phillida's
case suffered a change. She no longer saw it through the iridescent haze
of excited fancy. She began to doubt whether it was best that Phillida
should break with her lover for the mere sake of being a shining
example. In this mood Mrs. Frankland appreciated for the first time the
fact that Phillida could hardly feel the same exultation in slaughtering
her affections and hopes that Mrs. Frankland had felt in advising such a
course of spiritual discipline. Just a little ripple of remorse flecked
the surface of her mind, but she found consolation in a purpose to make
the matter right by seeing Phillida the next day and inquiring more
fully into the matter. Her natural hopefulness came to her rescue, and
Mrs. Frankland slept without disturbance from regrets.
When she awaked in the morning it was with a dull sense that there was
something which needed to be righted. She had to rummage her memory
awhile to discover just what it was. Having placed it at length in
Phillida's affair, she suddenly reflected that perhaps Mrs. Hilbrough
could throw light on it, and she would postpone seeing Phillida until
after her drive with Mrs. Hilbrough in the afternoon. "It is better to
give counsel advisedly," was the phrase with which she ticketed this
decision and sustained it.
The day was fine, and the drive in Mrs. Hilbrough's easy-rolling open
carriage was exhilarating, and in that sort of bird-chatter about
nothing in particular in which two people enjoying motion are prone to
engage Mrs. Frankland was in danger of forgetting her purpose to inquire
about Phillida Callender, until at length, when the carriage was fairly
within the Park, Mrs. Hilbrough, whose businesslike brain never let go
its grasp on a main purpose, said:
"Mrs. Frankland, I wanted to speak to you about Miss Callender."
"The very person I wished to ask your advice about," said Mrs.
Frankland. "She called on me yesterday late in the afternoon."
"Did she?" Mrs. Hilbrough asked this with internal alarm. "Did she say
anything to you about her love affair?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Frankland; "I suppose I ought not to repeat what she
said, but you are her friend and you will be able to advise me in the
matter. I'm afraid I didn't say just the right thing--I mean that I
didn't advise her as fully as I should have done. It's hard to know what
to say about other people's affairs. I felt worried about her, and I
came near going to see her this morning. But I remembered that you were
her friend, and I thought it best to see what you would say. It's always
best to give counsel advisedly, I think."
"May I ask what you said to her?" said Mrs. Hilbrough,
characteristically refusing to be shunted from the main line of her
purpose.
Mrs. Frankland winced at the question, and especially at the
straightforward thrust with which it was asked. But she said: "I only
advised her in a very general way. It was just after I had finished
speaking, and I wasn't able to take up the matter as carefully as I
should have liked to do, you know, until after I had rested."
"Did you advise her to break her engagement?" The steadiness with which
Mrs. Hilbrough pushed her inquiry was disagreeable to her companion, who
liked to find refuge from an unpleasant subject in vagueness of
statement. But at least she was not driven to bay yet; she had not
definitely advised Phillida to break with her lover.
"No; not that. I only gave her general advice to be faithful to her
convictions."
Mrs. Frankland's avoidance of the explicit confirmed Mrs. Hilbrough's
suspicion as to the tenor of the advice given. The latter blamed herself
for having moved too slowly, and she was impatient, moreover, with Mrs.
Frankland; for one is apt to be vexed when a person very clever in one
way is conspicuously stupid in other regards. When Mrs. Hilbrough spoke
again a trace of irritation showed itself.
"Phillida is the only person I know to whom I think your Bible readings
may do harm."
"My Bible readings?" queried Mrs. Frankland. She had been used so long
to hear her readings spoken of in terms not of praise but rather of
rapture, as though they were the result of a demi-divine inspiration,
that this implied censure or qualification of the universality of their
virtue and application came to her, not exactly as a personal offense,
but with the shock of something like profanation; and she reddened with
suppressed annoyance.
"I don't mean that it is your fault," said Mrs. Hilbrough, seeking to
get on a more diplomatic footing with her companion. "Phillida is very
peculiar and enthusiastic in her nature, and she knows nothing of the
world. She is prone to take all exhortations rather too literally."
"But my words have often encouraged Phillida," said Mrs. Frankland, who
had been touched to the quick. "You would rob me of one of the solid
comforts of my life if you took from me the belief that I have been able
to strengthen her for her great work."
"I am sure you have encouraged her to go on," said Mrs. Hilbrough,
desirous not to antagonize Mrs. Frankland. "But she also needs
moderating. She is engaged to an admirable man, a man getting to be very
well off, and who will be made cashier of our bank very soon. He is
kind-hearted, liberal with his money, and universally beloved and
admired in society."
Mrs. Frankland was not the person to undervalue such a catalogue of
qualities when presented to her in the concrete. True, on her theory, a
Christian young woman ought to be ready in certain circumstances to
throw such a lover over the gunwale as ruthlessly as the sailors pitched
Jonah headlong. That is to say, a Christian young woman in the abstract
ought to be abstractly willing to discard a rich lover in the abstract.
But presented in this concrete and individual way the case was
different. She was a little dazzled at the brightness of Phillida's
worldly prospects, now that they were no longer merely rhetorical, but
real, tangible, and, in commercial phrase, convertible.
"True, true," she answered reflectively. "She would be so eminently
useful if she had money." This was the way Mrs. Frankland phrased her
sense of the attractiveness of such a man. "She might exert an excellent
influence in society. We do need more such people as the leaven of the
kingdom of heaven in wealthy circles."
"Indeed we do," said Mrs. Hilbrough, "and for Phillida to throw away
such prospects, and such opportunities for usefulness"--she added this
last as an afterthought, taking her cue from Mrs. Frankland--"seems to
me positively wrong."
"It would certainly be a mistake," said Mrs. Frankland. Mrs. Hilbrough
thought she detected just a quiver of regret in her companion's voice.
"Does he object strongly to her mission work?"
"No; he doesn't object to her work, I am sure, for she was already
absorbed in it when he first met her at my house, and if he had objected
there would have been no beginning of their attachment. But he is
greatly annoyed that she should be talked about and ridiculed as a
faith-doctor. He is a man of society, and he feels such things. Now,
considering how much danger of mistake and of enthusiasm there is in
such matters, Phillida might yield a little to so good a man."
"Perhaps I had better see her, Mrs. Hilbrough," was Mrs. Frankland's
non-committal reply.
"It would be necessary to see her at once, I fear. She is very resolute,
and he is greatly distressed by what people are saying about her, and a
little provoked, no doubt, at what he thinks her obstinacy."
"Perhaps I had better see her this evening," said Mrs. Frankland, with a
twinge of regret that she had not spoken with more caution the day
before.
"I do wish you would," said Mrs. Hilbrough. Just then the driver sent
the horses into a swift trot on a down grade, and the conversation was
broken off. When talk began again it was on commonplace themes, and
therefore less strenuous. Mrs. Frankland was glad to get away from an
affair that put her into an attitude of apology.
Phillida had passed the day miserably. She had tried to bolster herself
with the consciousness of having acted from the sincerest motives, and
from having done only what was right. But consciousness of rectitude,
whatever the moralists may say, is an inadequate balm for a heart that
is breaking. Phillida had not dared to enter the parlor to gather up
the little presents that Millard had given her and dispatch them to him
until after supper, when she made them all into a bundle and sent them
away. The messenger boy had hardly left the door when Mrs. Frankland
rang. Her husband had accompanied her, and she dismissed him at the
steps with instructions to call for her in about an hour.
Phillida was glad to see Mrs. Frankland. A cruel doubt had been knocking
at her door the livelong day. It had demanded over and over whether her
tremendous sacrifice was necessary after all. She had succeeded
indifferently well in barring out this painful skepticism by two
considerations. The one was, that Millard, who had almost asked to be
released, would hereafter be saved from mortification on her account.
The other was, that Mrs. Frankland's authority was all on the side of
the surrender she had made. And now here was Mrs. Frankland, sent like a
messenger to confirm her faith and to console her in her sorrow.
"You are looking troubled," said Mrs. Frankland, kissing her now on this
cheek and now on the other. "Dear child, if I could only bring you some
comfort!"
"Thank you, Mrs. Frankland," said Phillida; "I am so glad that you have
come. I have wished for you all day."
"Maybe I am sent to console you. Who knows? Perhaps, after all, things
may turn out better than you think." This was said in a full round voice
and an under manifestation of buoyant hopefulness and self-reliance
characteristic of Mrs. Frankland; but Phillida shook her head
despondently.
"Since I saw you I have heard a good deal about your Mr. Millard; I get
the most favorable accounts of him; they say he is good, and every way a
worthy, liberal, and charming man."
Phillida sat up straight in her chair with eyes averted, and made no
reply.
"I have been thinking that, after all, perhaps you ought to make some
concessions to such a man."
Phillida trembled visibly. This was not what she had expected.
"You wouldn't wish me to be unfaithful to my duty, would you?" she asked
in a low voice.
"No, dear; I don't say you ought to sacrifice anything that is _clearly_
your duty. Some duties are so clear that they shine like the pole-star
which guides the mariner. But there are many duties that are not quite
clear. We should be careful not to insist too strongly on things in
which we may be mistaken. There would be no such thing as marriage if
there was not some yielding on both sides; I mean in matters not
certainly essential to a Christian life."
Phillida was now looking directly at her visitor with a fixed and
hopeless melancholy which puzzled Mrs. Frankland, who had expected that
she would seize gratefully upon any advice tending to relax the rigor of
her self-sacrifice. Phillida's attitude was incomprehensible to her
visitor. Could it be that she had resolved to break with her lover at
all hazards?
"You know, dear," said Mrs. Frankland, sailing on a new tack now, as was
her wont when her audience proved unresponsive, "I think, that as the
wife of a man with increasing wealth and of excellent social position,
like Mr. Millard, you would be very useful. We need such devoted and
faithful people as you are in society. And, after all, your gift of
healing might be exercised without publicity--you might, I think, defer
a good deal to one whom you have promised to love. Love is also a gift
of God and a divine ordinance. In fact, considering how ample your
opportunities would be as the wife of a man of wealth and position, such
as Mr. Millard, it seems to be your duty to examine carefully and
prayerfully whether there is not some reasonable ground on which you can
meet him. At least, my dear, do not act too hastily in a matter of so
much moment."
Advice pitched in this key did not weigh much at any time with Phillida.
A thin veil of religious sentiment served a purpose of self-deception
with Mrs. Frankland, but such disguises could not conceal from
Phillida's utterly sincere spirit the thoroughly worldly standpoint of
Mrs. Frankland's suggestions. The effect of this line of talk upon her
mind was very marked, nevertheless. It produced a disenchantment, rapid,
sudden, abrupt, terrible. Mrs. Frankland, the oracle upon whose
trustworthiness she had ventured her all, had proven herself one of the
most fallible of guides. The advice given yesterday with an assurance
that only a settled and undoubting conviction could possibly excuse, was
to-day pettifogged away mainly on the ground of Charley's worldly
prosperity. Phillida had revered the woman before her as a sort of
divine messenger, had defended her against Millard's aspersions, had
followed her counsel at the most critical moment of her life in
opposition to the judgment of her family and of the man she loved. And
now, too late, the strenuous exhortation was retracted, not so much in
the interest of a breaking heart as in that of a good settlement.
When, after a pause, Phillida spoke, the abrupt and profound change in
the relations of the two became manifest. Her voice was broken and
reproachful as she said, "You come this evening to take back what you
said yesterday."
"I spoke without time to think yesterday," said Mrs. Frankland, making a
movement of uneasiness. One accustomed to adulation does not receive
reproach gracefully.
"You spoke very strongly," said Phillida. "I thought you must feel very
sure that you were right, for you knew how critical my position was."
The words were uttered slowly and by starts. Mrs. Frankland did not
reply. Phillida presently went on: "I don't care anything about the
worldly prospects you think so much of to-day. But God knows what an
awful sacrifice I have made. In following your advice, which was very
solemnly given, I have thrown away the love and devotion of one of the
best men in the world." She lifted her hands from her lap as she spoke
and let them fall when she had finished.
"Have you broken your engagement already?" said Mrs. Frankland, with a
start.
"What else could I do? You told me to stand by my work of healing. I
hope you were right, for it has cost me everything--everything. I
thought you had come to comfort me to-night and to strengthen my faith.
Instead of that you have taken back all that you said before."
"I only spoke generally before. I didn't know the circumstances. I did
not know anything about Mr. Millard, or--" Here she paused.
"You didn't know about Mr. Millard's property or social position, I
suppose. These are what you have talked to me about this evening. They
are not bad things to have, perhaps, but, if they were all, I could give
them up--trample them under foot, and be glad."
"Don't be provoked with me, Phillida dear. Indeed, I hardly realized
what I said yesterday. I had just got through with speaking, I was very
much exhausted, and I did not quite understand."
"You may have been right yesterday," said Phillida; "I hope you were. If
you were wrong, it was a dreadful mistake." She made a long pause, and
then went on. "I thought the course you advised yesterday a brave course
at least. But what you have said to-day, about social position and so
on, I hate. And it makes me doubt it all."
Phillida thrust out the toe of her boot, unconsciously giving expression
to her disposition to spurn Mrs. Frankland's worldly-wise counsel.
"You're excited, my dear," said Mrs. Frankland. "Your break with Mr.
Millard may not be so irretrievable as you think it. Providence will
direct. If, on the whole, it is thought best, I have no doubt things may
be replaced on their old footing. I am sure Mrs. Hilbrough and I could
manage that. You ought not to be unreasonable."
"I sent him in agony out into the rainy night, forsaken and discarded."
Phillida could not quite suppress a little sob as she stretched her hand
a moment in the direction in which Millard had gone. "God knows I
thought I was doing right. Now because you have heard that he has money
and moves in fashionable circles you wish me to intrigue with you and
Mrs. Hilbrough to bring him back."
Phillida rose to her feet, excitement breaking through the habitual
reserve with which her emotional nature was overlaid. "I tell you, Mrs.
Frankland," she went on with a directness verging on vehemence, "that I
will have none of your interference, nor any of Mrs. Hilbrough's. What I
have done, is done, and can never be recalled."
"Indeed, Phillida, you are excited," said Mrs. Frankland. "You reject
the advice and assistance of your best friends. You have quite
misunderstood what I have said. I only wished to repair my error."
Phillida remained silent, but she resumed her seat.
"Think the matter over. Take time to make your decision. I have acted
only in your interest, and yet you blame me." Mrs. Frankland said this
with persuasive plaintiveness of tone.
But Phillida said nothing. Not seeing anything else to do, Mrs.
Frankland rose and said: "Good-by, Phillida. When you have had time to
think you will see things differently." She did not extend her hand, and
Phillida felt that her own was too chill and limp to offer. She
contrived, however, to utter a "Good-by."
When she had shut the door after Mrs. Frankland one swift thought and
bitter came into her mind. "Charley was not wholly wrong as to Mrs.
Frankland. Perhaps he was nearer right in other regards than I thought
him."
Half an hour later the door-bell rang, and Agatha answered the call.
Then she put her head into the parlor where Phillida sat, back to the
door, gazing into the street.
"I say, Philly, what do you think? Mr. Frankland came to the door just
now for his wife, and seemed quite crestfallen that she had forgotten
him, and left him to go home alone. Didn't like to be out so late
without an escort, I suppose."
It was one of a hundred devices to which Agatha had resorted during this
day to cheer her sister. But seeing that this one served its purpose no
better than the rest, Agatha went over and put her arms about her
sister's neck and kissed her.
"You dear, dear Philly! You are the best in the world," she said, and
the speech roused Phillida from her despair and brought her the balm of
tears.