"No," said Phillida; "I have no case. This is a case of diphtheria."
"Case of belief in diphtheria?" queried Miss Bowyer, and without waiting
for an invitation she calmly poured out a cup of coffee and drank it,
standing. When she had finished the coffee and was ready for business,
Phillida said:
"Miss Bowyer, let me speak with you a moment." She drew the psychopathic
healer over toward a large old-fashioned bureau that the Martins had
brought from the country and that seemed not to have room enough for its
ancient and simple dignity in its present close quarters. "Miss Bowyer,
this is diphtheria. A child in the next house died last week of the same
disease. Mrs. Martin wishes to call a doctor, a regular doctor. Don't
you think you ought to give way to her wish?"
"Not at all. The father is enlightened, and I am thankful for that. He
knows the mighty power of Christian Science, and he does not wish to
have his child treated on the mortal plane. Parents often differ this
way, and I am sometimes supported by only one of them. But I never give
way on that account. It's a great and glorious work that must be
pushed."
"But if the child should die?" urged Phillida.
"It's not half so apt to die if treated on the spiritual plane; and if
it dies we'll know that we have done all that opportunity offered. In
all such cases the true physician can only commend the patient to the
care of a loving Providence, feeling assured that disorder has its laws
and limitations and that suffering is a means of developing the inner
nature."
Having reeled this off like a phrase often spoken, Miss Bowyer walked
over to the bed where the little lad lay.
"Miss Bowyer," said Mrs. Martin, with an earnestness born of her agony,
"I don't believe in your treatment at all."
"That's not necessary," said the doctor with a jaunty firmness; "the
faith of one parent is sufficient to save the sick."
"This is my child, and I wish you to leave him alone," said Mrs. Martin.
"I am called by the child's father, Mrs. Martin, and I can not shirk my
responsibility in this case."
"Please leave my house. I don't want you here," said Mrs. Martin, with
an excitement almost hysterical. "I believe you are an impostor."
"I've often been called that," said Miss Bowyer, with a winning smile.
"Used to it. One has to bear reproach and persecution in a Christian
spirit for the sake of a good cause. You are only delaying the cure of
your child, and perhaps risking his precious life."
"Henry," said Mrs. Martin, "I want you to send this woman away and get a
doctor."
"Hannah, I'm the head of this family," said Martin, dropping his chin
and looking ludicrously impressive. But as a matter of precaution he
thought it best to leave the conflict to be fought out by Miss Bowyer.
He feared that if he stayed he might find himself deposed from the only
leadership that had ever fallen to his lot in life. So he executed a
strategic move by quitting his breakfast half-finished and hurrying away
to the shop.
Miss Bowyer was now exultingly confident that nothing short of force and
a good deal of it could dislodge a person of her psychic endurance from
the post of duty.
She began to apply her hands to Tommy's neck, but as there was external
soreness, the little lad wakened and cried for his mother and "the
teacher," as he called Phillida.
Mrs. Martin approached him and said: "Miss Bowyer, this is my child;
stand aside."
"Not at all, Mrs. Martin. You are doing your child harm, and you ought
to desist. If you continue to agitate him in this way the consequences
will be fatal."
Certainly an affray over Tommy's bed was not desirable; the more so that
no force at present available could expel the tenacious scientist.
Phillida, who somehow felt frightfully accountable for the state of
affairs, beckoned Mrs. Martin to the landing at the top of the stairs,
closing the door of the apartment behind them. But even there the hoarse
and piteous crying of Tommy rent the hearts of both of them.
"You must send for Mr. Millard," said Phillida. "He will have authority
with Mr. Martin, and he will know how to get rid of her," pointing
through the door in the direction in which they had left Miss Bowyer
bending over the patient.
"There is nobody to send," answered Mrs. Martin, in dismay.
"I will send," said Phillida. They re-entered the room, and Phillida put
on her sack in haste, seizing her hat and hurrying down the long flight
of stairs into Avenue C, where the sidewalks, steaming after the
yesterday's rain, were peopled by men on their way to work, and by women
and children seeking the grocery-stores and butcher-shops. Loiterers
were already gathering, in that slouching fashion characteristic of
people out of work, about the doors of the drinking-saloons; buildings
whose expensive up-fittings lent a touch of spurious grandeur to the
pinched and populous avenue.