Mrs. Beswick, at the cost of a little persistence and a good many
caresses, succeeded in getting the doctor to consent that she should go
to the Callenders'. The risk of contagion she pooh-poohed. She called at
Mrs. Callender's, and, again by a little persistence, succeeded in
laying off her hat and sack and ensconcing herself as a volunteer nurse
to Phillida. It seemed a case of remarkable disinterestedness to the
Callender family, and a case of unparalleled hypocrisy to Mrs. Beswick,
but she could not be dissuaded from staying from the early morning to
bedtime, assuring Mrs. Callender that she would rather care for her
daughter than for any one else. "Except the doctor, of course," she
added. She was always pleased when she could contrive to mention the
doctor; no topic of conversation brought her so many pleasurable
emotions. Phillida became fond of her and whenever she went away longed
for her return.
Robert brought flowers every day in Mrs. Hilbrough's name, and Millard
called to inquire as often as he thought proper. The tidings secured on
the third and fourth days indicated that the attack would prove a
lighter one than that which had almost cost the life of Tommy. On the
fifth day it was reported that Phillida was convalescent. Dr. Gunstone
had announced that he would come no more unless there should appear
symptoms of temporary paralysis, such as sometimes follow this disease,
or unless other complications should arise. Millard thought it would be
more prudent and, so to speak, realistic, to make Mrs. Hilbrough's
inquiries and his own less frequent after this. He and Robert,
therefore, called on alternate days. On Monday it was Mr. Millard who
called, on Tuesday it was a bunch of flowers and inquiries in Mrs.
Hilbrough's name. But Phillida's progress was so slow that it seemed
doubtful after some days whether she made any advancement at all. The
disease had quite disappeared, but strength did not return. At the end
of a week from Dr. Gunstone's leave-taking, the family were in great
anxiety lest there might be some obscure malady preying on her strength,
and there was talk of taking her to some southern place to meet half-way
the oncoming spring. But this would have drawn heavily on the family
savings, which were likely to dwindle fast enough; the appearance of
diphtheria having vacated all the rooms in the house at a time when
there was small hope of letting them again before the autumn.
Milder measures than a trip were tried first. The arm-chair in which she
sat was removed into the front parlor in hope that a slight change of
scene might be an improvement; the cheerful sight of milk-wagons and
butcher-carts, the melodious cries of old clothes buyers and sellers of
"ba-nan-i-yoes" and the piping treble of girl-peddlers of
horse-red-deesh were somehow to have a tonic effect upon her. But the
spectacle of the rarely swept paving-stones of a side-street in the last
days of March was not inspiriting. Phillida had the additional
discomfort of involuntarily catching glimpses of her own pallid and
despondent face in the pier-glass between the windows.
As for the life of the street, it seemed to her to belong to a world in
which she no longer had any stake. The shock of disillusion regarding
faith-healing had destroyed for the time a good deal besides. If
mistaken in one thing she might be in many. However wholesome and
serviceable a critical skepticism may prove to an enthusiast in the full
tide of health and activity, to Phillida broken in heart and hope it was
but another weight to sink her to the bottom. For now there was no
longer love to look forward to, nor was she even able to interest
herself again in the work that had mainly occupied her life, but which
also she had marred by her errors. Turn either way she felt that she had
spoiled her life.
Looking out of the window listlessly, late one afternoon, her attention
was awakened by a man approaching with some cut flowers in his hand. She
noticed with a curious interest that he wore a cap like the one she had
remarked in the hands of Millard's valet. As he passed beneath the
window, she distinctly recognized Robert as the man Millard had sent to
hasten the coming of the coupe, and when he mounted the steps she felt
her pulses beat more quickly.
Her mother entered presently with the flowers.
"From Mrs. Hilbrough with inquiries," Mrs. Callender read from the card
as she arranged the flowers in a vase on the low marble table under the
pier-glass.
"Mrs. Hilbrough?" said Phillida with a feeling of disappointment. "But
that was Charley Millard's man."
"No, that is the man Mrs. Hilbrough has sent ever since you were taken
ill," said the mother. "He speaks in a peculiar English way; did you
hear him? You've got a better color this evening, I declare."
"Mama, that is Charley's man," persisted Phillida. "I saw him at the
Graydon. And the flowers he has brought all along are in Charley's
taste--just what he used to send me, and not anything out of Mrs.
Hilbrough's conservatory. Give me a sip of water, please." Phillida's
color had all departed now.
Having drunk the water she leaned against her chair-back and closed her
eyes. Continuous and assiduous attention from Mrs. Hilbrough was more
than she had expected; and now that the messenger was proven to be
Millard's own man, she doubted whether there were not some mystery about
the matter, the more that the flowers sent were precisely Millard's
favorites.
The next day Phillida sat alone looking into the street, as the twilight
of a cloudy evening was falling earlier than usual, when Agatha came
into the room to light two burners, with a notion that darkness might
prove depressing to her sister. Phillida turned to watch the process of
touching a match to the gas, as an invalid is prone to seek a languid
diversion in the least things. When the gas was lighted she looked out
of the window again, and at the same moment the door-bell sounded. To
save Sarah's deserting the dinner on the range, Agatha answered it.
Phillida, with a notion that she might have a chance to verify her
recognition of Millard's valet, kept her eyes upon the portion of the
front steps that was visible where she sat. She saw Millard himself
descend the steps and pass in front of her window. He chanced to look
up, and his agitation was visible even from where she sat as he suddenly
lifted his hat and bowed, and then hurried away.
The night that followed was a restless one, and it was evident in the
morning that Dr. Gunstone must be called again. Mrs. Callender found
Phillida so weak that she hesitated to speak to her of a note she had
received in the morning mail. It might do good; it might do harm to let
her know its contents. Agatha was consulted and she turned the scale of
Mrs. Callender's decision.
"Phillida, dear," said the mother, "I don't know whether I ought to
mention it to you or not. You are very weak this morning. But Charley
Millard has asked for permission to make a brief call. Could you bear to
see him?"
Phillida's face showed her deeply moved. After a pause and a struggle
she said: "Charley is sorry for me, that is all. He thinks I may die,
and he feels grateful for my attention to his aunt. But if he had to
begin over again he would never fall in love with me."
"You don't know that, Phillida. You are depressed; you underestimate
yourself."
"With his advantages he could take his choice almost," said Phillida.
"It's very manly of him to be so constant to an unfortunate and
broken-hearted person like me. But I will not have him marry me out of
pity."
"I'm afraid you are depressed by your weakness. I don't think you ought
to refuse to see him if you feel able," said the mother.
"I am not able to see him. It is easier to refuse in this way than after
I have been made ill by too much feeling. I am not going to subject
Charley to the mortification of taking into his circle a wife that will
be always remembered as--as a sort of quack-doctor."
Saying this Phillida broke down and wept.
When Agatha heard of her decision she came in and scolded her sister
roundly for a goose. This made Phillida weep again, but there was a
firmness of will at the base of her character that held her
determination unchanged. About an hour later she begged her mother to
write the answer at her dictation. It read:
"Miss Callender wishes me to say that she is not able to bear an
interview. With the utmost respect for Mr. Millard and with a grateful
appreciation of his kind attention during her illness, she feels sure
that it is better not to renew their acquaintance."
After this letter was sent off Phillida's strength began to fail, and
the mother and sister were thrown into consternation. In the afternoon
Dr. Gunstone came again. He listened to the heart, he examined the
lungs, he made inquisition for symptoms and paused baffled. The old
doctor understood the mind-cure perfectly; balked in his search for
physical causes he said to Mrs. Callender:
"Perhaps if I could speak with Miss Callender alone a few moments it
might be better."
"I have no secrets from mama," protested Phillida.
"That's right, my child," said Dr. Gunstone gravely, "but you can talk
with more freedom to one person than to two. I want to see your mother
alone, also, when I have talked with you."
Mrs. Callender retired and the doctor for a minute kept up a simulation
of physical examination in order to wear away the restraint which
Phillida might feel at being abruptly left for a confidential
conversation with her physician.
"I'm afraid you don't try to get well, Miss Callender," he said.
"Does trying make any difference?" demanded Phillida.
"Yes, to be sure; that's the way that the mesmerists and magnetizers,
and the new faith-cure people work their cures largely. They enlist the
will, and they do some good. They often help chronic invalids whom the
doctors have failed to benefit."
Dr. Gunstone had his hand on Phillida's wrist, and he could not
conjecture why her pulse increased rapidly at this point in the
conversation. But he went on:
"Have you really tried to get well? Have you wanted to get well as soon
as possible?"
"On mama's account I ought to wish to get well," she said.
"But you are young and you have much happiness before you. Don't you
wish to get well on your own account?"
Phillida shook her head despondently.
"Now, my child, I am an old man and your doctor. May I ask whether you
are engaged to be married?"
"No, doctor, I am not," said Phillida, trying to conjecture why he asked
this question.
"Have you been engaged?"
"Yes," said Phillida.
"And the engagement was broken off?"
"Yes."
"Recently?"
"Yes, rather recently. This last winter."
"Now, tell me as your doctor, whether or not the circumstances connected
with that interruption of your love-affair have depressed you--have made
you not care much about living?"
Phillida's "I suppose they have" was almost inaudible.
"Now, my child, you must not let these things weigh upon you. The world
will not always look dark. Try to see it more lightly. I think you must
go away. You must have a change of scene and you must see people. I will
find your mother. Good-morning, Miss Callender."
And with that the doctor shook hands in his half-sympathetic,
half-reserved manner, and went out into the hall.
Mrs. Callender, who was waiting at the top of the stairs, came down and
encountered him.
"May I see you alone a moment?" said the doctor, looking at his watch,
which always seemed to go too fast to please him.
Mrs. Callender led the way to the basement dining-room, below, beckoning
Agatha, who sat there, to go up to her sister.
"Mrs. Callender, there is in your daughter's case an interrupted love
affair which is depressing her health, and which may cut short her life.
Do you think that the engagement is broken off for all time, or is it
but a tiff?"
"I hardly know, doctor. My daughter is a peculiar person; she is very
good, but with ideas of her own. We hardly understand the cause of the
disagreement--or why she still refuses to see the young man."
"Has the young man shown any interest in Miss Callender since the
engagement ceased?"
"He has called here several times during her sickness to inquire, and he
sent a note this morning asking to see her. She has declined to see him,
while expressing a great esteem for him."
"That's bad. You do not regard him as an objectionable person?"
"Oh, no; quite the contrary."
"It is my opinion that Miss Callender's recovery may depend on the
renewal of that engagement. If that is out of the question--and it is a
delicate matter to deal with--especially as the obstacle is in her own
feelings, she must have travel. She ought to have change of scene, and
she ought to meet people. Take her South, or North, or East, or West--to
Europe or anywhere else, so as to be rid of local associations, and to
see as many new things and people as possible. Good-morning, Mrs.
Callender."
Having said this the old doctor mounted the basement stairs too nimbly
for Mrs. Callender to keep up with him. When she reached the top he had
already closed the front door and a moment later the wheels of his
barouche were rattling violently over the irregular pavement that lay
between the Callender house and Third Avenue.
To take Phillida away--that was the hard problem the doctor had given to
Mrs. Callender. For with the love affair the mother might not meddle
with any prospect of success. But the formidable barrier to a journey
was the expense.
"Where would you like to go, Phillida?" said her mother.
"To Siam. I'd like to see the things and the people I saw when I was a
child, when papa was with us and when it was easy to believe that
everything that happened was for the best. It would be about as easy for
us to go to Siam as anywhere else, for we haven't the money to spare to
go anywhere. I sit and dream of the old house, and the yellow people,
and the pleasure of being a child, and the comfort of believing. I am
tired to death of this great, thinking, pushing, western world, with its
restlessness and its unbelief. If I were in the East I could believe and
hope, and not worry about what Philip calls 'the immensities.'"