"Somebody making herb tea and stealing my business?" said William King,
in his kindly voice; he had called to see old Hannah, who had been laid
up for a day or two, and he stopped at the kitchen door to look in.
Henry Roberts, coming from the sitting-room to join him, asked his
question, too:
"What is this smell of herbs, Philippa? Are you making a drink for
Hannah?" "Oh no, father," Philly said, briefly, her face very pink.
William King sniffed and laughed. "Ah, I see you don't give away your
secrets to a rival," he said; and added, pleasantly, "but don't give
your tea to Hannah without telling me what it is."
Miss Philippa said, dutifully, "Oh no, sir." But she did not tell him
what the "tea" was, and certainly she offered none of it to old Hannah.
All that day there was a shy joyousness about her, with sudden soft
blushes, and once or twice a little half-frightened laugh; there was a
puzzled look, too, in her face, as if she was not quite sure just what
she was going to do, or rather, how she was going to do it. And, of
course, that was the difficulty. How could she "add the philter to the
drink of one who loved her not"?
Yet it came about simply enough. John Fenn had lately felt it borne in
upon him that it was time to make another effort to deal with Henry
Roberts; perhaps, he reasoned, to show concern about the father's soul
might touch the daughter's hardened heart. It was when he reached this
conclusion that he committed the extravagance of buying a new coat. So
it happened that that very afternoon, while the house was still pungent
with the scent of steeping herbs, he came to Henry Roberts's door, and
knocked solemnly, as befitted his errand; (but as he heard her step in
the hall he passed an anxious hand over a lapel of the new coat). Her
father, she said, was not at home; would Mr. Fenn come in and wait for
him? Mr. Fenn said he would. And as he always tried, poor boy! to be
instant in season and out of season, he took the opportunity, while he
waited for her father and she brought him a glass of wine and a piece
of cake, to reprove her again for absence from church. But she was so
meek that he found it hard to inflict those "faithful wounds" which
should prove his friendship for her soul; she sat before him on the
slippery horsehair sofa in the parlor, her hands locked tightly
together in her lap, her eyes downcast, her voice very low and
trembling. She admitted her backslidings: she acknowledged her errors;
but as for coming to church--she shook her head:
"Please, I won't come to church yet."
"You mean you will come, sometime?"
"Yes; sometime."
"Behold, NOW is the accepted time!"
"I will come... afterwards."
"After what?" he insisted.
"After--" she said, and paused. Then suddenly lifted bold, guileless
eyes: "After you stop caring for my soul."
John Fenn caught his breath. Something, he did not know what, seemed
to jar him rudely from that pure desire for her salvation; he said,
stumblingly, that he would ALWAYS care for her soul!--"for--for any
one's soul." And was she quite well? His voice broke with tenderness.
She must be careful to avoid the chill of these autumnal afternoons;
"you are pale," he said, passionately--"don't--oh, don't be so pale!"
It occurred to him that if she waited for him "not to care" for her
salvation, she might die in her sins; die before coming to the gate of
heaven, which he was so anxious to open to her!
Philippa did not see his agitation; she was not looking at him. She
only said, softly, "Perhaps you will stay to tea?"
He answered quickly that he would be pleased to do so. In the
simplicity of his saintly egotism it occurred to him that the religious
pleasure of entertaining him might be a means of grace to her. When
she left him in the dusk of the chilly room to go and see to the
supper, he fell into silent prayer for the soul that did not desire his
care.
Henry Roberts, summoned by his daughter to entertain the guest until
supper was ready, found him sitting in the darkness of the parlor; the
old man was full of hospitable apologies for his Philippa's
forgetfulness; "she did not remember the lamp!" he lamented; and making
his way through the twilight of the room, he took off the prism-hung
shade of the tall astral lamp on the center-table, and fumbled for a
match to light the charred and sticky wick; there were very few
occasions in this plain household when it was worth while to light the
best lamp! This was one of them, for in those days the office
dignified the man to a degree that is hardly understood now. But Henry
Roberts's concern was not entirely a matter of social propriety; it was
a desire to propitiate this young man who was living in certain errors
of belief, so that he would be in a friendly attitude of mind and open
to the arguments which were always burning on the lips of Edward
Irving's follower. He did not mean to begin them until they were at
supper; so he and John Fenn sat in silence waiting Philippa's summons
to the dining-room. Neither of them had any small talk; Mr. Roberts
was making sure that he could trust his memory to repeat those wailing
cadences of the Voice, and John Fenn, still shaken by something he
could not understand that had been hidden in what he understood too
well--a sinner's indifference to grace--was trying to get back to his
serene, impersonal arrogance.
As for Philippa, she was frightened at her temerity in having invited
the minister to a Hannahless supper; her flutter of questions as to
"what" and "how" brought the old woman from her bed, in spite of the
girl's half-hearted protests that she "mustn't think of getting up!
Just tell me what to do," she implored, "I can manage. We are going to
have--TEA!"
"We always have tea," Hannah said, sourly; yet she was not really sour,
for, like William King and Dr. Lavendar, Hannah had discerned
possibilities in the Rev. John Fenn's pastoral visits. "Get your
Sunday-go-to-meeting dress on," she commanded, hunching a shawl over a
rheumatic shoulder and motioning the girl out of the kitchen.
Philippa, remorseful and breathless, ran quickly up to her room to put
on her best frock, smooth her shining hair down in two loops over her
ears, and pin her one adornment, a flat gold brooch, on the bosom of
her dress. She lifted her candle and looked at herself in the black
depths of the little swinging glass on her high bureau, and her face
fell into sudden wistful lines. "Oh, I do not look wicked," she
thought, despairingly.
John Fenn, glancing at her across the supper-table, had some such
thought himself; how strange that one who was so perverted in belief
should not betray perversion in her countenance. "On the contrary, her
face is pleasing," he said, simply. He feared, noticing the brooch,
that she was vain, as well as indifferent to her privileges; he
wondered if she had observed his new coat.
Philippa's vanity did not, at any rate, give her much courage; she
scarcely spoke, except to ask him whether he took cream and sugar in
his tea. When she handed his cup to him, she said, very low, "Will you
taste it, and see if it is right?"
He was so conscious of the tremor of her voice and hand that he made
haste to reassure her, sipping his tea with much politeness of manner;
as he did so, she said, suddenly, and with compelling loudness, "Is
it--agreeable?"
John Fenn, startled, looked at her over the rim of his cup. "Very;
very indeed," he said, quickly. But he instantly drank some water. "It
is, perhaps, a little strong," he said, blinking. Then, having
qualified his politeness for conscience' sake, he drank all the bitter
tea for human kindness' sake--for evidently Miss Philippa had taken
pains to give him what he might like. After that she did not speak,
but her face grew very rosy while she sat in silence listening to her
father and their guest. Henry Roberts forgot to eat, in the passion of
his theological arguments, but as supper proceeded he found his
antagonist less alert than usual; the minister defended his own
doctrines instead of attacking those of his host; he even admitted, a
little listlessly, that if the Power fell upon him, if he himself spoke
in a strange tongue, then perhaps he would believe--"that is, if I
could be sure I was not out of my mind at the time," he qualified,
dully. Philippa took no part in the discussion; it would not have been
thought becoming in her to do so; but indeed, she hardly heard what the
two men were saying. She helped old Hannah carry away the dishes, and
then sat down by the table and drew the lamp near her so that she could
sew; she sat there smiling a little, dimpling even, and looking down at
her seam; she did not notice that John Fenn was being worsted, or that
once he failed altogether to reply, and sat in unprotesting silence
under Henry Roberts's rapt remembrances. A curious blackness had
settled under his eyes, and twice he passed his hand across his lips.
"They are numb," he said, in surprised apology to his host. A moment
later he shivered violently, beads of sweat burst out on his forehead,
and the color swept from his face. He started up, staring wildly about
him; he tried to speak, but his words stumbled into incoherent
babbling. It was all so sudden, his rising, then falling back into his
chair, then slipping sidewise and crumpling up upon the floor, all the
while stammering unmeaning words--that Henry Roberts sat looking at him
in dumb amazement. It was Philippa who cried out and ran forward to
help him, then stopped midway, her hands clutched together at her
throat, her eyes dilating with a horror that seemed to paralyze her so
that she was unable to move to his assistance. The shocked silence of
the moment was broken by Fenn's voice, trailing on and on, in totally
unintelligible words.
Henry Roberts, staring open-mouthed, suddenly spoke: "The VOICE!" he
said. But Philippa, as though she were breaking some invisible bond
that held her, groaning even with the effort of it, said, in a whisper:
"No. Not that. He is dying. Don't you see? That's what it is. He is
dying."
Her father, shocked from his ecstasy, ran to John Fenn's side, trying
to lift him and calling upon him to say what was the matter.
"He is going to die," said Philippa, monotonously.
Henry Roberts, aghast, calling loudly to old Hannah, ran to the kitchen
and brought back a great bowl of hot water. "Drink it!" he said. "Drink
it, I tell ye! I believe you're poisoned!"
And while he and Hannah bent over the unconscious young man, Philippa
seemed to come out of her trance; slowly, with upraised hands, and head
bent upon her breast, she stepped backward, backward, out of the room,
out of the house. On the doorstep, in the darkness, she paused and
listened for several minutes to certain dreadful sounds in the house.
Then, suddenly, a passion of purpose swept the daze of horror away.
"HE SHALL NOT DIE," she said.
She flung her skirt across her arm that her feet might not be hampered,
and fled down the road toward Old Chester. It was very dark. At first
her eyes, still blurred with the lamplight, could not distinguish the
footpath, and she stumbled over the grassy border into the wheel-ruts;
then, feeling the loose dust under her feet, she ran and ran and ran.
The blood began to sing in her ears; once her throat seemed to close so
that she could not breathe, and for a moment she had to walk,--but her
hands, holding up her skirts, trembled with terror at the delay. The
road was very dark under the sycamore-trees; twice she tripped and fell
into the brambles at one side or against a gravelly bank on the other.
But stumbling somehow to her feet, again she ran and ran and ran. The
night was very still; she could hear her breath tearing her throat;
once she felt something hot and salty in her mouth; it was then she had
to stop and walk for a little space--she must walk or fall down! And
she could not fall down, no! no! no! he would die if she fell down!
Once a figure loomed up in the haze, and she caught the glimmer of an
inquisitive eye. "Say," a man's voice said, "where are you bound for?"
There was something in the tone that gave her a stab of fright; for a
minute or two her feet seemed to fly, and she heard a laugh behind her
in the darkness: "What's your hurry?" the voice called after her. And
still she ran. But she was saying to herself that she must STOP; she
must stand still just for a moment. "Oh, just for a minute?" her body
whimperingly entreated; she would not listen to it! She must not
listen, even though her heart burst with the strain. But her body had
its way, and she fell into a walk, although she was not aware of it.
In a gasping whisper she was saying, over and over: "Doctor, hurry;
he'll die; hurry; I killed him." She tried to be silent, but her lips
moved mechanically. "Doctor, hurry; he'll--Oh, I MUSTN'T talk!" she
told herself, "it takes my breath"--but still her lips moved. She began
to run, heavily. "I can't talk--if--I--run--" It was then that she
saw a glimmer of light and knew that she was almost in Old Chester.
Very likely she would have fallen if she had not seen that far-off
window just when she did.
At William King's house she dropped against the door, her fingers still
clinging to the bell. She was past speaking when the doctor lifted her
and carried her into the office. "No; don't try to tell me what it
is," he said; "I'll put Jinny into the buggy, and we'll get back in a
jiffy. I understand; Hannah is worse."
"Not... Hannah--"
"Your father?" he said, picking up his medicine-case.
"Not father; Mr.--Fenn--"
As the doctor hurried out to the stable to hitch up he bade his wife
put certain remedies into his bag,--"and look after that child," he
called over his shoulder to his efficient Martha. She was so efficient
that when he had brought Jinny and the buggy to the door, Philly was
able to gasp out that Mr. Fenn was sick. "Dying."
"Don't try to talk," he said again, as he helped her into the buggy.
But after a while she was able to tell him, hoarsely:
"I wanted him to love me." William King was silent. "I used a charm.
It was wicked."
"Come, come; not wicked," said the doctor; "a little foolish, perhaps.
A new frock, and a rose in your hair, and a smile at another man, would
be enough of a charm, my dear."
Philippa shook her head. "It was not enough. I wore my best frock, and
I went to Dr. Lavendar's church--"
"Good gracious!" said William King.
"They were not enough. So I used a charm. I made a drink--"
"Ah!" said the doctor, frowning. "What was in the drink, Miss Philly?"
"Perhaps it was not the right herb," she said; "it may have been
'mother-wort'; but the book said 'monk's-hood,' and I--"
William King reached for his whip and cut Jinny across the flanks.
"ACONITE!" he said under his breath, while Jinny leaped forward in
shocked astonishment.
"Will he live?" said Philippa. Dr. King, flecking Jinny again, and
letting his reins hang over the dashboard, could not help putting a
comforting arm around her. "I hope so," he said; "I hope so!" After
all, there was no use telling the child that probably by this time her
lover was either dead or getting better. "It's his own fault," William
King thought, angrily. "Why in thunder didn't he fall in love like a
man, instead of making the child resort to--G'on, Jinny! G'on!" He
still had the whip in his hand when they drew up at the gate.