CHAPTER I “Dr. Lavendar,” said WilliamKing, “some time when Goliathis doing his 2.40 on a plank road, don’t you want to pull him up at that houseon the Perryville pike where the Grays used to live, and make a call? An oldfellow called Roberts has taken it; he is a–“ “Teach your grandmother,” saidDr. Lavendar; “he is an Irvingite. He comes from Lower Ripple, down on theOhio, and he has a daughter, Philippa.” “Oh,” said Dr. King, “you know ’em,do you?” “Know them? Of course I knowthem! Do you think you are the only man who tries to enlarge his business?But I was not successful in my efforts. The old gentleman doesn’t go to anychurch; and the young lady inclines to the Perryville meeting-house–the parson there is a nice boy.” “She is an attractive young creature,” said the doctor, smiling at some pleasant memory; “the kind of girl a man wouldlike to have for a daughter. But did you ever know such an old-fashionedlittle thing!” “Well, she’s like the girls I knew when I was the age of the Perryville parson,so I suppose you’d call her old-fashioned,” Dr. Lavendar said. “Therearen’t many such girls nowadays;sweet-tempered and sensible and with some fun in ’em.” “Why don’t you say ‘good,’ too?”William King inquired. “Unnecessary,” Dr. Lavendar said,scratching Danny’s ear; “anybody who is amiable, sensible, and humorous isgood. Can’t help it.” “The father is good,” William Kingsaid, “but he is certainly not sensible. He’s an old donkey, with his TONGUESand his VOICE!” Dr. Lavendar’s face sobered. “No,”he said, “he may be an Irvingite, but he isn’t a donkey.” “What on earth is an Irvingite,anyhow?” William asked. Dr. Lavendar looked at him, pityingly: “William, you are so ridiculouslyyoung! Well, I suppose you can’t help it. My boy, about the time you wereborn, there was a man in London–some folks called him a saint, and some folks called him a fool; it’s a way folks have had ever since our Lord came intothis world. His name was Irving, and he started a new sect.” (Dr. Lavendar wasas open-minded as it is possible for one of his Church to be, but even he said“sect” when it came to outsiders.) “He started this new sect, which believed that the Holy Ghost wouldspeak again by human lips, just ason the Day of Pentecost. Well, there was ‘speaking’ in his congregation;sort of outbursts of exhortation, you know. Mostly unintelligible. Iremember Dr. Alexander said it was‘gibberish’; he heard some of it when he was in London. It may have been‘gibberish,’ but nobody can doubtIrving’s sincerity in thinking it was the Voice of God. When he couldn’tunderstand it, he just called it an ‘unknown tongue.’ Of course he wasconsidered a heretic. He was put out of his Church. He died soon after, poorfellow.” “Doesn’t Mr. Roberts’s everlastingarguing about it tire you out?” William asked. “Oh no,” Dr. Lavendar said, cheerfully; “when he talks too long I justshut my eyes; he never notices it!He’s a gentle old soul. When I answer back–once in a while I really have tospeak up for the Protestant Episcopal Church–I feel as if I had kicked Danny.” William King grinned. Then he gotup and, drawing his coat-tails forward, stood with his back to the jug of lilacs in Dr. Lavendar’s fireplace. “Oh, well,of course it’s all bosh,” he said, and yawned; “I was on a case till fouro’clock this morning,” he apologized. “William,” said Dr. Lavendar,admiringly, “what an advantage youfellows have over us poor parsons!Everything a medical man doesn’t understand is ‘bosh’! Now, we can’t classify things as easily as that.” “Well, I don’t care,” William said,doggedly; “from my point of view–“ “From your point of view,” said Dr.Lavendar, “St. Paul was an epileptic, because he heard a Voice?” “If you really want to know what Ithink–“ “I don’t,” Dr. Lavendar said; “Iwant you to know what I think. Mr.Roberts hasn’t heard any Voice, yet; he is only listening for it. William,listening for the Voice of God isn’t necessarily a sign of poor health; andprovided a man doesn’t set himself up to think he is the only person hisHeavenly Father is willing to speak to, listening won’t do him any harm. Asfor Henry Roberts, he is a humble old man. An example to me, William! Iam pretty arrogant once in a while. I have to be, with such men as you inmy congregation. No; the real trouble in that household is that girl of his. It isn’t right for a young thing to live in such an atmosphere.” William agreed sleepily. “Prettycreature. Wish I had a daughter just like her,” he said, and took himself off to make up for a broken night’s rest.But Dr. Lavendar and Danny still sat in front of the lilac-filled fireplace, and thought of old Henry Roberts listeningfor the Voice of God, and of his Philippa. The father and daughter had latelytaken a house on a road that wandered over the hills between elderberry-bushes and under sycamores, from Old Chesterto Perryville. They were abouthalf-way between the two little towns, and they did not seem to belong toeither. Perryville’s small manufacturing bustle repelled the silent old manwhom Dr. Lavendar called an “Irvingite”; and Old Chester’s dignity and dullaloofness repelled young Philippa.The result was that the Robertses and their one woman servant, Hannah, hadbeen living on the Perryville pike for some months before anybody in eithervillage was quite aware of their existence. Then one day in May, Dr. Lavendar’ssagging old buggy pulled up attheir gate, and the old ministercalled over the garden wall to Philippa: “Won’t you give me some of your appleblossoms?” That was the beginning of Old Chester’s knowledge of the Roberts family.A little later Perryville came to know them, too: the Rev. John Fenn, pastorof the Perryville Presbyterian Church, got off his big, raw-boned Kentuckyhorse at the same little white gate in the brick wall at which Goliath hadstopped, and walked solemnly–notnoticing the apple blossoms–up to the porch. Henry Roberts was sitting therein the hot twilight, with a curious listening look in his face–a look ofwaiting expectation; it was so marked, that the caller involuntarily glanced over his shoulder to see if any other visitor was approaching; but there was nothing tobe seen in the dusk but the roan nibbling at the hitching-post. Mr. Fenn saidthat he had called to inquire whether Mr. Roberts was a regular attendantat any place of worship. To which the old man replied gently that every placewas a place of worship, and his own house was the House of God.John Fenn was honestly dismayed atsuch sentiments–dismayed, and a little indignant; and yet, somehow, theself-confidence of the old man daunted him. It made him feel very young, and thereis nothing so daunting to Youth as to feel young. Therefore he said, venerably, that he hoped Mr. Roberts realizedthat it was possible to deceive oneself in such matters. “It is a dangerousthing to neglect the means of grace,” he said. “Surely it is,” said Henry Roberts,meekly; after which there was nothing for the caller to do but offer the Irvingite a copy of the _American Messenger_and take his departure. He was sogenuinely concerned about Mr. Roberts’s “danger,” that he did not notice Philippa sitting on a stool at her father’s side. But Philippa noticed him. So, after their kind, did these twoshepherds of souls endeavor to establish a relationship with Henry andPhilippa Roberts. And they wereequally successful. Philippa gave her apple blossoms to the old minister,–and went to Mr. Fenn’s church the verynext Sunday. Henry Roberts accepted the tracts with a simple belief in thekindly purpose of the young minister, and stayed away from both churches.But both father and daughter werepleased by the clerical attentions: “I love Dr. Lavendar,” Philippasaid to her father. “I am obliged to Mr. Fenn,” herfather said to Philippa. “The youth,” he added, “cares for my soul. I amobliged to any one who cares for my soul.” He was, indeed, as Dr. Lavendar said, a man of humble mind; and yet withhis humbleness was a serene certainty of belief as to his soul’s welfare thatwould have been impossible to JohnFenn, who measured every man’s chance of salvation by his own theologicalyardstick, or even to Dr. Lavendar, who thought salvation unmeasurable.But then neither of these two ministers had had Henry Roberts’s experience.It was very far back, that experience; it happened before Philippa was born;and when they came to live between the two villages Philippa was twenty-fouryears old…. It was in the thirties that youngRoberts, a tanner in Lower Ripple,went to England to collect a smallbequest left him by a relative. The sense of distance, the long weeks at sea in a sailing-vessel, the new country and the new people, all impressed themselves upon a very sensitive mind, amind which, even without such emotional preparation, was ready to respond toany deeply emotional appeal. Thencame the appeal. It was that newgospel of the Tongues, which, in those days, astounded and thrilled all Londonfrom the lips of Edward Irving–fanatic, saint, and martyr!–the man who, havingprayed that God would speak againin prophecy, would not deny the power of prayer by refusing to believe that his prayer was answered, even though theprophecy was unintelligible. And later, when the passionate cadences of thespirit were in English, and were found to be only trite or foolish words,repeated and repeated in a wailing chant by some sincere, hysterical woman, hestill believed that a new day of Pentecost had dawned upon a sinful world! “For,”said he, “when I asked for bread, would God give me a stone?” Henry Roberts went to hear thegreat preacher and forgot his haste to receive his little legacy so that hemight hurry back to the tanyard.Irving’s eloquence entranced him, and it alone would have held him longer thanthe time he had allowed himself for absence from the tannery. But ithappened that he was present on that Lord’s Day when, with a solemn anddreadful sound, the Tongues first spoke in that dingy Chapel in Regent Square,and no man who heard that Soundever forgot it! The mystical youth from America was shaken to his very soul.He stayed on in London for nearly a year, immersing himself in those tidesof emotion which swept saner mindsthan his from the somewhat dry land of ordinary human experience. Thatno personal revelation was made tohim, that the searing benediction of the Tongues had not touched his own awed,uplifted brow, made no difference: he believed!–and prayed God to helpany lingering unbelief that might be holding him back from deeper knowledges. To the end of his days he wasEdward Irving’s follower; and whenhe went back to America it was as a missionary of the new sect, thatcalled itself by the sounding title of The Catholic Apostolic Church.In Lower Ripple he preached to anywho would listen to him the doctrine of the new Pentecost. At first curiosity brought him hearers; his story ofthe Voice, dramatic and mysterious, was listened to in doubting silence;then disapproved of–so hotly disapproved of that he was sessioned and readout of Church. But in those days in western Pennsylvania, mere living was too engrossing a matterfor much thought of “tongues” and“voices”; it was easier, when a man talked of dreams and visions, not toargue with him, but to say that hewas “crazy.” So by and by HenryRoberts’s heresy was forgotten and his religion merely smiled at. Certainlyit struck no roots outside his ownheart. Even his family did not share his belief. When he married, as he didwhen he was nearly fifty, his wife was impatient with his Faith–indeed, fearful of it, and with persistent, naggingreasonableness urged his return tothe respectable paths of Presbyterianism. To his pain, when his girl, hisPhilippa, grew up she shrank fromthe emotion of his creed; she and her mother went to the brick church underthe locust-trees of Lower Ripple; and when her mother died Philippa wentthere alone, for Henry Roberts, not being permitted to bear witness in theChurch, did so out of it, by sitting at home on the Sabbath day, in a bareupper chamber, waiting for themanifestation of the Holy Spirit. It never came. The Tongues never spoke. Yetstill, while the years passed, he waited, listening–listening–listening; akindly, simple old man with mystical brown eyes, believing meekly in hisown unworth to hear again that Sound from Heaven, as of a rushing, mightywind, that had filled the London Chapel, bowing human souls before it as a greatwind bows the standing corn! It was late in the sixties that Henry Roberts brought this faith and his Philippa to the stone house on the Perryvillepike, where, after some monthshad passed, they were discovered by the old and the young ministers. Thetwo clergymen met once or twice intheir calls upon the new-comer, and each acquired an opinion of the other:John Fenn said to himself that the old minister was a good man, if he was anEpiscopalian; and Dr. Lavendar said to William King that he hoped therewould be a match between the “theolog” and Philippa. “The child ought to be married andhave a dozen children,” he said;“although Fenn’s little sister will do to begin on–she needs mothering badlyenough. Yes, Miss Philly ought to be making smearkase and apple-butter forthat pale and excellent young man.He intimated that I was a follower of the Scarlet Woman because I wore asurplice.” “Now look here! I draw the lineat that sort of talk,” the doctor said; “he can lay down the law to me, all hewants to; but when it comes toinstructing you–“ “Oh, well, he’s young,” Dr. Lavendarsoothed him; “you can’t expecthim not to know everything at his age.” “He’s a squirt,” said William. Inthose days in Old Chester middle age was apt to sum up its opinion of youthin this expressive word. “We were all squirts once,” said Dr.Lavendar, “and very nice boys we were, too–at least I was. Yes, I hope theyoungster will see what a sweet creature old Roberts’s Philippa is.” She was a sweet creature; but asWilliam King said, she was amusingly old-fashioned. The Old Chester girl ofthose days, who seems (to look back upon her in these days) so medieval,was modern compared to Philippa! But there was nothing mystical about her;she was just modest and full of pleasant silences and soft gaieties and simple,startling truth-telling. At first,when they came to live near Perryville, she used, when the weather was fine, towalk over the grassy road, under the brown and white branches of the sycamores, into Old Chester, to Dr. Lavendar’schurch. “I like to come to yourchurch,” she told him, “because you don’t preach quite such long sermons asMr. Fenn does.” But when it rainedor was very hot she chose the shorter walk and sat under John Fenn, lookingup at his pale, ascetic face, lighted from within by his young certaintiesconcerning the old ignorances of people like Dr. Lavendar–life and death andeternity. Of Dr. Lavendar’s one certainty, Love, he was deeply ignorant, thishonest boy, who was so concerned for Philippa’s father’s soul! But Philippadid not listen much to his certainties; she coaxed his little sister into her pew, and sat with the child cuddled up againsther, watching her turn over the leaves of the hymn-book or trying to braid thefringe of Miss Philly’s black silk mantilla into little pigtails. Sometimes MissPhilly would look up at the careworn young face in the pulpit and think howholy Mary’s brother was, and howlearned–and how shabby; for he had only a housekeeper, Mrs. Semple, totake care of him and Mary. Not butwhat he might have had somebodybesides Mrs. Semple! Philippa, for all her innocence, could not help beingaware that he might have had–almost anybody! For others of Philly’s sexwatched the rapt face there in the pulpit. When Philippa thought of that,a slow blush used to creep up to her very temples. She saw him oftener inthe pulpit than out of it, becausewhen he came to call on her fathershe was apt not to be present.At first he came very frequently to see the Irvingite, because he felt it his duty to “deal” with him; but he madeso little impression that he foresaw the time when it would be necessary tosay that Ephraim was joined to hisidols. But though it might be right to “let him alone,” he could not stopcalling at Henry Roberts’s house; “for,” he reminded himself, “the believingdaughter may sanctify the unbelieving father!” He said this once to Dr.Lavendar, when his roan and old Goliath met in a narrow lane and pausedto let their masters exchange a word or two. “But do you know what the believingdaughter believes?” said Dr. Lavendar. He wiped his forehead with his red bandanna, for it was a hot day; then he puthis old straw hat very far back on his head and looked at the young man with atwinkle in his eye, which, considering the seriousness of their conversation,was discomfiting; but, after all, as John Fenn reminded himself, Dr. Lavendar was very old, and so might beforgiven if his mind was lacking in seriousness. As for his question ofwhat the daughter believed:“I think–I hope,” said the youngminister, “that she is sound. She comes to my church quite regularly.”“But she comes to my church quiteirregularly,” Dr. Lavendar warnedhim; and there was another of those disconcerting twinkles. The boy looked at him with honest,solemn eyes. “I still believe that she is sound,” he said, earnestly. Dr. Lavendar blew his nose with a flourish of the red bandanna. “Well, perhapsshe is, perhaps she is,” he said, gravely. But the reassurance of that “perhaps”did not make for John Fenn’s peace of mind; he could not help asking himselfwhether Miss Philippa WAS a “believing daughter.” She did not, he was sure,share her father’s heresies, butperhaps she was indifferent to them? which would be a grievous thing!And certainly, as the old minister had declared, she did go “irregularly” to the Episcopal Church. John Fenn wishedthat he was sure of Miss Philippa’s state of mind; and at last he said tohimself that it was his duty to find out about it, so, with his little sister beside him, he started on a round of pastoralcalls. He found Miss Philly sitting in the sunshine on the lowest step of thefront porch–and it seemed to Marythat there was a good deal of delay in getting at the serious business of play; “for brother talks so much,” shecomplained. But “brother” went ontalking. He told Miss Philippa that he understood she went sometimes to OldChester to church? “Sometimes,” she said.“I do not mean,” he said, hesitatingly, “to speak uncharitably, but we allknow that Episcopacy is the handmaid of Papistry.” “Do we?” Philly asked, with graveeyes. “Yes,” said Mr. Fenn. “But evenif Dr. Lavendar’s teachings aredefective,”–Mary plucked at his sleeve, and sighed loudly; “(no, Mary!)–even if his teachings are defective, he is a good man according to his lights;I am sure of that. Still, do you think it well to attend a place of worshipwhen you cannot follow the pastor’s teachings?” “I love him. And I don’t listen towhat he says,” she excused herself. “But you should listen to whatministers say,” the shocked young man pro- tested–“at least to ministers of theright faith. But you should not go to church because you love ministers.” Philippa’s face flamed. “I do notlove–most of them.” Mary, leaning against the girl’s knee, looked up anxiously into her face. “Doyou love brother?” she said. They were a pretty pair, the child and the girl, sitting there on the porch with the sunshine sifting down through thelacy leaves of the two big locusts on either side of the door. Philippa worea pink and green palm-leaf chintz; it had six ruffles around the skirt andwas gathered very full about her slender waist; her lips were red, and hercheeks and even her neck were delicately flushed; her red-brown hair wasblowing all about her temples; Mary had put an arm around her andwas cuddling against her. Yes, even Mary’s brother would have thoughtthe two young things a pretty sight had there been nothing more seriousto think of. But John Fenn’sthoughts were so very serious that even Mary’s question caused him noembarrassment; he merely said, stiffly, that he would like to see Miss Philippaalone. “You may wait here, Mary,”he told his little sister, who frowned and sighed and went out to the gateto pull a handful of grass for the roan. Philippa led her caller to her rarely used parlor, and sat down to listen insilent pallor to his exhortations. She made no explanations for not comingto his church regularly; she offered no excuse of filial tenderness for herindifference to her father’s mistaken beliefs; she looked down at her hands, claspedtightly in her lap, then out of the window at the big roan biting at the hitching-post or standing very still to let Mary rubhis silky nose. But John Fenn looked only at Philippa. Of her father’s heresies he would not, he said, do more thanremind her that the wiles of the devil against her soul might present them-selves through her natural affections;but in regard to her failure to wait upon the means of grace he spokewithout mercy, for, he said, “faithful are the wounds of a friend.” “Are you my friend?” Philly asked,lifting her gray eyes suddenly. Mr. Fenn was greatly confused; thetext-books of the Western Seminary had not supplied him with the answer tosuch a question. He explained, hurriedly, that he was the friend of allwho wished for salvation. “I do not especially wish for it,”Philippa said, very low. For a moment John Fenn was silentwith horror. “That one so youngshould be so hardened!” he thought; aloud, he bade her remember hell fire.He spoke with that sad and simpleacceptance of the fact with which, even less than fifty years ago, men humbledthemselves before the mystery which they had themselves created, of divineinjustice. She must know, he said,his voice trembling with sincerity, that those who slighted the offers ofgrace were cast into outer darkness? Philly said, softly, “Maybe.” “‘Maybe?’ Alas, it is, certainly!Oh, why, WHY do you absent yourself from the house of God?” he said,holding out entreating hands. Philippa made no reply. “Let us pray!”said the young man; and they kneltdown side by side in the shadowyparlor. John Fenn lifted his harsh, melancholy face, gazing upwardpassionately, while he wrestled for her salvation; Philly, looking downward,tracing with a trembling finger the pattern of the beadwork on the ottomanbefore which she knelt, listened with an inward shiver of dismay and ecstasy.But when they rose to their feet she had nothing to say. He, too, wassilent. He went away quite exhausted by his struggle with this impassive,unresisting creature. He hardly spoke to Mary all the wayhome. “A hardened sinner,” he wasthinking. “Poor, lovely creature! So young and so lost!” Under Mary’sincessant chatter, her tugs at the end of the reins, her little bursts of joy at the sight of a bird or a roadside flower, he was thinking, with a strange new pain–a pain no other sinner had ever roused inhim–of the girl he had left. Heknew that his arguments had notmoved her. “I believe,” he thought, the color rising in his face, “thatshe dislikes me! She says she loves Dr. Lavendar; yes, she must dislike me.Is my manner too severe? Perhapsmy appearance is unattractive.” Helooked down at his coat uneasily. As for Philly, left to herself, shepicked up a bit of sewing, and her face, at first pale, grew slowly pink. “Heonly likes sinners,” she thought; “and, oh, I am not a sinner!” CHAPTER II After that on Sabbath morningsPhilippa sat with her father, inthe silent upper chamber. At firstHenry Roberts, listening–listening– for the Voice, thought, rapturously,that at the eleventh hour he was to win a soul–the most precious soul in his world!–to his faith. But when, after awhile, he questioned her, he saw that this was not so; she stayed awayfrom other churches, but not because she cared for his church. This troubledhim, for the faith he had outgrown was better than no faith. “Do you have doubts concerning thesoundness of either of the ministers–the old man or the young man?” he asked her, looking at her with mild, anxious eyes. “Oh no, sir,” Philly said, smiling. “Do you dislike them–the youngman or the old man?” “Oh no, father. I love–one ofthem.” “Then why not go to his church?Either minister can give you the seeds of salvation; one not less than theother. Why not sit under either ministry?” “I don’t know,” Philippa said, faintly.And indeed she did not know whyshe absented herself. She only knew two things: that the young man seemedto disapprove of the old man; and when she saw the young man in the pulpit,impersonal and holy, she suffered.Therefore she would not go to heareither man. When Dr. Lavendar came to call uponher father, he used to glance at Philippa sometimes over his spectacles whileHenry Roberts was arguing about prophecies; but he never asked her why shestayed away from church; instead, he talked to her about John Fenn, and heseemed pleased when he heard that the young man was doing his duty inmaking pastoral calls. “And I–I,unworthy as I was!” Henry Robertswould say, “I heard the Voice, speaking through a sister’s lips; and it said: Oh, sinner! for what, for what, what canseparate, separate, from the love… Oh, nothing. Oh, nothing. Oh, nothing.”He would stare at Dr. Lavendarwith parted lips. “I HEARD IT,” he would say, in a whisper. And Dr. Lavendar, bending his headgravely, would be silent for a respectful moment, and then he would look atPhilippa. “You are teaching Fenn’ssister to sew?” he would say. “Very nice! Very nice!” Philly saw a good deal of the sisterthat summer; the young minister,recognizing Miss Philippa’s fondness for Mary, and remembering a text as to theleading of a child, took pains to bring the little girl to Henry Roberts’s door once or twice a week; and as August burnedaway into September Philippa’s pleasure in her was like a soft wind blowingon the embers of her heart and kindling a flame for which she knew no name.She thought constantly of Mary, and had many small anxieties about her–her dress, her manners, her health; she even took the child into Old Chesterone day to get William King to pull a little loose white tooth. Philly shookvery much during the operation andmingled her tears with Mary’s in that empty and bleeding moment that followsthe loss of a tooth. She was sopassionately tender with the little girl that the doctor told Dr. Lavendar thathis match-making scheme seemed likely to prosper–“she’s so fond of the sister, you should have heard her sympathizewith the little thing!–that I think she will smile on the brother,” he said. “I’m afraid the brother hasn’t cut his wisdom teeth yet,” Dr. Lavendar said,doubtfully; “if he had, you might pull them, and she could sympathize withhim; then it would all arrange itself. Well, he’s a nice boy, a nice boy;–and he won’t know so much when he gets a little older.” It was on the way home from Dr.King’s that Philippa’s feeling ofresponsibility about Mary brought her a sudden temptation. They were walkinghand in hand along the road. Theleaves on the mottled branches of the sycamores were thinning now, and thesunshine fell warm upon the two young things, who were still a little shakenfrom the frightful experience oftooth-pulling. The doctor had put the small white tooth in a box and gravely presented it to Mary, and now, as theywalked along, she stopped sometimes to examine it and say, proudly, how shehad “bleeded and bleeded!” “Will you tell brother the doctorsaid I behaved better than the circus lion when his tooth was pulled?” “Indeed I will, Mary!” “An’ he said he’d rather pull mytooth than a lion’s tooth?” “Of course I’ll tell him.” “Miss Philly, shall I dream of mytooth, do you suppose?” Philippa laughed and said she didn’tknow. “I hope I will; it means somethingnice. I forget what, now.” “Dreams don’t mean anything,Mary.” “Oh yes, they do!” the child assuredher, skipping along with one arm round the girl’s slender waist. “Mrs. Semplehas a dream-book, and she reads it to me every day, an’ she reads me whatmy dreams mean. Sometimes I haven’t any dreams,” Mary admitted, regretfully, “but she reads all the same.Did you ever dream about a black ox walking on its back legs? I never did.I don’t want to. It means trouble.” “Goosey!” said Miss Philippa. “If you dream of the moon,” Marywent on, happily, “it means you are going to have a beau who’ll love you.” “Little girls mustn’t talk about love,” Philippa said, gravely; but the colorcame suddenly into her face. To dream of the moon means–Why! but onlythe night before she had dreamed that she had been walking in the fields andhad seen the moon rise over shocks of corn that stood against the sky like the plumed heads of Indian warriors! “Suchthings are foolish, Mary,” Miss Philly said, her cheeks very pink. And whileMary chattered on about Mrs. Semple’s book Philippa was silent, rememberinghow yellow the great flat disk of the moon had been in her dream; how itpushed up from behind the black edge of the world, and how, suddenly, themisty stubble-field was flooded with its strange light:–“you are going to havea beau!” Philippa wished she might see thebook, just to know what sort of things were read to Mary. “It isn’t right toread them to the child,” she thought; “it’s a foolish book, Mary,” she said,aloud. “I never saw such a book.” “I’ll bring it the next time I come,” Mary promised. “Oh no, no,” Philly said, a littlebreathlessly; “it’s a wrong book. I couldn’t read such a book, except–except to tell you how foolish and wrong it is.” Mary was not concerned with herfriend’s reasons; but she remembered to bring the ragged old book with herthe very next time her brother dropped her at Mr. Roberts’s gate to spendan hour with Miss Philippa. Therehad to be a few formal words between the preacher and the sinner beforeMary had entire possession of herplaymate, but when her brother drove away, promising to call for her laterin the afternoon, she became soengrossed in the important task ofpicking hollyhock seeds that she quite forgot the dream-book. The air was hazywith autumn, and full of the scent of fallen leaves and dew-drenched grassand of the fresh tan-bark on the garden paths. On the other side of the roadwas a corn-field, where the corn stood in great shocks. Philly looked over atit, and drew a quick breath,–her dream! “Did you bring that foolish book?”she said. Mary, slapping her pocket, laughedloudly. “I ‘most forgot! Yes, ma’am; I got it. I’ll show what it says aboutthe black ox–“ “No; you needn’t,” Miss Philly said;“you pick some more seeds for me, and I’ll–just look at it.” She touched thestained old book with shrinking fingertips; the moldering leather cover and theodor of soiled and thumb-marked leaves offended her. The first page was foldedover, and when she spread it out, the yellowing paper cracked along its ancient creases; it was a map, with the signsof the Zodiac; in the middle was asingle verse: Mortal! Wouldst thou scan aright Dreams and visions of the night? Wouldst thou future secrets learn And the fate of dreams discern? Wouldst thou ope the Curtain dark And thy future fortune mark? Try the mystic page, and read What the vision has decreed. Philly, holding her red lip betweenher teeth, turned the pages: “MONEY. TO DREAM OF FINDING MONEY;MOURNING AND LOSS. “MONKEY. YOU HAVE SECRET ENEMIES. “MOON.” (Philippa shivered.) “AGOOD OMEN; IT DENOTES COMING JOY. GREAT SUCCESS IN LOVE.”She shut the book sharply, thenopened it again. Such books sometimes told (so foolishly!) of charms whichwould bring love. She looked furtively at Mary; but the child, pulling downa great hollyhock to pick the fuzzy yellow disks, was not noticing MissPhilly’s interest in the “foolish book.” Philippa turned over the pages. Yes;the charms were there!… Instructions for making dumb-cake,to cut which reveals a lover: “ANY NUMBER OF YOUNG FEMALES SHALL TAKE A HANDFULOF WHEATEN FLOUR–” That was no use; there were too many females as itwas! “TO KNOW WHETHER A MAN SHALL HAVE THE WOMAN HE WISHES.” Philippa sighed.Not that. A holy man does not“wish” for a woman. “A CHARM TO CHARM A MAN’S LOVE.” Theblood suddenly ran tingling in Philly’s veins. “LET A YOUNG MAID PICK OFROSEMARY TWO ROOTS; OF MONK’S-HOOD–” A line had been drawn through thislast word, and another word written above it; but the ink was so faded,the page so woolly and thin withuse, that it was impossible to decipher the correction; perhaps it was“mother-wort,” an herb Philly did not know; or it might be “mandrake”? It lookedas much like one as the other, the writing was so blurred and dim. “It isbest to take what the book says,” Philly said, simply; “besides, I haven’t thoseother things in the garden, and I have monk’s-hood and rosemary–if I shouldwant to do it, just for fun.” “OF MONK’S-HOOD TWO ROOTS, AND OF THE FLOWER OF CORN TEN THREADS; LET HER SLEEP ON THEM ONE NIGHT. IN THE MORNING, LETHER SET THEM ON HER HEART AND WALK BACKWARDS TEN STEPS, PRAYING FOR THE LOVE OF HERBELOVED. LET HER THEN STEEP AND BOIL THESE THINGS IN FOUR GILLS OF PURE WATER ON WHICH THE MOON HAS SHONE FOR ONE NIGHT. WHENSHE SHALL ADD THIS PHILTER TO THE DRINK OF THE ONE WHO LOVES HER NOT, HE SHALL LOVE THE FEMALE WHO MEETS HIS EYE FIRST AFTER THE DRINKING THEREOF. THEREFORE LET THEYOUNG MAID BE INDUSTRIOUS TO STAND BEFORE HIM WHEN HE SHALL DRINK IT.” “There is no harm in it,” said Philly. CHAPTER III “Somebody making herb tea andstealing my business?” said William King, in his kindly voice; he hadcalled to see old Hannah, who hadbeen laid up for a day or two, and he stopped at the kitchen door to lookin. Henry Roberts, coming from thesitting-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 teato Hannah without telling me whatit is.” Miss Philippa said, dutifully, “Oh no, sir.” But she did not tell him whatthe “tea” was, and certainly she offered none of it to old Hannah. All that daythere was a shy joyousness about her, with sudden soft blushes, and once ortwice 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 shewas 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 thedaughter’s hardened heart. It was when he reached this conclusion that hecommitted the extravagance of buying a new coat. So it happened that thatvery afternoon, while the house was still pungent with the scent of steeping herbs, he came to Henry Roberts’sdoor, and knocked solemnly, as befitted his errand; (but as he heard herstep in the hall he passed an anxious hand over a lapel of the newcoat). Her father, she said, was not at home; would Mr. Fenn come inand wait for him? Mr. Fenn said hewould. And as he always tried, poor boy! to be instant in season and out ofseason, 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 fromchurch. 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 himon the slippery horsehair sofa in the parlor, her hands locked tightlytogether in her lap, her eyes downcast, her voice very low and trembling. Sheadmitted her backslidings: she acknowledged her errors; but as for coming tochurch–she shook her head: “Please, I won’t come to churchyet.” “You mean you will come, some-time?” “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 mysoul.” John Fenn caught his breath. Something, he did not know what, seemed tojar 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 wasshe quite well? His voice broke with tenderness. She must be careful toavoid the chill of these autumnalafternoons; “you are pale,” he said, passionately–“don’t–oh, don’t be sopale!” It occurred to him that if she waited for him “not to care” for hersalvation, 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 totea?” He answered quickly that he wouldbe pleased to do so. In the simplicity of his saintly egotism it occurred tohim that the religious pleasure ofentertaining him might be a means of grace to her. When she left him in the duskof the chilly room to go and see to the supper, he fell into silent prayerfor the soul that did not desire his care. Henry Roberts, summoned by hisdaughter to entertain the guest until supper was ready, found him sitting inthe darkness of the parlor; the old man was full of hospitable apologies for his Philippa’s forgetfulness; “she did notremember the lamp!” he lamented; and making his way through the twilight ofthe room, he took off the prism-hung shade of the tall astral lamp on thecenter-table, and fumbled for a match to light the charred and sticky wick; there were very few occasions in this plainhousehold when it was worth while to light the best lamp! This was one ofthem, for in those days the officedignified the man to a degree that is hardly understood now. But Henry Roberts’sconcern was not entirely a matter of social propriety; it was a desire topropitiate this young man who wasliving in certain errors of belief, so that he would be in a friendly attitude ofmind and open to the arguments which were always burning on the lips ofEdward Irving’s follower. He did not mean to begin them until they were atsupper; so he and John Fenn sat insilence waiting Philippa’s summons to the dining-room. Neither of them hadany small talk; Mr. Roberts was making sure that he could trust his memoryto repeat those wailing cadences of the Voice, and John Fenn, still shaken bysomething he could not understand that had been hidden in what he understoodtoo well–a sinner’s indifference to grace– was trying to get back to his serene,impersonal arrogance. As for Philippa, she was frightenedat her temerity in having invited the minister to a Hannahless supper; herflutter of questions as to “what” and “how” brought the old woman from herbed, in spite of the girl’s half-hearted protests that she “mustn’t think ofgetting up! Just tell me what to do,” she implored, “I can manage. We aregoing 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 shawlover 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 hairdown in two loops over her ears, and pin her one adornment, a flat goldbrooch, on the bosom of her dress. She lifted her candle and looked at herselfin the black depths of the little swinging glass on her high bureau, and herface 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 thoughthimself; how strange that one who was so perverted in belief should not betray perversion in her countenance. “Onthe contrary, her face is pleasing,” he said, simply. He feared, noticing thebrooch, 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 anyrate, give her much courage; she scarcely spoke, except to ask him whether hetook 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 tremorof her voice and hand that he madehaste to reassure her, sipping his tea with much politeness of manner; as hedid so, she said, suddenly, and with compelling loudness, “Is it–agreeable?” John Fenn, startled, looked at herover the rim of his cup. “Very; very indeed,” he said, quickly. But heinstantly 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–forevidently Miss Philippa had taken pains to give him what he might like. Afterthat she did not speak, but her face grew very rosy while she sat in silencelistening to her father and their guest. Henry Roberts forgot to eat, in the passion of his theological arguments, but assupper proceeded he found his antagonist less alert than usual; the ministerdefended his own doctrines instead of attacking those of his host; he evenadmitted, a little listlessly, that if the Power fell upon him, if he himself spoke in a strange tongue, then perhaps hewould believe–“that is, if I could be sure I was not out of my mind at thetime,” he qualified, dully. Philippa took no part in the discussion; it would not have been thought becoming inher to do so; but indeed, she hardly heard what the two men were saying.She helped old Hannah carry awaythe dishes, and then sat down by the table and drew the lamp near herso that she could sew; she sat there smiling a little, dimpling even, andlooking down at her seam; she did not notice that John Fenn was being worsted, or that once he failed altogether toreply, and sat in unprotesting silence under Henry Roberts’s rapt remembrances. A curious blackness had settledunder his eyes, and twice he passed his hand across his lips. “They are numb,” he said, in surprised apology to his host. A momentlater he shivered violently, beads of sweat burst out on his forehead, andthe color swept from his face. Hestarted up, staring wildly about him; he tried to speak, but his wordsstumbled into incoherent babbling.It was all so sudden, his rising,then falling back into his chair, then slipping sidewise and crumpling upupon the floor, all the while stammering unmeaning words–that Henry Robertssat looking at him in dumb amazement. It was Philippa who cried outand ran forward to help him, thenstopped midway, her hands clutchedtogether at her throat, her eyes dilating with a horror that seemed to paralyzeher so that she was unable to move to his assistance. The shocked silence ofthe moment was broken by Fenn’svoice, trailing on and on, in totally unintelligible words. Henry Roberts, staring open-mouthed,suddenly spoke: “The VOICE!” he said. But Philippa, as though she werebreaking some invisible bond that held her, groaning even with the effort ofit, said, in a whisper: “No. Not that. He is dying. Don’t you see? That’swhat it is. He is dying.” Her father, shocked from his ecstasy, ran to John Fenn’s side, trying to lifthim 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 andbrought back a great bowl of hot water. “Drink it!” he said. “Drink it, I tellye! I believe you’re poisoned!” And while he and Hannah bent overthe 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, outof the house. On the doorstep, in the darkness, she paused and listened forseveral 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 armthat her feet might not be hampered, and fled down the road toward OldChester. It was very dark. At first her eyes, still blurred with the lamplight, could not distinguish the footpath,and she stumbled over the grassyborder into the wheel-ruts; then, feeling the loose dust under her feet, she ranand 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 thesycamore-trees; twice she tripped and fell into the brambles at one side oragainst a gravelly bank on the other. But stumbling somehow to her feet,again she ran and ran and ran. Thenight 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 walkor fall down! And she could notfall down, no! no! no! he would die if she fell down! Once a figure loomedup in the haze, and she caught theglimmer of an inquisitive eye. “Say,” a man’s voice said, “where are youbound for?” There was something inthe tone that gave her a stab of fright; for a minute or two her feet seemed tofly, 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 herselfthat she must STOP; she must stand still just for a moment. “Oh, just fora minute?” her body whimperinglyentreated; she would not listen to it! She must not listen, even though her heartburst 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, overand over: “Doctor, hurry; he’ll die; hurry; I killed him.” She tried to besilent, but her lips moved mechanically. “Doctor, hurry; he’ll–Oh, I MUSTN’Ttalk!” she told herself, “it takes my breath”–but still her lips moved. Shebegan to run, heavily. “I can’t talk –if–I–run–” It was then that shesaw a glimmer of light and knew that she was almost in Old Chester. Verylikely she would have fallen if she had not seen that far-off window justwhen she did. At William King’s house she droppedagainst the door, her fingers still clinging to the bell. She was past speaking when the doctor lifted her and carriedher into the office. “No; don’t try to tell me what it is,” he said; “I’ll putJinny into the buggy, and we’ll get back in a jiffy. I understand; Hannahis worse.” “Not… Hannah–“ “Your father?” he said, picking uphis medicine-case. “Not father; Mr.–Fenn–“ As the doctor hurried out to thestable to hitch up he bade his wife put certain remedies into his bag,–“andlook after that child,” he called over his shoulder to his efficient Martha. Shewas 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.” WilliamKing was silent. “I used a charm. It was wicked.” “Come, come; not wicked,” said thedoctor; “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 wasnot 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 useda 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 comfortingarm 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 eitherdead 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 childresort to–G’on, Jinny! G’on!”He still had the whip in his handwhen they drew up at the gate. CHAPTER IV When Philippa Roberts had fledout into the night for help, herfather and old Hannah were too alarmed to notice her absence. They went hurrying back and forth with this remedyand that. Again and again they were ready to give up; once Henry Robertssaid, “He is gone!” and once Hannah began to cry, and said, “Poor lad,poor boy!” Yet each made one moreeffort, their shadows looming gigantic against the walls or stretchingacross the ceiling, bending and sinking as they knelt beside the poor youngman, who by that time was beyondspeech. So the struggle went on. But little by little life began to gain. John Fenn’s eyes opened. Then he smiled.Then he said something-they couldnot hear what. “Bless the Lord!” said Henry Roberts. “He’s asking for Philly,” said oldHannah. By the time the doctor andPhilippa reached the house the shadow of death had lifted. “It must have been poison,” Mr.Roberts told the doctor. “When hegets over it he will tell us what it was.” “I don’t believe he will,” said William King; he was holding Fenn’s wrist between his firm fingers, and then heturned up a fluttering eyelid and looked at the still dulled eye. Philippa, kneeling on the other sideof John Fenn, said loudly: “I will tell HIM–and perhaps God will forgiveme.” The doctor, glancing up at her, said: “No, you won’t–anyhow at present.Take that child up-stairs, Hannah,” he commanded, “and put her to bed.She ran all the way to Old Chester to get me,” he explained to Henry Roberts. Before he left the house that night he sat for a few minutes at Philippa’s bedside. “My dear little girl,” he said, inhis kind, sensible voice, “the best thing to do is to forget it. It was a foolishthing to do–that charm business; but happily no harm is done. Now saynothing about it, and never do it again.” Philippa turned her shuddering faceaway. “Do it again? OH!” As William King went home he apologized to Jinny for that cut across herflanks by hanging the reins on the overhead hook, and letting her plod alongat her own pleasure. He was sayingto himself that he hoped he had done right to tell the child to hold her tongue. “It was just tomfoolery,” he argued;“there was no sin about it, soconfession wouldn’t do her any good; on the contrary, it would hurt a girl’sself-respect to have a man know she had tried to catch him. But what adonkey he was not to see…. Oh yes; I’m sure I’m right,” said William King.“I wonder how Dr. Lavendar wouldlook at it?” Philippa, at any rate, was satisfiedwith his advice. Perhaps the story of what she had done might have brokenfrom her pale lips had her father asked any questions; but Henry Roberts hadretreated into troubled silence. There had been one wonderful moment whenhe thought that at last his faithwas to be justified and by theunbeliever himself! and he had cried out, with a passion deferred for more thanthirty years: “The VOICE!” But behold, the voice, babbling and meaningless, was nothing but sickness. No one couldguess what the shock of thatdisappointment was. He was not able even to speak of it. So Philippa was askedno awkward questions, and herself-knowledge burned deep into her heart. In the next few days, while the minister was slowly recovering in the greatfour-poster in Henry Roberts’s guest-room, she listened to Hannah’s speculationsas to the cause of his attack, andexpressed no opinion. She was dumbwhen John Fenn tried to tell her how grateful he was to her for that terrible run through the darkness for his sake. “You should not be grateful,” shesaid, at last, in a whisper. But he was grateful; and, furthermore, he was very happy in those daysof slow recovery. The fact was that that night, when he had been so neardeath, he had heard Philippa, in his first dim moments of returning consciousness,stammering out those distractedwords: “Perhaps God will forgive me.” To John Fenn those words meant thecrowning of all his efforts: she had repented! “Truly,” he said, lying very whiteand feeble on his pillow and looking into Philly’s face when she broughthim his gruel, “truly, “He moves in a mysterious wayHis wonders to perform!” The “mysterious way” was the befalling of that terrible illness in HenryRoberts’s house, so that Philippa should be impressed by it. “If my afflictionhas been blessed to any one else, I am glad to have suffered it,” he said. Philippa silently put a spoonful ofgruel between his lips; he swallowed it as quickly as he could.“I heard you call upon God forforgiveness; the Lord is merciful and gracious!” Philly said, very low, “Yes; oh YES.” So John Fenn thanked God and tookhis gruel, and thought it was very good. He thought, also, that Miss Philippa was very good to be so good to him. Inthose next few days, before he was strong enough to be moved back to his ownhouse, he thought more of her goodness and less of her salvation. It was thenthat he had his great moment, hisrevealing moment! All of a sudden, at the touch of Life, his honest artificiality had dropped from him, and he knewthat he had never before known anything worth knowing! He knew hewas in love. He knew it when herealized that he was not in the least troubled about her soul. “That iswhat she meant!” he thought; “shewanted me to care for her, before I cared for her soul.” He was so simplein his acceptance of the revelation that she loved him, that when he went toask her to be his wife the blow of her reply almost knocked him back into hisministerial affectations: “No.” When John Fenn got home that eveninghe went into his study and shutthe door. Mary came and pounded on it, but he only said, in a muffled voice: “No, Mary. Not now. Go away.” He was praying for resignation to what he told himself was the will of God.“The Lord is unwilling that my thoughts should be diverted from His service bymy own personal happiness.” Then he tried to put his thoughts on that service by deciding upon a text for his nextsermon. But the texts which suggested themselves were not steadying to hisbewildered mind: “LOVE ONE ANOTHER.” (“I certainlythought she loved me.”) “MARVEL NOT, MY BRETHREN, IF THE WORLD HATE YOU.” (“I am, perhaps, personallyunattractive to her; and yet I wonder why?”) He was not a conceited man; but,like all his sex, he really did “marvel” a little at the lack of feminineappreciation. He marveled so much that a week later he took Mary and walked out to Mr. Roberts’s house. This timeMary, to her disgust, was left with Miss Philly’s father, while her brotherand Miss Philly walked in the frosted garden. Later, when that walk wasover, and the little sister trudged along at John Fenn’s side in the direction ofPerryville, she was very fretful because he would not talk to her. He wasoccupied, poor boy, in trying again not to “marvel,” and to be submissive to the divine will. After that, for several months, herefused Mary’s plea to be taken to visit Miss Philly. He had, he told himself,“submitted”; but submission left him very melancholy and solemn, and alsoa little resentful; indeed, he was so low in his mind, that once he threw out abitter hint to Dr. Lavendar,–who, according to his wont, put two and two together. “Men in our profession, sir,” saidJohn Fenn, “must not expect personal happiness.” “Well,” said Dr. Lavendar,meditatively, “perhaps if we don’t expect it, the surprise of getting it makes itall the better. I expected it; but I’ve exceeded my expectations!” “But you are not married,” theyoung man said, impulsively. Dr. Lavendar’s face changed; “I hopeyou will marry, Fenn,” he said, quietly. At which John Fenn said, “I am marriedto my profession; that is enoughfor any minister.” “You’ll find your profession a mighty poor housekeeper,” said Dr. Lavendar. It was shortly after this that Mr.Fenn and his big roan broke through the snow-drifts and made their way toHenry Roberts’s house. “I must speak to you alone, sir,” he said to the Irvingite, who, seeing him approaching, hadhastened to open the door for him and draw him in out of the cold sunshine. What the caller had to say was briefand to the point: Why was his daughter so unkind? John Fenn did not feel nowthat the world–which meant Philippa –hated him. He felt–he could nothelp feeling–that she did not even dislike him; “on the contrary….” Sowhat reason had she for refusing him? But old Mr. Roberts shook his head.“A young female does not have ‘reasons,’” he said. But he was sorry forthe youth, and he roused himself from his abstraction long enough to questionhis girl: “He is a worthy young man, myPhilippa. Why do you dislike him?” “I do not dislike him.” “Then why –?” her father pro-tested. But Philly was silent. Even Hannah came to the rescue: “You’ll get a crooked stick at theend, if you don’t look out!” Philly laughed; then her face fell.“I sha’n’t have any stick, ever!” And Hannah, in her concern, confidedher forebodings about the stickto Dr. King. “I wonder,” William said to himself,uneasily, “if I was wise to tell that child to hold her tongue? Perhaps they mighthave straightened it out between ’em before this, if she had told him andbeen done with it. I’ve a great mind to ask Dr. Lavendar.” He did ask him; at first with properprecautions not to betray a patient’s confidence, but, at a word from Dr.Lavendar, tumbling into truthfulness. “You are talking about young Philippa Roberts?” Dr. Lavendar announced,calmly, when William was half-waythrough his story of concealed identities. “How did you guess it?” the doctorsaid, astonished; “oh, well, yes, I am. I guess there’s no harm telling you–““Not the slightest,” said Dr. Lavendar, “especially as I knew it alreadyfrom the young man–I mean, I knewshe wouldn’t have him. But I didn’t know why until your story dovetailedwith his. William, the thing hasfestered in her! The lancet ought to have been used the next day. I believe she’dhave been married by this time if she’d spoken out, then and there.” William King was much chagrined.“I thought, being a girl, you know, her pride, her self-respect–“ “Oh yes; the lancet hurts,” Dr.Lavendar admitted; “but it’s better than–well, I don’t know the termsof your trade, Willy-but I guess you know what I mean?” “I guess I do,” said William King,thoughtfully. “Do you suppose it’stoo late now?” “It will be more of an operation,”Dr. Lavendar conceded. “Could I tell him?” William said,after a while. “I don’t see why not,” Dr. Lavendarsaid. “I suppose I’d have to ask her permission?” “Nonsense!” said Dr. Lavendar. That talk between the physician ofthe soul and the physician of the body happened on the very night when JohnFenn, in his study in Perryville, with Mary dozing on his knee, threw over,once and for all, what he had called “submission” and made up his mind toget his girl! The very next morning he girded himself and walked forth uponthe Pike toward Henry Roberts’s house. He did not take Mary with him,–butnot because he meant to urge salvation on Miss Philly! As it happened, Dr.King, too, set out upon the Perryville road that morning, remarking to Jinnythat if he had had his wits about him that night in November, she wouldhave been saved the trip on this May morning. The trip was easy enough;William had found a medical pamphlet among his mail, and he was reading it,with the reins hanging from the crook of his elbow. It was owing to thismethod of driving that John Fennreached the Roberts house before Jinny passed it, so she went all the way toPerryville, and then had to turn round to follow on his track. “Brother went to see Miss Philly,and he wouldn’t take me,” Marycomplained to William King, when he drew up at the minister’s door; and thedoctor was sympathetic to the extent of five cents for candy comfort. But when Jinny reached the Robertsgate Dr. King saw John Fenn down in the garden with Philippa. “Ho-ho!”said William. “I guess I’ll wait and see if he works out his own salvation.”He hitched Jinny, and went in to find Philippa’s father, and to him he freedhis mind. The two men sat on theporch looking down over the topsof the lilac-bushes into the garden, where they could just see the heads ofthe two young, unhappy people. “It’s nonsense, you know,” saidWilliam King, “that Philly doesn’ttake that boy. He’s head over heels in love with her.” “She is not attached to him in anysuch manner,” Henry Roberts said;“I wonder a little at it, myself. He is a good youth.” The doctor looked at him wonderingly; it occurred to him that if he hada daughter he would understand herbetter than Philly’s father understood her. “I think the child cares for him,”he said; then, hesitatingly, he referred to John Fenn’s sickness. “I supposeyou know about it?” he said. Philly’s father bent his head; heknew, he thought, only too well; no divine revelation in a disordered digestion! “Don’t you think,” William Kingsaid, smiling, “you might try to make her feel that she is wrong not to accept him, now that the charm has worked,so to speak?” “The charm?” the old man repeated,vaguely. “I thought you understood,” thedoctor said, frowning; then, after a minute’s hesitation, he told him thefacts. Henry Roberts stared at him, shockedand silent; his girl, his Philippa, to have done such a thing! “So great asin–my little Philly!” he said, faintly. He was pale with distress. “My dear sir,” Dr. King protested,impatiently, “don’t talk about SINin connection with that child. I wish I’d held my tongue!” Henry Roberts was silent. Philippa’sshare in John Fenn’s mysteriousillness removed it still further from that revelation, waited for during all theseyears with such passionate patience. He paid no attention to William King’sreassurances; and his silence was so silencing that by and by the doctorstopped talking and looked down into the garden again. He observed thatthose two heads had not drawn anynearer together. It was not John Fenn’s fault…. “There can be no good reason,” hewas saying to Philippa. “If it is a bad reason, I will overcome it! Tell me why?” She put her hand up to her lips andtrembled. “Come,” he said; “it is my due,Philippa. I WILL know!” Philippa shook her head. He tookher other hand and stroked it, as one might stroke a child’s hand to comfortand encourage it. “You must tell me, beloved,” he said. Philippa looked at him with scaredeyes; then, suddenly pulling her hands from his and turning away, she coveredher face and burst into uncontrollable sobbing. He, confounded and frightened,followed her and tried to sootheher. “Never mind, Philly, never mind!if you don’t want to tell me–“ “I do want to tell you. I will tellyou! You will despise me. But I will tell you. I DID A WICKED DEED. It wasthis very plant-here, where we stand, monk’s-hood! It was poison. I didn’tknow–oh, I didn’t know. The booksaid monk’s-hood–it was a mistake. But I did a wicked deed. I tried tokill you–“ She swayed as she spoke, and thenseemed to sink down and down, until she lay, a forlorn little heap, at hisfeet. For one dreadful moment hethought she had lost her senses. He tried to lift her, saying, with agitation: “Philly! We will not speak of it–“ “I murdered you,” she whispered.“I put the charm into your tea, to make you… love me. You didn’t die.But it was murder. I meant–I meant no harm–“ He understood. He lifted her upand held her in his arms. Up on the porch William King saw that the twoheads were close together! “Why!” the young man said. “Why–but Philly! You loved me!” “What difference does that make?”she said, heavily. “It makes much difference to me,”he answered; he put his hand on her soft hair and tried to press her head down again on his shoulder. But she drew away. “No; no.” “But–” he began. She interruptedhim. “Listen,” she said; and then, sometimes in a whisper, sometimes breakinginto a sob, she told him the story of that November night. He could hardlyhear it through. “Love, you loved me! You willmarry me.” “No; I am a wicked girl–a–a–animmodest girl–“ “My beloved, you meant no wrong–“He paused, seeing that she was notlistening. Her father and the doctor were coming down the garden path; WilliamKing, beaming with satisfaction at the proximity of those two heads, had summoned Henry Roberts to “come alongand give ’em your blessing!” But as he reached them, standing nowapart, the doctor’s smile faded–evidently something had happened. JohnFenn, tense with distress, called to him with frowning command: “Doctor! Tellher, for heaven’s sake, tell her that it was nothing–that charm! Tell her shedid no wrong.” “No one can do that,” Henry Robertssaid; “it was a sin.” “Now, look here–” Dr. King began. “It was a sin to try to move by foolish arts the will of God.” Philippa turned to the young man,standing quivering beside her. “You see?” she said. “No! No, I don’t see–or if I do,never mind.” Just for a moment her face cleared.(Yes, truly, he was not thinking of her soul now!) But the gleam faded. “Oh,father, I am a great sinner,” shewhispered. “No, you’re not!” William King said. “Yes, my Philippa, you are,” HenryRoberts agreed, solemnly. The lover made a despairing gesture:“Doctor King! tell her ‘no!’ ‘no!’” “Yes,” her father went on, “it wasa sin. Therefore, Philippa, SIN NO MORE. Did you pray that this young man’slove might be given to you?” Philippa said, in a whisper, “Yes.” “And it was given to you?” “Yes.” “Philippa, was it the foolish weedthat moved him to love?” She wassilent. “My child, my Philly, it was your Saviour who moved the heart ofthis youth, because you asked Him.Will you do such despite to your Lord as to reject the gift he has given inanswer to your prayer?” Philippa, with parted lips, was listening intently: “The gift He had given!” Dr. King dared not speak. JohnFenn looked at him, and then at Philippa, and trembled. Except for thesound of a bird stirring in its nest overhead in the branches, a sunny stillnessbrooded over the garden. Then,suddenly, the stillness was shattered by a strange sound–a loud, cadencedchant, full of rhythmical repetitions. The three who heard it thrilled fromhead to foot; Henry Roberts did not seem to hear it: it came from his ownlips. “Oh, Philippa! Oh, Philippa! I dorequire–I do require that you accept your Saviour’s gift. Add not sin tosin. Oh, add not sin to sin by making prayer of no avail! Behold, He hasset before thee an open door. Oh, let no man shut it. Oh, let no man shutit….” The last word fell into a low, wailing note. No one spoke. The bird rustledin the leaves above them; a butterfly wavered slowly down to settle on apurple flag in the sunshine. Philly’s eyes filled with blessed tears. Shestretched out her arms to her father and smiled. But it was John Fenn whocaught those slender, trembling arms against his breast; and, looking overat the old man, he said, softly,“THE VOICE OF GOD.” … “and I,” said William King,telling the story that night to Dr. Lavendar–“I just wanted to say ‘thevoice of COMMON SENSE!’” “My dear William,” said the old man,gently, “the most beautiful thing in the world is the knowledge that comesto you, when you get to be as oldas I am, that they are the samething.”
