{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_2387/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_2387","id":"gutenberg_2387","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2387","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Clergy -- United States -- Fiction","Didactic fiction","Word of God (Christian theology) -- Fiction"],"text":"Produced by Judy Boss.  HTML version by Al Haines.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE VOICE\n\n\nBY\n\nMARGARET DELAND\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\"Dr. Lavendar,\" said William King, \"some time when Goliath is doing his\n2.40 on a plank road, don't you want to pull him up at that house on\nthe Perryville pike where the Grays used to live, and make a call?  An\nold fellow called Roberts has taken it; he is a--\"\n\n\"Teach your grandmother,\" said Dr. Lavendar; \"he is an Irvingite. He\ncomes from Lower Ripple, down on the Ohio, and he has a daughter,\nPhilippa.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Dr. King, \"you know 'em, do you?\"\n\n\"Know them? Of course I know them! Do you think you are the only man\nwho tries to enlarge his business? But I was not successful in my\nefforts. The old gentleman doesn't go to any church; and the young lady\ninclines to the Perryville meeting-house--the parson there is a nice\nboy.\"\n\n\"She is an attractive young creature,\" said the doctor, smiling at some\npleasant memory; \"the kind of girl a man would like to have for a\ndaughter. But did you ever know such an old-fashioned little thing!\"\n\n\"Well, she's like the girls I knew when I was the age of the Perryville\nparson, so I suppose you'd call her old-fashioned,\" Dr. Lavendar said.\n\"There aren't many such girls nowadays; sweet-tempered and sensible and\nwith some fun in 'em.\"\n\n\"Why don't you say 'good,' too?\" William King inquired.\n\n\"Unnecessary,\" Dr. Lavendar said, scratching Danny's ear; \"anybody who\nis amiable, sensible, and humorous is good. Can't help it.\"\n\n\"The father is good,\" William King said, \"but he is certainly not\nsensible. He's an old donkey, with his TONGUES and his VOICE!\"\n\nDr. Lavendar's face sobered.  \"No,\" he said, \"he may be an Irvingite,\nbut he isn't a donkey.\"\n\n\"What on earth is an Irvingite, anyhow?\" William asked.\n\nDr. Lavendar looked at him, pityingly: \"William, you are so\nridiculously young! Well, I suppose you can't help it.  My boy, about\nthe time you were born, there was a man in London--some folks called\nhim a saint, and some folks called him a fool; it's a way folks have\nhad ever since our Lord came into this world.  His name was Irving, and\nhe started a new sect.\"  (Dr. Lavendar was as open-minded as it is\npossible for one of his Church to be, but even he said \"sect\" when it\ncame to outsiders.)\n\n\"He started this new sect, which believed that the Holy Ghost would\nspeak again by human lips, just as on the Day of Pentecost.  Well,\nthere was 'speaking' in his congregation; sort of outbursts of\nexhortation, you know.  Mostly unintelligible.  I remember Dr.\nAlexander said it was 'gibberish'; he heard some of it when he was in\nLondon.  It may have been 'gibberish,' but nobody can doubt Irving's\nsincerity in thinking it was the Voice of God.  When he couldn't\nunderstand it, he just called it an 'unknown tongue.'  Of course he was\nconsidered a heretic.  He was put out of his Church.  He died soon\nafter, poor fellow.\"\n\n\"Doesn't Mr. Roberts's everlasting arguing about it tire you out?\"\nWilliam asked.\n\n\"Oh no,\" Dr. Lavendar said, cheerfully; \"when he talks too long I just\nshut my eyes; he never notices it! He's a gentle old soul.  When I\nanswer back--once in a while I really have to speak up for the\nProtestant Episcopal Church--I feel as if I had kicked Danny.\" William\nKing grinned.  Then he got up and, drawing his coat-tails forward,\nstood with his back to the jug of lilacs in Dr. Lavendar's fireplace.\n\"Oh, well, of course it's all bosh,\" he said, and yawned; \"I was on a\ncase till four o'clock this morning,\" he apologized.\n\n\"William,\" said Dr. Lavendar, admiringly, \"what an advantage you\nfellows have over us poor parsons! Everything a medical man doesn't\nunderstand is 'bosh'!  Now, we can't classify things as easily as that.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't care,\" William said, doggedly; \"from my point of view--\"\n\n\"From your point of view,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"St. Paul was an\nepileptic, because he heard a Voice?\"\n\n\"If you really want to know what I think--\"\n\n\"I don't,\" Dr. Lavendar said; \"I want you to know what I think.  Mr.\nRoberts hasn't heard any Voice, yet; he is only listening for it.\nWilliam, listening for the Voice of God isn't necessarily a sign of\npoor health; and provided a man doesn't set himself up to think he is\nthe only person his Heavenly Father is willing to speak to, listening\nwon't do him any harm.  As for Henry Roberts, he is a humble old man.\nAn example to me, William!  I am pretty arrogant once in a while. I\nhave to be, with such men as you in my congregation.  No; the real\ntrouble in that household is that girl of his.  It isn't right for a\nyoung thing to live in such an atmosphere.\"\n\nWilliam agreed sleepily.  \"Pretty creature. Wish I had a daughter just\nlike her,\" he said, and took himself off to make up for a broken\nnight's rest. But Dr. Lavendar and Danny still sat in front of the\nlilac-filled fireplace, and thought of old Henry Roberts listening for\nthe Voice of God, and of his Philippa. The father and daughter had\nlately taken a house on a road that wandered over the hills between\nelderberry-bushes and under sycamores, from Old Chester to Perryville.\nThey were about half-way between the two little towns, and they did not\nseem to belong to either.  Perryville's small manufacturing bustle\nrepelled the silent old man whom Dr. Lavendar called an \"Irvingite\";\nand Old Chester's dignity and dull aloofness repelled young Philippa.\nThe result was that the Robertses and their one woman servant, Hannah,\nhad been living on the Perryville pike for some months before anybody\nin either village was quite aware of their existence. Then one day in\nMay, Dr. Lavendar's sagging old buggy pulled up at their gate, and the\nold minister called over the garden wall to Philippa: \"Won't you give\nme some of your apple blossoms?\"\n\nThat was the beginning of Old Chester's knowledge of the Roberts\nfamily. A little later Perryville came to know them, too: the Rev. John\nFenn, pastor of the Perryville Presbyterian Church, got off his big,\nraw-boned Kentucky horse at the same little white gate in the brick\nwall at which Goliath had stopped, and walked solemnly--not noticing\nthe apple blossoms--up to the porch.  Henry Roberts was sitting there\nin the hot twilight, with a curious listening look in his face--a look\nof waiting expectation; it was so marked, that the caller involuntarily\nglanced over his shoulder to see if any other visitor was approaching;\nbut there was nothing to be seen in the dusk but the roan nibbling at\nthe hitching-post.  Mr. Fenn said that he had called to inquire whether\nMr. Roberts was a regular attendant at any place of worship.  To which\nthe old man replied gently that every place was a place of worship, and\nhis own house was the House of God. John Fenn was honestly dismayed at\nsuch sentiments--dismayed, and a little indignant; and yet, somehow,\nthe self-confidence of the old man daunted him. It made him feel very\nyoung, and there is nothing so daunting to Youth as to feel young.\nTherefore he said, venerably, that he hoped Mr. Roberts realized that\nit was possible to deceive oneself in such matters.  \"It is a dangerous\nthing to neglect the means of grace,\" he said.\n\n\"Surely it is,\" said Henry Roberts, meekly; after which there was\nnothing for the caller to do but offer the Irvingite a copy of the\n_American Messenger_ and take his departure.  He was so genuinely\nconcerned about Mr. Roberts's \"danger,\" that he did not notice Philippa\nsitting on a stool at her father's side. But Philippa noticed him.\n\nSo, after their kind, did these two shepherds of souls endeavor to\nestablish a relationship with Henry and Philippa Roberts.  And they\nwere equally successful.  Philippa gave her apple blossoms to the old\nminister,--and went to Mr. Fenn's church the very next Sunday.  Henry\nRoberts accepted the tracts with a simple belief in the kindly purpose\nof the young minister, and stayed away from both churches. But both\nfather and daughter were pleased by the clerical attentions:\n\n\"I love Dr. Lavendar,\" Philippa said to her father.\n\n\"I am obliged to Mr. Fenn,\" her father said to Philippa.  \"The youth,\"\nhe added, \"cares for my soul. I am obliged to any one who cares for my\nsoul.\"\n\nHe was, indeed, as Dr. Lavendar said, a man of humble mind; and yet\nwith his humbleness was a serene certainty of belief as to his soul's\nwelfare that would have been impossible to John Fenn, who measured\nevery man's chance of salvation by his own theological yardstick, or\neven to Dr. Lavendar, who thought salvation unmeasurable. But then\nneither of these two ministers had had Henry Roberts's experience. It\nwas very far back, that experience; it happened before Philippa was\nborn; and when they came to live between the two villages Philippa was\ntwenty-four years old....\n\nIt was in the thirties that young Roberts, a tanner in Lower Ripple,\nwent to England to collect a small bequest left him by a relative.  The\nsense of distance, the long weeks at sea in a sailing-vessel, the new\ncountry and the new people, all impressed themselves upon a very\nsensitive mind, a mind which, even without such emotional preparation,\nwas ready to respond to any deeply emotional appeal. Then came the\nappeal.  It was that new gospel of the Tongues, which, in those days,\nastounded and thrilled all London from the lips of Edward\nIrving--fanatic, saint, and martyr!--the man who, having prayed that\nGod would speak again in prophecy, would not deny the power of prayer\nby refusing to believe that his prayer was answered, even though the\nprophecy was unintelligible.  And later, when the passionate cadences\nof the spirit were in English, and were found to be only trite or\nfoolish words, repeated and repeated in a wailing chant by some\nsincere, hysterical woman, he still believed that a new day of\nPentecost had dawned upon a sinful world!  \"For,\" said he, \"when I\nasked for bread, would God give me a stone?\"\n\nHenry Roberts went to hear the great preacher and forgot his haste to\nreceive his little legacy so that he might hurry back to the tanyard.\nIrving's eloquence entranced him, and it alone would have held him\nlonger than the time he had allowed himself for absence from the\ntannery.  But it happened that he was present on that Lord's Day when,\nwith a solemn and dreadful sound, the Tongues first spoke in that dingy\nChapel in Regent Square, and no man who heard that Sound ever forgot\nit!  The mystical youth from America was shaken to his very soul. He\nstayed on in London for nearly a year, immersing himself in those tides\nof emotion which swept saner minds than his from the somewhat dry land\nof ordinary human experience.  That no personal revelation was made to\nhim, that the searing benediction of the Tongues had not touched his\nown awed, uplifted brow, made no difference: he believed!--and prayed\nGod to help any lingering unbelief that might be holding him back from\ndeeper knowledges. To the end of his days he was Edward Irving's\nfollower; and when he went back to America it was as a missionary of\nthe new sect, that called itself by the sounding title of The Catholic\nApostolic Church. In Lower Ripple he preached to any who would listen\nto him the doctrine of the new Pentecost.  At first curiosity brought\nhim hearers; his story of the Voice, dramatic and mysterious, was\nlistened to in doubting silence; then disapproved of--so hotly\ndisapproved of that he was sessioned and read out of Church.\n\nBut in those days in western Pennsylvania, mere living was too\nengrossing a matter for much thought of \"tongues\" and \"voices\"; it was\neasier, when a man talked of dreams and visions, not to argue with him,\nbut to say that he was \"crazy.\"  So by and by Henry Roberts's heresy\nwas forgotten and his religion merely smiled at.  Certainly it struck\nno roots outside his own heart.  Even his family did not share his\nbelief.  When he married, as he did when he was nearly fifty, his wife\nwas impatient with his Faith--indeed, fearful of it, and with\npersistent, nagging reasonableness urged his return to the respectable\npaths of Presbyterianism. To his pain, when his girl, his Philippa,\ngrew up she shrank from the emotion of his creed; she and her mother\nwent to the brick church under the locust-trees of Lower Ripple; and\nwhen her mother died Philippa went there alone, for Henry Roberts, not\nbeing permitted to bear witness in the Church, did so out of it, by\nsitting at home on the Sabbath day, in a bare upper chamber, waiting\nfor the manifestation of the Holy Spirit.  It never came.  The Tongues\nnever spoke.  Yet still, while the years passed, he waited,\nlistening--listening--listening; a kindly, simple old man with mystical\nbrown eyes, believing meekly in his own unworth to hear again that\nSound from Heaven, as of a rushing, mighty wind, that had filled the\nLondon Chapel, bowing human souls before it as a great wind bows the\nstanding corn!\n\nIt was late in the sixties that Henry Roberts brought this faith and\nhis Philippa to the stone house on the Perryville pike, where, after\nsome months had passed, they were discovered by the old and the young\nministers.  The two clergymen met once or twice in their calls upon the\nnew-comer, and each acquired an opinion of the other: John Fenn said to\nhimself that the old minister was a good man, if he was an\nEpiscopalian; and Dr. Lavendar said to William King that he hoped there\nwould be a match between the \"theolog\" and Philippa.\n\n\"The child ought to be married and have a dozen children,\" he said;\n\"although Fenn's little sister will do to begin on--she needs mothering\nbadly enough.  Yes, Miss Philly ought to be making smearkase and\napple-butter for that pale and excellent young man. He intimated that I\nwas a follower of the Scarlet Woman because I wore a surplice.\"\n\n\"Now look here! I draw the line at that sort of talk,\" the doctor said;\n\"he can lay down the law to me, all he wants to; but when it comes to\ninstructing you--\"\n\n\"Oh, well, he's young,\" Dr. Lavendar soothed him; \"you can't expect him\nnot to know everything at his age.\"\n\n\"He's a squirt,\" said William. In those days in Old Chester middle age\nwas apt to sum up its opinion of youth in this expressive word.\n\n\"We were all squirts once,\" said Dr. Lavendar, \"and very nice boys we\nwere, too--at least I was.  Yes, I hope the youngster will see what a\nsweet creature old Roberts's Philippa is.\"\n\nShe was a sweet creature; but as William King said, she was amusingly\nold-fashioned. The Old Chester girl of those days, who seems (to look\nback upon her in these days) so medieval, was modern compared to\nPhilippa!  But there was nothing mystical about her; she was just\nmodest and full of pleasant silences and soft gaieties and simple,\nstartling truth-telling.  At first, when they came to live near\nPerryville, she used, when the weather was fine, to walk over the\ngrassy road, under the brown and white branches of the sycamores, into\nOld Chester, to Dr. Lavendar's church.  \"I like to come to your\nchurch,\" she told him, \"because you don't preach quite such long\nsermons as Mr. Fenn does.\"  But when it rained or was very hot she\nchose the shorter walk and sat under John Fenn, looking up at his pale,\nascetic face, lighted from within by his young certainties concerning\nthe old ignorances of people like Dr. Lavendar--life and death and\neternity.  Of Dr. Lavendar's one certainty, Love, he was deeply\nignorant, this honest boy, who was so concerned for Philippa's father's\nsoul!  But Philippa did not listen much to his certainties; she coaxed\nhis little sister into her pew, and sat with the child cuddled up\nagainst her, watching her turn over the leaves of the hymn-book or\ntrying to braid the fringe of Miss Philly's black silk mantilla into\nlittle pigtails.  Sometimes Miss Philly would look up at the careworn\nyoung face in the pulpit and think how holy Mary's brother was, and how\nlearned--and how shabby; for he had only a housekeeper, Mrs. Semple, to\ntake care of him and Mary. Not but what he might have had somebody\nbesides Mrs. Semple!  Philippa, for all her innocence, could not help\nbeing aware that he might have had--almost anybody!  For others of\nPhilly's sex watched the rapt face there in the pulpit. When Philippa\nthought of that, a slow blush used to creep up to her very temples.\nShe saw him oftener in the pulpit than out of it, because when he came\nto call on her father she was apt not to be present. At first he came\nvery frequently to see the Irvingite, because he felt it his duty to\n\"deal\" with him; but he made so little impression that he foresaw the\ntime when it would be necessary to say that Ephraim was joined to his\nidols. But though it might be right to \"let him alone,\" he could not\nstop calling at Henry Roberts's house; \"for,\" he reminded himself, \"the\nbelieving daughter may sanctify the unbelieving father!\"  He said this\nonce to Dr. Lavendar, when his roan and old Goliath met in a narrow\nlane and paused to let their masters exchange a word or two.\n\n\"But do you know what the believing daughter believes?\" said Dr.\nLavendar. He wiped his forehead with his red bandanna, for it was a hot\nday; then he put his old straw hat very far back on his head and looked\nat the young man with a twinkle in his eye, which, considering the\nseriousness of their conversation, was discomfiting; but, after all, as\nJohn Fenn reminded himself, Dr. Lavendar was very old, and so might be\nforgiven if his mind was lacking in seriousness.  As for his question\nof what the daughter believed: \"I think--I hope,\" said the young\nminister, \"that she is sound.  She comes to my church quite regularly.\"\n\"But she comes to my church quite irregularly,\" Dr. Lavendar warned\nhim; and there was another of those disconcerting twinkles.\n\nThe boy looked at him with honest, solemn eyes.  \"I still believe that\nshe is sound,\" he said, earnestly.\n\nDr. Lavendar blew his nose with a flourish of the red bandanna.  \"Well,\nperhaps she is, perhaps she is,\" he said, gravely. But the reassurance\nof that \"perhaps\" did not make for John Fenn's peace of mind; he could\nnot help asking himself whether Miss Philippa WAS a \"believing\ndaughter.\"  She did not, he was sure, share her father's heresies, but\nperhaps she was indifferent to them? which would be a grievous thing!\nAnd certainly, as the old minister had declared, she did go\n\"irregularly\" to the Episcopal Church.  John Fenn wished that he was\nsure of Miss Philippa's state of mind; and at last he said to himself\nthat it was his duty to find out about it, so, with his little sister\nbeside him, he started on a round of pastoral calls.  He found Miss\nPhilly sitting in the sunshine on the lowest step of the front\nporch--and it seemed to Mary that there was a good deal of delay in\ngetting at the serious business of play; \"for brother talks so much,\"\nshe complained.  But \"brother\" went on talking.  He told Miss Philippa\nthat he understood she went sometimes to Old Chester to church?\n\n\"Sometimes,\" she said.\n\n\"I do not mean,\" he said, hesitatingly, \"to speak uncharitably, but we\nall know that Episcopacy is the handmaid of Papistry.\"\n\n\"Do we?\" Philly asked, with grave eyes.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Mr. Fenn. \"But even if Dr. Lavendar's teachings are\ndefective,\"--Mary plucked at his sleeve, and sighed loudly; \"(no,\nMary!)--even if his teachings are defective, he is a good man according\nto his lights; I am sure of that.  Still, do you think it well to\nattend a place of worship when you cannot follow the pastor's\nteachings?\"\n\n\"I love him. And I don't listen to what he says,\" she excused herself.\n\n\"But you should listen to what ministers say,\" the shocked young man\nprotested--\"at least to ministers of the right faith. But you should\nnot go to church because you love ministers.\"\n\nPhilippa's face flamed. \"I do not love--most of them.\"\n\nMary, leaning against the girl's knee, looked up anxiously into her\nface.  \"Do you love brother?\" she said.\n\nThey were a pretty pair, the child and the girl, sitting there on the\nporch with the sunshine sifting down through the lacy leaves of the two\nbig locusts on either side of the door.  Philippa wore a pink and green\npalm-leaf chintz; it had six ruffles around the skirt and was gathered\nvery full about her slender waist; her lips were red, and her cheeks\nand even her neck were delicately flushed; her red-brown hair was\nblowing all about her temples; Mary had put an arm around her and was\ncuddling against her. Yes, even Mary's brother would have thought the\ntwo young things a pretty sight had there been nothing more serious to\nthink of.  But John Fenn's thoughts were so very serious that even\nMary's question caused him no embarrassment; he merely said, stiffly,\nthat he would like to see Miss Philippa alone.  \"You may wait here,\nMary,\" he told his little sister, who frowned and sighed and went out\nto the gate to pull a handful of grass for the roan.\n\nPhilippa led her caller to her rarely used parlor, and sat down to\nlisten in silent pallor to his exhortations.  She made no explanations\nfor not coming to his church regularly; she offered no excuse of filial\ntenderness for her indifference to her father's mistaken beliefs; she\nlooked down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap, then out of the\nwindow at the big roan biting at the hitching-post or standing very\nstill to let Mary rub his silky nose.  But John Fenn looked only at\nPhilippa.  Of her father's heresies he would not, he said, do more than\nremind her that the wiles of the devil against her soul might present\nthem-selves through her natural affections; but in regard to her\nfailure to wait upon the means of grace he spoke without mercy, for, he\nsaid, \"faithful are the wounds of a friend.\"\n\n\"Are you my friend?\" Philly asked, lifting her gray eyes suddenly.\n\nMr. Fenn was greatly confused; the text-books of the Western Seminary\nhad not supplied him with the answer to such a question.  He explained,\nhurriedly, that he was the friend of all who wished for salvation.\n\n\"I do not especially wish for it,\" Philippa said, very low.\n\nFor a moment John Fenn was silent with horror.  \"That one so young\nshould be so hardened!\" he thought; aloud, he bade her remember hell\nfire. He spoke with that sad and simple acceptance of the fact with\nwhich, even less than fifty years ago, men humbled themselves before\nthe mystery which they had themselves created, of divine injustice.\nShe must know, he said, his voice trembling with sincerity, that those\nwho slighted the offers of grace were cast into outer darkness?\n\nPhilly said, softly, \"Maybe.\"\n\n\"'Maybe?'  Alas, it is, certainly! Oh, why, WHY do you absent yourself\nfrom the house of God?\" he said, holding out entreating hands.\nPhilippa made no reply.  \"Let us pray!\" said the young man; and they\nknelt down side by side in the shadowy parlor.  John Fenn lifted his\nharsh, melancholy face, gazing upward passionately, while he wrestled\nfor her salvation; Philly, looking downward, tracing with a trembling\nfinger the pattern of the beadwork on the ottoman before which she\nknelt, listened with an inward shiver of dismay and ecstasy. But when\nthey rose to their feet she had nothing to say. He, too, was silent.\nHe went away quite exhausted by his struggle with this impassive,\nunresisting creature.\n\nHe hardly spoke to Mary all the way home.  \"A hardened sinner,\" he was\nthinking.  \"Poor, lovely creature! So young and so lost!\"  Under Mary's\nincessant chatter, her tugs at the end of the reins, her little bursts\nof joy at the sight of a bird or a roadside flower, he was thinking,\nwith a strange new pain--a pain no other sinner had ever roused in\nhim--of the girl he had left.  He knew that his arguments had not moved\nher.  \"I believe,\" he thought, the color rising in his face, \"that she\ndislikes me!  She says she loves Dr. Lavendar; yes, she must dislike\nme. Is my manner too severe?  Perhaps my appearance is unattractive.\"\nHe looked down at his coat uneasily.\n\nAs for Philly, left to herself, she picked up a bit of sewing, and her\nface, at first pale, grew slowly pink. \"He only likes sinners,\" she\nthought; \"and, oh, I am not a sinner!\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nAfter that on Sabbath mornings Philippa sat with her father, in the\nsilent upper chamber.  At first Henry Roberts,\nlistening--listening--for the Voice, thought, rapturously, that at the\neleventh hour he was to win a soul--the most precious soul in his\nworld!--to his faith.  But when, after a while, he questioned her, he\nsaw that this was not so; she stayed away from other churches, but not\nbecause she cared for his church. This troubled him, for the faith he\nhad outgrown was better than no faith.\n\n\"Do you have doubts concerning the soundness of either of the\nministers--the old man or the young man?\" he asked her, looking at her\nwith mild, anxious eyes.\n\n\"Oh no, sir,\" Philly said, smiling.\n\n\"Do you dislike them--the young man or the old man?\"\n\n\"Oh no, father.  I love--one of them.\"\n\n\"Then why not go to his church? Either minister can give you the seeds\nof salvation; one not less than the other.  Why not sit under either\nministry?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" Philippa said, faintly.\n\nAnd indeed she did not know why she absented herself. She only knew two\nthings: that the young man seemed to disapprove of the old man; and\nwhen she saw the young man in the pulpit, impersonal and holy, she\nsuffered. Therefore she would not go to hear either man.\n\nWhen Dr. Lavendar came to call upon her father, he used to glance at\nPhilippa sometimes over his spectacles while Henry Roberts was arguing\nabout prophecies; but he never asked her why she stayed away from\nchurch; instead, he talked to her about John Fenn, and he seemed\npleased when he heard that the young man was doing his duty in making\npastoral calls.  \"And I--I, unworthy as I was!\" Henry Roberts would\nsay, \"I heard the Voice, speaking through a sister's lips; and it said:\nOh, sinner! for what, for what, what can separate, separate, from the\nlove... Oh, nothing.  Oh, nothing.  Oh, nothing.\"\n\nHe would stare at Dr. Lavendar with parted lips.  \"I HEARD IT,\" he\nwould say, in a whisper.\n\nAnd Dr. Lavendar, bending his head gravely, would be silent for a\nrespectful moment, and then he would look at Philippa.  \"You are\nteaching Fenn's sister to sew?\" he would say. \"Very nice! Very nice!\"\n\nPhilly saw a good deal of the sister that summer; the young minister,\nrecognizing Miss Philippa's fondness for Mary, and remembering a text\nas to the leading of a child, took pains to bring the little girl to\nHenry Roberts's door once or twice a week; and as August burned away\ninto September Philippa's pleasure in her was like a soft wind blowing\non the embers of her heart and kindling a flame for which she knew no\nname. She thought constantly of Mary, and had many small anxieties\nabout her--her dress, her manners, her health; she even took the child\ninto Old Chester one day to get William King to pull a little loose\nwhite tooth.  Philly shook very much during the operation and mingled\nher tears with Mary's in that empty and bleeding moment that follows\nthe loss of a tooth.  She was so passionately tender with the little\ngirl that the doctor told Dr. Lavendar that his match-making scheme\nseemed likely to prosper--\"she's so fond of the sister, you should have\nheard her sympathize with the little thing!--that I think she will\nsmile on the brother,\" he said.\n\n\"I'm afraid the brother hasn't cut his wisdom teeth yet,\" Dr. Lavendar\nsaid, doubtfully; \"if he had, you might pull them, and she could\nsympathize with him; then it would all arrange itself. Well, he's a\nnice boy, a nice boy;--and he won't know so much when he gets a little\nolder.\"\n\nIt was on the way home from Dr. King's that Philippa's feeling of\nresponsibility about Mary brought her a sudden temptation.  They were\nwalking hand in hand along the road.  The leaves on the mottled\nbranches of the sycamores were thinning now, and the sunshine fell warm\nupon the two young things, who were still a little shaken from the\nfrightful experience of tooth-pulling.  The doctor had put the small\nwhite tooth in a box and gravely presented it to Mary, and now, as they\nwalked along, she stopped sometimes to examine it and say, proudly, how\nshe had \"bleeded and bleeded!\"\n\n\"Will you tell brother the doctor said I behaved better than the circus\nlion when his tooth was pulled?\"\n\n\"Indeed I will, Mary!\"\n\n\"An' he said he'd rather pull my tooth than a lion's tooth?\"\n\n\"Of course I'll tell him.\"\n\n\"Miss Philly, shall I dream of my tooth, do you suppose?\"\n\nPhilippa laughed and said she didn't know.\n\n\"I hope I will; it means something nice.  I forget what, now.\"\n\n\"Dreams don't mean anything, Mary.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, they do!\" the child assured her, skipping along with one arm\nround the girl's slender waist.  \"Mrs. Semple has a dream-book, and she\nreads it to me every day, an' she reads me what my dreams mean.\nSometimes I haven't any dreams,\" Mary admitted, regretfully, \"but she\nreads all the same. Did you ever dream about a black ox walking on its\nback legs?  I never did. I don't want to.  It means trouble.\"\n\n\"Goosey!\" said Miss Philippa.\n\n\"If you dream of the moon,\" Mary went on, happily, \"it means you are\ngoing to have a beau who'll love you.\"\n\n\"Little girls mustn't talk about love,\" Philippa said, gravely; but the\ncolor came suddenly into her face.  To dream of the moon means--Why!\nbut only the night before she had dreamed that she had been walking in\nthe fields and had seen the moon rise over shocks of corn that stood\nagainst the sky like the plumed heads of Indian warriors!  \"Such things\nare foolish, Mary,\" Miss Philly said, her cheeks very pink.  And while\nMary chattered on about Mrs. Semple's book Philippa was silent,\nremembering how yellow the great flat disk of the moon had been in her\ndream; how it pushed up from behind the black edge of the world, and\nhow, suddenly, the misty stubble-field was flooded with its strange\nlight:--\"you are going to have a beau!\"\n\nPhilippa wished she might see the book, just to know what sort of\nthings were read to Mary.  \"It isn't right to read them to the child,\"\nshe thought; \"it's a foolish book, Mary,\" she said, aloud.  \"I never\nsaw such a book.\"\n\n\"I'll bring it the next time I come,\" Mary promised.\n\n\"Oh no, no,\" Philly said, a little breathlessly; \"it's a wrong book. I\ncouldn't read such a book, except--except to tell you how foolish and\nwrong it is.\"\n\nMary was not concerned with her friend's reasons; but she remembered to\nbring the ragged old book with her the very next time her brother\ndropped her at Mr. Roberts's gate to spend an hour with Miss Philippa.\nThere had to be a few formal words between the preacher and the sinner\nbefore Mary had entire possession of her playmate, but when her brother\ndrove away, promising to call for her later in the afternoon, she\nbecame so engrossed in the important task of picking hollyhock seeds\nthat she quite forgot the dream-book.  The air was hazy with autumn,\nand full of the scent of fallen leaves and dew-drenched grass and of\nthe fresh tan-bark on the garden paths.  On the other side of the road\nwas a corn-field, where the corn stood in great shocks.  Philly looked\nover at it, and drew a quick breath,--her dream!\n\n\"Did you bring that foolish book?\" she said.\n\nMary, slapping her pocket, laughed loudly.  \"I 'most forgot! Yes,\nma'am; I got it.  I'll show what it says about the black ox--\"\n\n\"No; you needn't,\" Miss Philly said; \"you pick some more seeds for me,\nand I'll--just look at it.\"  She touched the stained old book with\nshrinking fingertips; the moldering leather cover and the odor of\nsoiled and thumb-marked leaves offended her.  The first page was folded\nover, and when she spread it out, the yellowing paper cracked along its\nancient creases; it was a map, with the signs of the Zodiac; in the\nmiddle was a single verse:\n\n  Mortal! Wouldst thou scan aright\n  Dreams and visions of the night?\n  Wouldst thou future secrets learn\n  And the fate of dreams discern?\n  Wouldst thou ope the Curtain dark\n  And thy future fortune mark?\n  Try the mystic page, and read\n  What the vision has decreed.\n\nPhilly, holding her red lip between her teeth, turned the pages:\n\n\"MONEY. TO DREAM OF FINDING MONEY; MOURNING AND LOSS.\n\n\"MONKEY. YOU HAVE SECRET ENEMIES.\n\n\"MOON.\"  (Philippa shivered.)  \"A GOOD OMEN; IT DENOTES COMING JOY.\nGREAT SUCCESS IN LOVE.\"\n\nShe shut the book sharply, then opened it again.  Such books sometimes\ntold (so foolishly!) of charms which would bring love.  She looked\nfurtively at Mary; but the child, pulling down a great hollyhock to\npick the fuzzy yellow disks, was not noticing Miss Philly's interest in\nthe \"foolish book.\" Philippa turned over the pages.  Yes; the charms\nwere there!...\n\nInstructions for making dumb-cake, to cut which reveals a lover: \"ANY\nNUMBER OF YOUNG FEMALES SHALL TAKE A HANDFUL OF WHEATEN FLOUR--\"  That\nwas no use; there were too many females as it was!\n\n\"TO KNOW WHETHER A MAN SHALL HAVE THE WOMAN HE WISHES.\" Philippa\nsighed. Not that.  A holy man does not \"wish\" for a woman.\n\n\"A CHARM TO CHARM A MAN'S LOVE.\" The blood suddenly ran tingling in\nPhilly's veins.  \"LET A YOUNG MAID PICK OF ROSEMARY TWO ROOTS; OF\nMONK'S-HOOD--\"\n\nA line had been drawn through this last word, and another word written\nabove it; but the ink was so faded, the page so woolly and thin with\nuse, that it was impossible to decipher the correction; perhaps it was\n\"mother-wort,\" an herb Philly did not know; or it might be \"mandrake\"?\nIt looked as much like one as the other, the writing was so blurred and\ndim.  \"It is best to take what the book says,\" Philly said, simply;\n\"besides, I haven't those other things in the garden, and I have\nmonk's-hood and rosemary--if I should want to do it, just for fun.\"\n\n\"OF MONK'S-HOOD TWO ROOTS, AND OF THE FLOWER OF CORN TEN THREADS; LET\nHER SLEEP ON THEM ONE NIGHT.  IN THE MORNING, LET HER SET THEM ON HER\nHEART AND WALK BACKWARDS TEN STEPS, PRAYING FOR THE LOVE OF HER\nBELOVED.  LET HER THEN STEEP AND BOIL THESE THINGS IN FOUR GILLS OF\nPURE WATER ON WHICH THE MOON HAS SHONE FOR ONE NIGHT.  WHEN SHE SHALL\nADD THIS PHILTER TO THE DRINK OF THE ONE WHO LOVES HER NOT, HE SHALL\nLOVE THE FEMALE WHO MEETS HIS EYE FIRST AFTER THE DRINKING THEREOF.\nTHEREFORE LET THE YOUNG MAID BE INDUSTRIOUS TO STAND BEFORE HIM WHEN HE\nSHALL DRINK IT.\"\n\n\"There is no harm in it,\" said Philly.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\"Somebody making herb tea and stealing my business?\" said William King,\nin his kindly voice; he had called to see old Hannah, who had been laid\nup for a day or two, and he stopped at the kitchen door to look in.\nHenry Roberts, coming from the sitting-room to join him, asked his\nquestion, too:\n\n\"What is this smell of herbs, Philippa? Are you making a drink for\nHannah?\" \"Oh no, father,\" Philly said, briefly, her face very pink.\n\nWilliam King sniffed and laughed. \"Ah, I see you don't give away your\nsecrets to a rival,\" he said; and added, pleasantly, \"but don't give\nyour tea to Hannah without telling me what it is.\"\n\nMiss Philippa said, dutifully, \"Oh no, sir.\"  But she did not tell him\nwhat the \"tea\" was, and certainly she offered none of it to old Hannah.\nAll that day there was a shy joyousness about her, with sudden soft\nblushes, and once or twice a little half-frightened laugh; there was a\npuzzled look, too, in her face, as if she was not quite sure just what\nshe was going to do, or rather, how she was going to do it.  And, of\ncourse, that was the difficulty.  How could she \"add the philter to the\ndrink of one who loved her not\"?\n\nYet it came about simply enough. John Fenn had lately felt it borne in\nupon him that it was time to make another effort to deal with Henry\nRoberts; perhaps, he reasoned, to show concern about the father's soul\nmight touch the daughter's hardened heart.  It was when he reached this\nconclusion that he committed the extravagance of buying a new coat.  So\nit happened that that very afternoon, while the house was still pungent\nwith the scent of steeping herbs, he came to Henry Roberts's door, and\nknocked solemnly, as befitted his errand; (but as he heard her step in\nthe hall he passed an anxious hand over a lapel of the new coat).  Her\nfather, she said, was not at home; would Mr. Fenn come in and wait for\nhim? Mr. Fenn said he would.  And as he always tried, poor boy! to be\ninstant in season and out of season, he took the opportunity, while he\nwaited for her father and she brought him a glass of wine and a piece\nof cake, to reprove her again for absence from church.  But she was so\nmeek that he found it hard to inflict those \"faithful wounds\" which\nshould prove his friendship for her soul; she sat before him on the\nslippery horsehair sofa in the parlor, her hands locked tightly\ntogether in her lap, her eyes downcast, her voice very low and\ntrembling.  She admitted her backslidings: she acknowledged her errors;\nbut as for coming to church--she shook her head:\n\n\"Please, I won't come to church yet.\"\n\n\"You mean you will come, sometime?\"\n\n\"Yes; sometime.\"\n\n\"Behold, NOW is the accepted time!\"\n\n\"I will come... afterwards.\"\n\n\"After what?\" he insisted.\n\n\"After--\" she said, and paused. Then suddenly lifted bold, guileless\neyes: \"After you stop caring for my soul.\"\n\nJohn Fenn caught his breath.  Something, he did not know what, seemed\nto jar him rudely from that pure desire for her salvation; he said,\nstumblingly, that he would ALWAYS care for her soul!--\"for--for any\none's soul.\" And was she quite well?  His voice broke with tenderness.\nShe must be careful to avoid the chill of these autumnal afternoons;\n\"you are pale,\" he said, passionately--\"don't--oh, don't be so pale!\"\nIt occurred to him that if she waited for him \"not to care\" for her\nsalvation, she might die in her sins; die before coming to the gate of\nheaven, which he was so anxious to open to her!\n\nPhilippa did not see his agitation; she was not looking at him.  She\nonly said, softly, \"Perhaps you will stay to tea?\"\n\nHe answered quickly that he would be pleased to do so.  In the\nsimplicity of his saintly egotism it occurred to him that the religious\npleasure of entertaining him might be a means of grace to her.  When\nshe left him in the dusk of the chilly room to go and see to the\nsupper, he fell into silent prayer for the soul that did not desire his\ncare.\n\nHenry Roberts, summoned by his daughter to entertain the guest until\nsupper was ready, found him sitting in the darkness of the parlor; the\nold man was full of hospitable apologies for his Philippa's\nforgetfulness; \"she did not remember the lamp!\" he lamented; and making\nhis way through the twilight of the room, he took off the prism-hung\nshade of the tall astral lamp on the center-table, and fumbled for a\nmatch to light the charred and sticky wick; there were very few\noccasions in this plain household when it was worth while to light the\nbest lamp!  This was one of them, for in those days the office\ndignified the man to a degree that is hardly understood now.  But Henry\nRoberts's concern was not entirely a matter of social propriety; it was\na desire to propitiate this young man who was living in certain errors\nof belief, so that he would be in a friendly attitude of mind and open\nto the arguments which were always burning on the lips of Edward\nIrving's follower. He did not mean to begin them until they were at\nsupper; so he and John Fenn sat in silence waiting Philippa's summons\nto the dining-room.  Neither of them had any small talk; Mr. Roberts\nwas making sure that he could trust his memory to repeat those wailing\ncadences of the Voice, and John Fenn, still shaken by something he\ncould not understand that had been hidden in what he understood too\nwell--a sinner's indifference to grace--was trying to get back to his\nserene, impersonal arrogance.\n\nAs for Philippa, she was frightened at her temerity in having invited\nthe minister to a Hannahless supper; her flutter of questions as to\n\"what\" and \"how\" brought the old woman from her bed, in spite of the\ngirl's half-hearted protests that she \"mustn't think of getting up!\nJust tell me what to do,\" she implored, \"I can manage. We are going to\nhave--TEA!\"\n\n\"We always have tea,\" Hannah said, sourly; yet she was not really sour,\nfor, like William King and Dr. Lavendar, Hannah had discerned\npossibilities in the Rev. John Fenn's pastoral visits. \"Get your\nSunday-go-to-meeting dress on,\" she commanded, hunching a shawl over a\nrheumatic shoulder and motioning the girl out of the kitchen.\n\nPhilippa, remorseful and breathless, ran quickly up to her room to put\non her best frock, smooth her shining hair down in two loops over her\nears, and pin her one adornment, a flat gold brooch, on the bosom of\nher dress.  She lifted her candle and looked at herself in the black\ndepths of the little swinging glass on her high bureau, and her face\nfell into sudden wistful lines. \"Oh, I do not look wicked,\" she\nthought, despairingly.\n\nJohn Fenn, glancing at her across the supper-table, had some such\nthought himself; how strange that one who was so perverted in belief\nshould not betray perversion in her countenance.  \"On the contrary, her\nface is pleasing,\" he said, simply.  He feared, noticing the brooch,\nthat she was vain, as well as indifferent to her privileges; he\nwondered if she had observed his new coat.\n\nPhilippa's vanity did not, at any rate, give her much courage; she\nscarcely spoke, except to ask him whether he took cream and sugar in\nhis tea.  When she handed his cup to him, she said, very low, \"Will you\ntaste it, and see if it is right?\"\n\nHe was so conscious of the tremor of her voice and hand that he made\nhaste to reassure her, sipping his tea with much politeness of manner;\nas he did so, she said, suddenly, and with compelling loudness, \"Is\nit--agreeable?\"\n\nJohn Fenn, startled, looked at her over the rim of his cup.  \"Very;\nvery indeed,\" he said, quickly.  But he instantly drank some water. \"It\nis, perhaps, a little strong,\" he said, blinking. Then, having\nqualified his politeness for conscience' sake, he drank all the bitter\ntea for human kindness' sake--for evidently Miss Philippa had taken\npains to give him what he might like.  After that she did not speak,\nbut her face grew very rosy while she sat in silence listening to her\nfather and their guest. Henry Roberts forgot to eat, in the passion of\nhis theological arguments, but as supper proceeded he found his\nantagonist less alert than usual; the minister defended his own\ndoctrines instead of attacking those of his host; he even admitted, a\nlittle listlessly, that if the Power fell upon him, if he himself spoke\nin a strange tongue, then perhaps he would believe--\"that is, if I\ncould be sure I was not out of my mind at the time,\" he qualified,\ndully.  Philippa took no part in the discussion; it would not have been\nthought becoming in her to do so; but indeed, she hardly heard what the\ntwo men were saying. She helped old Hannah carry away the dishes, and\nthen sat down by the table and drew the lamp near her so that she could\nsew; she sat there smiling a little, dimpling even, and looking down at\nher seam; she did not notice that John Fenn was being worsted, or that\nonce he failed altogether to reply, and sat in unprotesting silence\nunder Henry Roberts's rapt remembrances. A curious blackness had\nsettled under his eyes, and twice he passed his hand across his lips.\n\n\"They are numb,\" he said, in surprised apology to his host.  A moment\nlater he shivered violently, beads of sweat burst out on his forehead,\nand the color swept from his face. He started up, staring wildly about\nhim; he tried to speak, but his words stumbled into incoherent\nbabbling. It was all so sudden, his rising, then falling back into his\nchair, then slipping sidewise and crumpling up upon the floor, all the\nwhile stammering unmeaning words--that Henry Roberts sat looking at him\nin dumb amazement. It was Philippa who cried out and ran forward to\nhelp him, then stopped midway, her hands clutched together at her\nthroat, her eyes dilating with a horror that seemed to paralyze her so\nthat she was unable to move to his assistance.  The shocked silence of\nthe moment was broken by Fenn's voice, trailing on and on, in totally\nunintelligible words.\n\nHenry Roberts, staring open-mouthed, suddenly spoke: \"The VOICE!\" he\nsaid. But Philippa, as though she were breaking some invisible bond\nthat held her, groaning even with the effort of it, said, in a whisper:\n\"No. Not that. He is dying.  Don't you see? That's what it is.  He is\ndying.\"\n\nHer father, shocked from his ecstasy, ran to John Fenn's side, trying\nto lift him and calling upon him to say what was the matter.\n\n\"He is going to die,\" said Philippa, monotonously.\n\nHenry Roberts, aghast, calling loudly to old Hannah, ran to the kitchen\nand brought back a great bowl of hot water. \"Drink it!\" he said. \"Drink\nit, I tell ye! I believe you're poisoned!\"\n\nAnd while he and Hannah bent over the unconscious young man, Philippa\nseemed to come out of her trance; slowly, with upraised hands, and head\nbent upon her breast, she stepped backward, backward, out of the room,\nout of the house.  On the doorstep, in the darkness, she paused and\nlistened for several minutes to certain dreadful sounds in the house.\nThen, suddenly, a passion of purpose swept the daze of horror away.\n\n\"HE SHALL NOT DIE,\" she said.\n\nShe flung her skirt across her arm that her feet might not be hampered,\nand fled down the road toward Old Chester.  It was very dark. At first\nher eyes, still blurred with the lamplight, could not distinguish the\nfootpath, and she stumbled over the grassy border into the wheel-ruts;\nthen, feeling the loose dust under her feet, she ran and ran and ran.\nThe blood began to sing in her ears; once her throat seemed to close so\nthat she could not breathe, and for a moment she had to walk,--but her\nhands, holding up her skirts, trembled with terror at the delay. The\nroad was very dark under the sycamore-trees; twice she tripped and fell\ninto the brambles at one side or against a gravelly bank on the other.\nBut stumbling somehow to her feet, again she ran and ran and ran.  The\nnight was very still; she could hear her breath tearing her throat;\nonce she felt something hot and salty in her mouth; it was then she had\nto stop and walk for a little space--she must walk or fall down!  And\nshe could not fall down, no! no! no! he would die if she fell down!\nOnce a figure loomed up in the haze, and she caught the glimmer of an\ninquisitive eye.  \"Say,\" a man's voice said, \"where are you bound for?\"\nThere was something in the tone that gave her a stab of fright; for a\nminute or two her feet seemed to fly, and she heard a laugh behind her\nin the darkness:  \"What's your hurry?\" the voice called after her.  And\nstill she ran.  But she was saying to herself that she must STOP; she\nmust stand still just for a moment.  \"Oh, just for a minute?\" her body\nwhimperingly entreated; she would not listen to it!  She must not\nlisten, even though her heart burst with the strain.  But her body had\nits way, and she fell into a walk, although she was not aware of it.\nIn a gasping whisper she was saying, over and over: \"Doctor, hurry;\nhe'll die; hurry; I killed him.\"  She tried to be silent, but her lips\nmoved mechanically. \"Doctor, hurry; he'll--Oh, I MUSTN'T talk!\" she\ntold herself, \"it takes my breath\"--but still her lips moved. She began\nto run, heavily.  \"I can't talk--if--I--run--\"  It was then that she\nsaw a glimmer of light and knew that she was almost in Old Chester.\nVery likely she would have fallen if she had not seen that far-off\nwindow just when she did.\n\nAt William King's house she dropped against the door, her fingers still\nclinging to the bell.  She was past speaking when the doctor lifted her\nand carried her into the office.  \"No; don't try to tell me what it\nis,\" he said; \"I'll put Jinny into the buggy, and we'll get back in a\njiffy. I understand; Hannah is worse.\"\n\n\"Not... Hannah--\"\n\n\"Your father?\" he said, picking up his medicine-case.\n\n\"Not father; Mr.--Fenn--\"\n\nAs the doctor hurried out to the stable to hitch up he bade his wife\nput certain remedies into his bag,--\"and look after that child,\" he\ncalled over his shoulder to his efficient Martha. She was so efficient\nthat when he had brought Jinny and the buggy to the door, Philly was\nable to gasp out that Mr. Fenn was sick. \"Dying.\"\n\n\"Don't try to talk,\" he said again, as he helped her into the buggy.\nBut after a while she was able to tell him, hoarsely:\n\n\"I wanted him to love me.\"  William King was silent.  \"I used a charm.\nIt was wicked.\"\n\n\"Come, come; not wicked,\" said the doctor; \"a little foolish, perhaps.\nA new frock, and a rose in your hair, and a smile at another man, would\nbe enough of a charm, my dear.\"\n\nPhilippa shook her head.  \"It was not enough. I wore my best frock, and\nI went to Dr. Lavendar's church--\"\n\n\"Good gracious!\" said William King.\n\n\"They were not enough. So I used a charm.  I made a drink--\"\n\n\"Ah!\" said the doctor, frowning. \"What was in the drink, Miss Philly?\"\n\n\"Perhaps it was not the right herb,\" she said; \"it may have been\n'mother-wort'; but the book said 'monk's-hood,' and I--\"\n\nWilliam King reached for his whip and cut Jinny across the flanks.\n\"ACONITE!\" he said under his breath, while Jinny leaped forward in\nshocked astonishment.\n\n\"Will he live?\" said Philippa. Dr. King, flecking Jinny again, and\nletting his reins hang over the dashboard, could not help putting a\ncomforting arm around her.  \"I hope so,\" he said; \"I hope so!\"  After\nall, there was no use telling the child that probably by this time her\nlover was either dead or getting better.  \"It's his own fault,\" William\nKing thought, angrily. \"Why in thunder didn't he fall in love like a\nman, instead of making the child resort to--G'on, Jinny!  G'on!\" He\nstill had the whip in his hand when they drew up at the gate.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nWhen Philippa Roberts had fled out into the night for help, her father\nand old Hannah were too alarmed to notice her absence.  They went\nhurrying back and forth with this remedy and that.  Again and again\nthey were ready to give up; once Henry Roberts said, \"He is gone!\" and\nonce Hannah began to cry, and said, \"Poor lad, poor boy!\"  Yet each\nmade one more effort, their shadows looming gigantic against the walls\nor stretching across the ceiling, bending and sinking as they knelt\nbeside the poor young man, who by that time was beyond speech.  So the\nstruggle went on.  But little by little life began to gain.  John\nFenn's eyes opened.  Then he smiled. Then he said something-they could\nnot hear what.\n\n\"Bless the Lord!\" said Henry Roberts.\n\n\"He's asking for Philly,\" said old Hannah.  By the time the doctor and\nPhilippa reached the house the shadow of death had lifted.\n\n\"It must have been poison,\" Mr. Roberts told the doctor.  \"When he gets\nover it he will tell us what it was.\"\n\n\"I don't believe he will,\" said William King; he was holding Fenn's\nwrist between his firm fingers, and then he turned up a fluttering\neyelid and looked at the still dulled eye.\n\nPhilippa, kneeling on the other side of John Fenn, said loudly:  \"I\nwill tell HIM--and perhaps God will forgive me.\"\n\nThe doctor, glancing up at her, said: \"No, you won't--anyhow at\npresent. Take that child up-stairs, Hannah,\" he commanded, \"and put her\nto bed. She ran all the way to Old Chester to get me,\" he explained to\nHenry Roberts.\n\nBefore he left the house that night he sat for a few minutes at\nPhilippa's bedside. \"My dear little girl,\" he said, in his kind,\nsensible voice, \"the best thing to do is to forget it.  It was a\nfoolish thing to do--that charm business; but happily no harm is done.\nNow say nothing about it, and never do it again.\"\n\nPhilippa turned her shuddering face away. \"Do it again? OH!\"\n\nAs William King went home he apologized to Jinny for that cut across\nher flanks by hanging the reins on the overhead hook, and letting her\nplod along at her own pleasure.  He was saying to himself that he hoped\nhe had done right to tell the child to hold her tongue. \"It was just\ntomfoolery,\" he argued; \"there was no sin about it, so confession\nwouldn't do her any good; on the contrary, it would hurt a girl's\nself-respect to have a man know she had tried to catch him. But what a\ndonkey he was not to see....  Oh yes; I'm sure I'm right,\" said William\nKing. \"I wonder how Dr. Lavendar would look at it?\"\n\nPhilippa, at any rate, was satisfied with his advice.  Perhaps the\nstory of what she had done might have broken from her pale lips had her\nfather asked any questions; but Henry Roberts had retreated into\ntroubled silence. There had been one wonderful moment when he thought\nthat at last his faith was to be justified and by the unbeliever\nhimself! and he had cried out, with a passion deferred for more than\nthirty years: \"The VOICE!\"  But behold, the voice, babbling and\nmeaningless, was nothing but sickness.  No one could guess what the\nshock of that disappointment was.  He was not able even to speak of it.\nSo Philippa was asked no awkward questions, and her self-knowledge\nburned deep into her heart.\n\nIn the next few days, while the minister was slowly recovering in the\ngreat four-poster in Henry Roberts's guest-room, she listened to\nHannah's speculations as to the cause of his attack, and expressed no\nopinion.  She was dumb when John Fenn tried to tell her how grateful he\nwas to her for that terrible run through the darkness for his sake.\n\n\"You should not be grateful,\" she said, at last, in a whisper.\n\nBut he was grateful; and, furthermore, he was very happy in those days\nof slow recovery.  The fact was that that night, when he had been so\nnear death, he had heard Philippa, in his first dim moments of\nreturning consciousness, stammering out those distracted words:\n\"Perhaps God will forgive me.\" To John Fenn those words meant the\ncrowning of all his efforts: she had repented!\n\n\"Truly,\" he said, lying very white and feeble on his pillow and looking\ninto Philly's face when she brought him his gruel, \"truly,\n\n  \"He moves in a mysterious way\n  His wonders to perform!\"\n\nThe \"mysterious way\" was the befalling of that terrible illness in\nHenry Roberts's house, so that Philippa should be impressed by it.  \"If\nmy affliction has been blessed to any one else, I am glad to have\nsuffered it,\" he said.\n\nPhilippa silently put a spoonful of gruel between his lips; he\nswallowed it as quickly as he could. \"I heard you call upon God for\nforgiveness; the Lord is merciful and gracious!\"\n\nPhilly said, very low, \"Yes; oh YES.\" So John Fenn thanked God and took\nhis gruel, and thought it was very good. He thought, also, that Miss\nPhilippa was very good to be so good to him. In those next few days,\nbefore he was strong enough to be moved back to his own house, he\nthought more of her goodness and less of her salvation.  It was then\nthat he had his great moment, his revealing moment!  All of a sudden,\nat the touch of Life, his honest artificiality had dropped from him,\nand he knew that he had never before known anything worth knowing!  He\nknew he was in love.  He knew it when he realized that he was not in\nthe least troubled about her soul.  \"That is what she meant!\" he\nthought; \"she wanted me to care for her, before I cared for her soul.\"\nHe was so simple in his acceptance of the revelation that she loved\nhim, that when he went to ask her to be his wife the blow of her reply\nalmost knocked him back into his ministerial affectations:\n\n\"No.\"\n\nWhen John Fenn got home that evening he went into his study and shut\nthe door. Mary came and pounded on it, but he only said, in a muffled\nvoice:\n\n\"No, Mary. Not now. Go away.\"\n\nHe was praying for resignation to what he told himself was the will of\nGod. \"The Lord is unwilling that my thoughts should be diverted from\nHis service by my own personal happiness.\"  Then he tried to put his\nthoughts on that service by deciding upon a text for his next sermon.\nBut the texts which suggested themselves were not steadying to his\nbewildered mind:\n\n\"LOVE ONE ANOTHER.\"  (\"I certainly thought she loved me.\")\n\n\"MARVEL NOT, MY BRETHREN, IF THE WORLD HATE YOU.\" (\"I am, perhaps,\npersonally unattractive to her; and yet I wonder why?\") He was not a\nconceited man; but, like all his sex, he really did \"marvel\" a little\nat the lack of feminine appreciation.  He marveled so much that a week\nlater he took Mary and walked out to Mr. Roberts's house. This time\nMary, to her disgust, was left with Miss Philly's father, while her\nbrother and Miss Philly walked in the frosted garden.  Later, when that\nwalk was over, and the little sister trudged along at John Fenn's side\nin the direction of Perryville, she was very fretful because he would\nnot talk to her.  He was occupied, poor boy, in trying again not to\n\"marvel,\" and to be submissive to the divine will.\n\nAfter that, for several months, he refused Mary's plea to be taken to\nvisit Miss Philly.  He had, he told himself, \"submitted\"; but\nsubmission left him very melancholy and solemn, and also a little\nresentful; indeed, he was so low in his mind, that once he threw out a\nbitter hint to Dr. Lavendar,--who, according to his wont, put two and\ntwo together.\n\n\"Men in our profession, sir,\" said John Fenn, \"must not expect personal\nhappiness.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Dr. Lavendar, meditatively, \"perhaps if we don't expect\nit, the surprise of getting it makes it all the better. I expected it;\nbut I've exceeded my expectations!\"\n\n\"But you are not married,\" the young man said, impulsively.\n\nDr. Lavendar's face changed; \"I hope you will marry, Fenn,\" he said,\nquietly. At which John Fenn said, \"I am married to my profession; that\nis enough for any minister.\"\n\n\"You'll find your profession a mighty poor housekeeper,\" said Dr.\nLavendar.\n\nIt was shortly after this that Mr. Fenn and his big roan broke through\nthe snow-drifts and made their way to Henry Roberts's house. \"I must\nspeak to you alone, sir,\" he said to the Irvingite, who, seeing him\napproaching, had hastened to open the door for him and draw him in out\nof the cold sunshine.\n\nWhat the caller had to say was brief and to the point: Why was his\ndaughter so unkind?  John Fenn did not feel now that the world--which\nmeant Philippa--hated him.  He felt--he could not help feeling--that\nshe did not even dislike him; \"on the contrary....\"  So what reason had\nshe for refusing him? But old Mr. Roberts shook his head. \"A young\nfemale does not have 'reasons,'\" he said.  But he was sorry for the\nyouth, and he roused himself from his abstraction long enough to\nquestion his girl:\n\n\"He is a worthy young man, my Philippa.  Why do you dislike him?\"\n\n\"I do not dislike him.\"\n\n\"Then why--?\" her father protested.\n\nBut Philly was silent.\n\nEven Hannah came to the rescue:\n\n\"You'll get a crooked stick at the end, if you don't look out!\"\n\nPhilly laughed; then her face fell. \"I sha'n't have any stick, ever!\"\n\nAnd Hannah, in her concern, confided her forebodings about the stick to\nDr. King.\n\n\"I wonder,\" William said to himself, uneasily, \"if I was wise to tell\nthat child to hold her tongue?  Perhaps they might have straightened it\nout between 'em before this, if she had told him and been done with it.\nI've a great mind to ask Dr. Lavendar.\"\n\nHe did ask him; at first with proper precautions not to betray a\npatient's confidence, but, at a word from Dr. Lavendar, tumbling into\ntruthfulness.\n\n\"You are talking about young Philippa Roberts?\" Dr. Lavendar announced,\ncalmly, when William was half-way through his story of concealed\nidentities.\n\n\"How did you guess it?\" the doctor said, astonished; \"oh, well, yes, I\nam. I guess there's no harm telling you--\" \"Not the slightest,\" said\nDr. Lavendar, \"especially as I knew it already from the young man--I\nmean, I knew she wouldn't have him.  But I didn't know why until your\nstory dovetailed with his.  William, the thing has festered in her!\nThe lancet ought to have been used the next day.  I believe she'd have\nbeen married by this time if she'd spoken out, then and there.\"\n\nWilliam King was much chagrined. \"I thought, being a girl, you know,\nher pride, her self-respect--\"\n\n\"Oh yes; the lancet hurts,\" Dr. Lavendar admitted; \"but it's better\nthan--well, I don't know the terms of your trade, Willy-but I guess you\nknow what I mean?\"\n\n\"I guess I do,\" said William King, thoughtfully.  \"Do you suppose it's\ntoo late now?\"\n\n\"It will be more of an operation,\" Dr. Lavendar conceded.\n\n\"Could I tell him?\" William said, after a while.\n\n\"I don't see why not,\" Dr. Lavendar said.\n\n\"I suppose I'd have to ask her permission?\"\n\n\"Nonsense!\" said Dr. Lavendar.\n\nThat talk between the physician of the soul and the physician of the\nbody happened on the very night when John Fenn, in his study in\nPerryville, with Mary dozing on his knee, threw over, once and for all,\nwhat he had called \"submission\" and made up his mind to get his girl!\nThe very next morning he girded himself and walked forth upon the Pike\ntoward Henry Roberts's house. He did not take Mary with him,--but not\nbecause he meant to urge salvation on Miss Philly!  As it happened, Dr.\nKing, too, set out upon the Perryville road that morning, remarking to\nJinny that if he had had his wits about him that night in November, she\nwould have been saved the trip on this May morning.  The trip was easy\nenough; William had found a medical pamphlet among his mail, and he was\nreading it, with the reins hanging from the crook of his elbow.  It was\nowing to this method of driving that John Fenn reached the Roberts\nhouse before Jinny passed it, so she went all the way to Perryville,\nand then had to turn round to follow on his track.\n\n\"Brother went to see Miss Philly, and he wouldn't take me,\" Mary\ncomplained to William King, when he drew up at the minister's door; and\nthe doctor was sympathetic to the extent of five cents for candy\ncomfort.\n\nBut when Jinny reached the Roberts gate Dr. King saw John Fenn down in\nthe garden with Philippa.  \"Ho-ho!\" said William. \"I guess I'll wait\nand see if he works out his own salvation.\" He hitched Jinny, and went\nin to find Philippa's father, and to him he freed his mind.  The two\nmen sat on the porch looking down over the tops of the lilac-bushes\ninto the garden, where they could just see the heads of the two young,\nunhappy people.\n\n\"It's nonsense, you know,\" said William King, \"that Philly doesn't take\nthat boy. He's head over heels in love with her.\"\n\n\"She is not attached to him in any such manner,\" Henry Roberts said; \"I\nwonder a little at it, myself. He is a good youth.\"\n\nThe doctor looked at him wonderingly; it occurred to him that if he had\na daughter he would understand her better than Philly's father\nunderstood her.  \"I think the child cares for him,\" he said; then,\nhesitatingly, he referred to John Fenn's sickness.  \"I suppose you know\nabout it?\" he said.\n\nPhilly's father bent his head; he knew, he thought, only too well; no\ndivine revelation in a disordered digestion!\n\n\"Don't you think,\" William King said, smiling, \"you might try to make\nher feel that she is wrong not to accept him, now that the charm has\nworked, so to speak?\"\n\n\"The charm?\" the old man repeated, vaguely.\n\n\"I thought you understood,\" the doctor said, frowning; then, after a\nminute's hesitation, he told him the facts.\n\nHenry Roberts stared at him, shocked and silent; his girl, his\nPhilippa, to have done such a thing!  \"So great a sin--my little\nPhilly!\" he said, faintly. He was pale with distress.\n\n\"My dear sir,\" Dr. King protested, impatiently, \"don't talk about SIN\nin connection with that child. I wish I'd held my tongue!\"\n\nHenry Roberts was silent.  Philippa's share in John Fenn's mysterious\nillness removed it still further from that revelation, waited for\nduring all these years with such passionate patience. He paid no\nattention to William King's reassurances; and his silence was so\nsilencing that by and by the doctor stopped talking and looked down\ninto the garden again.  He observed that those two heads had not drawn\nany nearer together.  It was not John Fenn's fault....\n\n\"There can be no good reason,\" he was saying to Philippa. \"If it is a\nbad reason, I will overcome it! Tell me why?\"\n\nShe put her hand up to her lips and trembled.\n\n\"Come,\" he said; \"it is my due, Philippa.  I WILL know!\"\n\nPhilippa shook her head.  He took her other hand and stroked it, as one\nmight stroke a child's hand to comfort and encourage it.\n\n\"You must tell me, beloved,\" he said. Philippa looked at him with\nscared eyes; then, suddenly pulling her hands from his and turning\naway, she covered her face and burst into uncontrollable sobbing.  He,\nconfounded and frightened, followed her and tried to soothe her.\n\n\"Never mind, Philly, never mind! if you don't want to tell me--\"\n\n\"I do want to tell you.  I will tell you!  You will despise me.  But I\nwill tell you.  I DID A WICKED DEED.  It was this very plant-here,\nwhere we stand, monk's-hood!  It was poison.  I didn't know--oh, I\ndidn't know.  The book said monk's-hood--it was a mistake. But I did a\nwicked deed.  I tried to kill you--\"\n\nShe swayed as she spoke, and then seemed to sink down and down, until\nshe lay, a forlorn little heap, at his feet.  For one dreadful moment\nhe thought she had lost her senses.  He tried to lift her, saying, with\nagitation:\n\n\"Philly! We will not speak of it--\"\n\n\"I murdered you,\" she whispered. \"I put the charm into your tea, to\nmake you... love me.  You didn't die. But it was murder.  I meant--I\nmeant no harm--\"\n\nHe understood.  He lifted her up and held her in his arms.  Up on the\nporch William King saw that the two heads were close together!\n\n\"Why!\" the young man said.  \"Why--but Philly! You loved me!\"\n\n\"What difference does that make?\" she said, heavily.\n\n\"It makes much difference to me,\" he answered; he put his hand on her\nsoft hair and tried to press her head down again on his shoulder.  But\nshe drew away.\n\n\"No; no.\"\n\n\"But--\" he began.  She interrupted him.\n\n\"Listen,\" she said; and then, sometimes in a whisper, sometimes\nbreaking into a sob, she told him the story of that November night.  He\ncould hardly hear it through.\n\n\"Love, you loved me! You will marry me.\"\n\n\"No; I am a wicked girl--a--a--an immodest girl--\"\n\n\"My beloved, you meant no wrong--\" He paused, seeing that she was not\nlistening.\n\nHer father and the doctor were coming down the garden path; William\nKing, beaming with satisfaction at the proximity of those two heads,\nhad summoned Henry Roberts to \"come along and give 'em your blessing!\"\n\nBut as he reached them, standing now apart, the doctor's smile\nfaded--evidently something had happened.  John Fenn, tense with\ndistress, called to him with frowning command: \"Doctor! Tell her, for\nheaven's sake, tell her that it was nothing--that charm!  Tell her she\ndid no wrong.\"\n\n\"No one can do that,\" Henry Roberts said; \"it was a sin.\"\n\n\"Now, look here--\" Dr. King began.\n\n\"It was a sin to try to move by foolish arts the will of God.\"\n\nPhilippa turned to the young man, standing quivering beside her.  \"You\nsee?\" she said.\n\n\"No!  No, I don't see--or if I do, never mind.\"\n\nJust for a moment her face cleared. (Yes, truly, he was not thinking of\nher soul now!)  But the gleam faded.  \"Oh, father, I am a great\nsinner,\" she whispered.\n\n\"No, you're not!\" William King said.\n\n\"Yes, my Philippa, you are,\" Henry Roberts agreed, solemnly.\n\nThe lover made a despairing gesture: \"Doctor King! tell her 'no!' 'no!'\"\n\n\"Yes,\" her father went on, \"it was a sin. Therefore, Philippa, SIN NO\nMORE. Did you pray that this young man's love might be given to you?\"\n\nPhilippa said, in a whisper, \"Yes.\"\n\n\"And it was given to you?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Philippa, was it the foolish weed that moved him to love?\" She was\nsilent. \"My child, my Philly, it was your Saviour who moved the heart\nof this youth, because you asked Him. Will you do such despite to your\nLord as to reject the gift he has given in answer to your prayer?\"\nPhilippa, with parted lips, was listening intently: \"The gift He had\ngiven!\"\n\nDr. King dared not speak.  John Fenn looked at him, and then at\nPhilippa, and trembled.  Except for the sound of a bird stirring in its\nnest overhead in the branches, a sunny stillness brooded over the\ngarden.  Then, suddenly, the stillness was shattered by a strange\nsound--a loud, cadenced chant, full of rhythmical repetitions. The\nthree who heard it thrilled from head to foot; Henry Roberts did not\nseem to hear it: it came from his own lips.\n\n\"Oh, Philippa! Oh, Philippa! I do require--I do require that you accept\nyour Saviour's gift.  Add not sin to sin.  Oh, add not sin to sin by\nmaking prayer of no avail!  Behold, He has set before thee an open\ndoor.  Oh, let no man shut it.  Oh, let no man shut it....\"\n\nThe last word fell into a low, wailing note.  No one spoke.  The bird\nrustled in the leaves above them; a butterfly wavered slowly down to\nsettle on a purple flag in the sunshine.  Philly's eyes filled with\nblessed tears.  She stretched out her arms to her father and smiled.\nBut it was John Fenn who caught those slender, trembling arms against\nhis breast; and, looking over at the old man, he said, softly, \"THE\nVOICE OF GOD.\"\n\n... \"and I,\" said William King, telling the story that night to Dr.\nLavendar--\"I just wanted to say 'the voice of COMMON SENSE!'\"\n\n\"My dear William,\" said the old man, gently, \"the most beautiful thing\nin the world is the knowledge that comes to you, when you get to be as\nold as I am, that they are the same thing.\"","title":"The Voice","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":12352}