The Voice / by Margaret Deland; illustrated by W.H.D. Koerner.

by Margaret Wade Campbell Deland

  He marveled so much that a week later he took Mary and walked out to Mr. Roberts's house. This time Mary, to her disgust, was left with Miss Philly's father, while her brother and Miss Philly walked in the frosted garden. Later, when that walk was over, and the little sister trudged along at John Fenn's side in the direction of Perryville, she was very fretful because he would not talk to her. He was oc- cupied, poor boy, in trying again not to "marvel," and to be submissive to the divine will.

  After that, for several months, he refused 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 also a little resentful; indeed, he was so low in his mind, that once he threw out a bitter hint to Dr. Lavendar, -- who, according to his wont, put two and two together.

  "Men in our profession, sir," said John Fenn, "must not expect personal happiness."

  "Well," said Dr. Lavendar, meditatively, "perhaps if we don't expect it, the surprise of getting it makes it all the better. I expected it; but I've exceeded my expectations!"

  "But you are not married," the young man said, impulsively.

  Dr. Lavendar's face changed; "I hope you will marry, Fenn," he said, quietly. At which John Fenn said, "I am married to my profession; that is enough for 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 to Henry Roberts's house. "I must speak to you alone, sir," he said to the Irvingite, who, seeing him approaching, had hastened to open the door for him and draw him in out of the cold sunshine.

  What the caller had to say was brief and to the point: Why was his daughter so unkind? John Fenn did not feel now that the world -- which meant Philippa -- hated him. He felt -- he could not help feeling -- that she did not even dislike him; "on the contrary. . . ." So what 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 for the youth, and he roused himself from his abstraction long enough to question his girl:

  "He is a worthy young man, my Philippa. Why do you dislike him?"

  "I do not dislike him."

  "Then why --?" her father protested.

  But Philly was silent.

  Even Hannah came to the rescue:

  "You'll get a crooked stick at the end, 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, confided her forebodings about the stick to Dr. King.

  "I wonder," William said to himself, uneasily, "if I was wise to tell that child to hold her tongue? Perhaps they might have straightened it out between 'em before this, if she had told him and been done with it. I've a great mind to ask Dr. Lavendar."

  He did ask him; at first with proper precautions 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-way through his story of concealed identities.

  "How did you guess it?" the doctor said, 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 already from the young man -- I mean, I knew she wouldn't have him. But I didn't know why until your story dovetailed with his. William, the thing has festered in her! The lancet ought to have been used the next day. I believe she'd have 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 terms of your trade, Willy -- but I guess you know what I mean?"

  "I guess I do," said William King, thoughtfully. "Do you suppose it's too 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. Lavendar said.

  "I suppose I'd have to ask her permission?"

  "Nonsense!" said Dr. Lavendar.

  That talk between the physician of the soul and the physician of the body happened on the very night when John Fenn, 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 to get his girl! The very next morning he girded himself and walked forth upon the Pike toward Henry Roberts's house. He did not take Mary with him, -- but not 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 Jinny that if he had had his wits about him that night in November, she would have 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 this method of driving that John Fenn reached the Roberts house before Jinny passed it, so she went all the way to Perryville, and then had to turn round to follow on his track.

  "Brother went to see Miss Philly, and he wouldn't take me," Mary complained to William King, when he drew up at the minister's door; and the doctor was sympathetic to the extent of five cents for candy comfort.

  But when Jinny reached the Roberts gate 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 freed his mind. The two men sat on the porch looking down over the tops of the lilac-bushes into the garden, where they could just see the heads of the two young, unhappy people.

  "It's nonsense, you know," said William King, "that Philly doesn't take that boy. He's head over heels in love with her."

  "She is not attached to him in any such 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 had a daughter he would understand her better 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 suppose you know about it?" he said.

  Philly's father bent his head; he knew, he thought, only too well; no divine revelation in a disordered digestion!

  "Don't you think," William King said, 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," the doctor said, frowning; then, after a minute's hesitation, he told him the facts.

  Henry Roberts stared at him, shocked and silent; his girl, his Philippa, to have done such a thing! "So great a sin -- my little Philly!" he said, faintly. He was pale with distress.

  "My dear sir," Dr. King protested, impatiently, "don't talk about sin in connection with that child. I wish I'd held my tongue!"

  Henry Roberts was silent. Philippa's share in John Fenn's mysterious illness removed it still further from that revelation, waited for during all these years with such passionate patience. He paid no attention to William King's reassurances; and his silence was so silencing that by and by the doctor stopped talking and looked down into the garden again. He observed that those two heads had not drawn any nearer together. It was not John Fenn's fault. . . .

  "There can be no good reason," he was saying to Philippa. "If it is a bad reason, I will overcome it! Tell me why?"

  She put her hand up to her lips and trembled.

  "Come," he said; "it is my due, Philippa. I will know!"

  Philippa shook her head. He took her other hand and stroked it, as one might stroke a child's hand to comfort and encourage it.

  "You must tell me, beloved," he said.

  Philippa looked at him with scared
eyes; then, suddenly pulling her hands from his and turning away, she covered her face and burst into uncontrollable sobbing. He, confounded and frightened, followed her and tried to soothe her.

  "Never mind, Philly, never mind! if you don't want to tell me --"

  "I do want to tell you. I will tell you! You will despise me. But I will tell you. I did a wicked deed. It was this very plant -- here, where we stand, monk's-hood! It was poison. I didn't know -- oh, I didn't know. The book said monk's-hood -- it was a mistake. But I did a wicked deed. I tried to kill you --"

  She swayed as she spoke, and then seemed to sink down and down, until she lay, a forlorn little heap, at his feet. For one dreadful moment he thought 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 up and held her in his arms. Up on the porch William King saw that the two heads 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 interrupted him.

  "Listen," she said; and then, sometimes in a whisper, sometimes breaking into a sob, she told him the story of that November night. He could hardly hear it through.

  "Love, you loved me! You will marry me."

  "No; I am a wicked girl -- a -- a -- an immodest girl --"

  "My beloved, you meant no wrong --" He paused, seeing that she was not listening.

  Her father and the doctor were coming down the garden path; William King, beaming with satisfaction at the proximity of those two heads, had summoned Henry Roberts to "come along and give 'em your blessing!"

  But as he reached them, standing now apart, the doctor's smile faded -- evidently something had happened. John Fenn, tense with distress, called to him with frowning command: "Doctor! Tell her, for heaven's sake, tell her that it was nothing -- that charm! Tell her she did no wrong."

  "No one can do that," Henry Roberts said; "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," she whispered.

  "No, you're not!" William King said.

  "Yes, my Philippa, you are," Henry Roberts agreed, solemnly.

  The lover made a despairing gesture: "Doctor King! tell her 'no!' 'no!'"

  "Yes," her father went on, "it was a sin. Therefore, Philippa, sin no more. Did you pray that this young man's love might be given to you?"

  Philippa said, in a whisper, "Yes."

  "And it was given to you?"

  "Yes."

  "Philippa, was it the foolish weed that moved him to love?" She was silent. "My child, my Philly, it was your Saviour who moved the heart of this youth, because you asked Him. Will you do such despite to your Lord as to reject the gift he has given in answer to your prayer?" Philippa, with parted lips, was listening intently: "The gift He had given!"

  Dr. King dared not speak. John Fenn looked at him, and then at Philippa, and trembled. Except for the sound of a bird stirring in its nest overhead in the branches, a sunny stillness brooded over the garden. Then, suddenly, the stillness was shattered by a strange sound -- a loud, cadenced chant, full of rhythmical repetitions. The three who heard it thrilled from head to foot; Henry Roberts did not seem to hear it: it came from his own lips.

  "Oh, Philippa! Oh, Philippa! I do require -- I do require that you accept your Saviour's gift. Add not sin to sin. Oh, add not sin to sin by making prayer of no avail! Behold, He has set before thee an open door. Oh, let no man shut it. Oh, let no man shut it. . . ."

  The last word fell into a low, wailing note. No one spoke. The bird rustled in the leaves above them; a butterfly wavered slowly down to settle on a purple flag in the sunshine. Philly's eyes filled with blessed tears. She stretched out her arms to her father and smiled. But it was John Fenn who caught those slender, trembling arms against his breast; and, looking over at 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 'the voice of common sense!'"

  "My dear William," said the old man, gently, "the most beautiful thing in the world is the knowledge that comes to you, when you get to be as old as I am, that they are the same thing."

  THE END