‘Then, my child, you never traced my unsettled faith?—my habit of testing mystery by reason never perplexed you?’
Phœbe thought a moment, and said, ‘I knew that Robert distrusted, though I never asked why. There was a time when I used to try to sift the evidence and logic of all I learnt, and I was puzzled where faith’s province began and reasoning ended. But when our first sorrow came, all the puzzles melted, and it was not worth while to argue on realities that I felt. Since that, I have read more, and seen where my own ignorance made my difficulties, and I have prized—yes, adored, the truths all the more because you had taught me to appreciate in some degree their perfect foundation on reasoning.’
‘Strange,’ said Miss Fennimore, ‘that we should have lived together so long, acting on each other, yet each unconscious of the other’s thoughts. I see now. What to you was not doubt, but desire for a reason for your hope, became in poor Bertha, not disbelief, but contempt and carelessness of what she did not feel. I shall never have a sense of rest, till you can tell me that she enters into your faith. I am chiefly reconciled to leaving her, because I trust that in her enfeebled, dependent state, she may become influenced by Miss Charlecote and by you.’
‘I cannot argue with her,’ said Phœbe. ‘When she is well, she can always puzzle me; I lose her when she gets to her ego. You are the only one who can cope with that.’
‘The very reason for keeping away. Don’t argue. Live and act. That was your lesson to me.’
Phœbe did not perceive, and Miss Fennimore loved her freedom from self-consciousness too well even for gratitude’s sake to molest her belief that the conversion was solely owing to Robert’s powers of controversy.
That one fleeting glimpse of inner life was the true farewell. The actual parting was a practical matter of hurry of trains, and separation of parcels, with Maria too busy with the Maltese dog to shed tears, or even to perceive that this was a final leave-taking with one of those whom she best loved.
CHAPTER XXIII
Tak down, tak down the mast of gowd,
Set up the mast of tree,
It sets not a forsaken lady
To sail so gallantly.—Annie of Lochroyan
‘Quaint little white-capped objects! The St. Wulstan’s girls marching to St. Paul’s! Ah! the banner I helped to