Say and Seal, Volume II

CHAPTER IV

The walk lasted till all the afterglow had faded and all the stars come out, and till half Pattaquasset had done tea; having its own glow and starlight, and its flow of conversation to which the table talk was nothing.

Of course, Faith's first business on reaching home was to see about the tea. She and Mrs. Derrick were happily engaged together in various preparations, and Mr. Linden alone in the sitting-room, when the unwelcome sound of a knock came at the front door; and the next minute his solitude was broken in upon.

"Good evening!" said the doctor. "Three-quarters of a mile off 'I heard the clarion of the unseen midge!' so I thought it was best to come to close quarters with the enemy.—There is nothing so annoying as a distant humming in your ears. How do you do?" He had come up and laid his hand on Mr. Linden's shoulder before the latter had time to rise.

"What a perverse taste!" Mr. Linden said, laughing and springing up."All the rest of the world think a near-by humming so much worse."

"Can't distinguish at a distance," said the doctor;—"one doesn't know whether it's a midge or a dragon-fly. How is Mignonette? and Mignonette's mother?"

"They were both well the last time I saw them. In what sort of a calm flutter are you, doctor?"

"Do you think that is my character?" said the doctor, taking his favourite position on the rug.

"You go straight to the fire—like all the rest of the tribe," said Mr.Linden.

"Is it inconsistent with the character of such an extra ordinary midge, to go straight to the mark?"

"Nobody ever saw a midge do that yet, I'll venture to say."

"And you are resolved to act in character," said the doctor gravely. "You have got clean away from the point. I asked you last night to tell me what you thought of me. We are alone now—do it, Linden!"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I don't know. A man likes to talk of himself—cela s'entend—but I care enough about you, to care to know how I stand in your thoughts. If you asked me how I stand in my own, I could not tell you; and I should like to know how the just balances of your mind—I'm not talking ironically, Linden,—weigh and poise me;—what sort of alloy your mental tests make me out. No matter why!—indulge me, and let me have it. I presume it is nothing better than philosophical curiosity. I am—every man is to himself—an enigma—a mystery;—and I should like to have a sudden outside view—from optics that I have some respect for."

"I gave you the outside view last night," Mr. Linden said. But then he came and stood near the doctor and answered him simply; speaking with that grave gentleness of interest which rarely failed to give the speaker a place in people's hearts, even when his words failed of it.

"I think much of you, in the first place,—and in the second place, I wish you would let me think more;—you stand in my thoughts as an object of very warm interest, of very earnest prayer. Measured—not by my standards, but by those which the word of God sets up, you are like your own admirably made and adjusted microscope, with all the higher powers left off. The only enigma, the only mystery is, that you yourself cannot see this."

Dr. Harrison looked at him with a grave, considerative face, drawing a little back; perhaps to do it the better.

"Do you mean to say, that you do such a thing as pray for me?"

A slight, sweet smile came with the answer—"Can you doubt it?"

"Why I might very reasonably doubt it,—though not your word. Why do you,—may I ask?"

"What can I do for a man in deadly peril, whom my arm cannot reach?" The tone was very kindly, very earnest; the eyes with their deep light looked full into the doctor's.

Dr. Harrison was silent, meeting the look and taking the depth and meaning of it, so far as fathomable by him. The two faces and figures, fine as they both were, made a strange contrast. The doctor's face was in one of its serious and good expressions; but the other had come from a region of light which this one had never entered. And even in attitude—the dignified unconsciousness of the one, was very different from the satisfied carelessness of the other.

"May I further ask," he said in a softened tone,—"why you do this for me?"

"Because I care about you."

"It's incredible!" said the doctor, his eye wavering, however. "One man care about another! Why, man, I may be the worst enemy you have in the world, for aught you know."

"That cannot hinder my being your friend."

"Do you know," said the other looking at him half curiously,—"I am ready to do such a foolish thing as to believe you? Well—be as much of a friend to me as you can; and I'll deserve it as well as I can—which maybe won't be very well. Indeed that is most likely!" He had stretched out his hand to Mr. Linden however, and clasped his warmly. He quitted it now to go forward and take that of Faith.

She came in just as usual, and met the doctor with her wonted manner; only the crimson stain on her cheek telling anything against her. She did not give him much chance to observe that; for Cindy followed her with the tea things and Faith busied herself about the table. The doctor went back to his stand and watched her.

"Mignonette has changed colour," he remarked presently. "How is that,Miss Derrick?"

"How is what, sir?"

"How come you to change the proper characteristics of mignonette? Don't you know that never shews high brilliancy?"

"I suppose I am not mignonette to-night," said Faith, returning to the safer observation of the tea-table.

"Are you my flower, then? the Rhodora?" he said with a lowered tone, coming near her.

If Faith heard, she did not seem to hear this question. Her attention was bestowed upon the preparations for tea, till Mrs. Derrick came in to make it; and then Faith found a great deal to do in the care of the other duties of the table. It was a mystery, how she managed it; she who generally had as much leisure at meals as anybody wanted. Dr. Harrison's attention however was no longer exclusively given to her.

"Do you always have these muffins for tea, Mrs. Derrick?" he remarked with his second essay.

"Why no!" said Mrs. Derrick,—"we have all sorts of other things. Don't you like muffins, doctor?"

"Like them!" said the doctor. "I am thinking what a happy man Mr.Linden must be."

"Marvellously true!" said Mr. Linden. "I hope you'll go home and write a new 'Search after happiness,' ending it sentimentally in muffins."

"Not so," said the doctor. "I should only begin it in muffins—as I am doing. But my remark after all had a point;—for I was thinking of the possibility of detaching anybody from such a periodical attraction. Mrs. Derrick, I am the bearer of an humble message to you from my sister and father—who covet the honour and pleasure of your presence to-morrow evening. Sophy makes me useful, when she can. I hope you will give me a gracious answer—for yourself and Miss Faith, and so make me useful again. It is a rare chance! I am not often good for anything."

"I don't know whether I know how to give what you call gracious answers, doctor," said Mrs. Derrick pleasantly. "I'm very much obliged to Miss Sophy, but I never go anywhere at night."

With the other two the doctor's mission was more successful; and then he disclosed the other object of his visit.

"Miss Derrick, do you remember I once threatened to bring the play ofPortia here—and introduce her to you?"

"I remember it," said Faith.

"Would it be pleasant to you that I should fulfil my threat this evening?"

"I don't know, sir," said Faith smiling,—"till I hear the play."

"Mr. Linden,—what do you think?" said the doctor, also with a smile.

"I am ready for anything—if you will let me be impolite enough to finish writing a letter while I hear the first part of your reading."

"To change the subject slightly—what do you suppose, Mr. Linden, would on the whole be the effect, on society, if the hand of Truth were in every case to be presented without a glove?" The doctor spoke gravely now.

"The effect would be that society would shake hands more cordially—I should think," said Mr. Linden; "though it is hard to say how such an extreme proposition would work."

"Do you know, it strikes me that it would work just the other way, and that hands would presently clasp nothing but daggers' hilts. But there is another question.—How will one fair hand of truth live among a crowd of steel gauntlets?"