Dr. Harrison sent away his curricle and walked home,--slowly, with his
hands behind him, as if the May air had made him lazy. To any one that
met him, he wore as disengaged an air as usual; his eye was as coolly
cognizant of all upon which it fell, and his brow never looked less
thoughtful. While his head never had been more busy. He kept the secret
of his pride--he had kept and would keep it, well; no one should guess
what he bore; but he bore a writhing brain and a passion that was
heaving with disappointment. To no end--except to expose himself--he
had worked at his mining operations all these months; nothing could be
more absolute than the silence of Faith's answer; nothing could be more
certain than the fixedness of her position. Against the very
impassableness of the barrier the doctor's will chafed, even while his
hope gave way. He ruthlessly called himself a fool for it too, at the
minute. But he was unused to be baffled; and no man pursues long with
such deliberate energy a purpose upon which he has set his heart,
without having all the cords of his will and his passion knit at last
into a cable of strength and tenacity. The doctor's walk grew slower,
and his eyes fell on the ground. How lovely Faith had looked--even
then, when she was putting him and herself to pain; how speakingly the
crimson hues had chased each other all over her face, and neck; how
shyly her eyelashes had kept their place on her cheek; with how
exquisite grace her still attitude had been maintained. And withal what
a piece of simplicity she was! What a contrast those superb diamonds
had made with the almost quaint unadornedness of her figure in its
white wrapper. A contrast that somehow was not inharmonious, and with
which the doctor's artistic taste confessed itself bewitched, though
Faith's only other remotest ornament was that very womanly one of her
rich brown hair. A piece of simplicity? Could she be beyond his reach?
With duty between,--yes; otherwise,--no! as all the doctor's experience
told him. And he walked leisurely past his own door, past the houses of
the village, on almost to the entrance of the woody road; then turned
and came with a brisker pace back. He still called himself a fool,
secretly; but he went into the library and wrote a letter. Which in
course of time was received and read by Mr. Linden between two of his
pieces of work.
It appeared the next day that Dr. Harrison had changed his mind, or his
plans, about going south; for he came as usual to see Faith. In every
sense as usual; to her astonishment no traces remained of the
yesterday's conversation. The ease and kindliness of his manner had
suffered no abatement, although a little touch of regretfulness, just
allowed to appear, forbade her to doubt that she had been understood.
Spite of herself, she could not help being presently again almost at
ease with him. Nevertheless Faith wished he had gone south.
She did not feel sure that Mr. Linden would be pleased with the state
of matters, as days went on, and she was sure she was not pleased
herself. There was something she did not understand. The doctor's
manner was not presuming, in a way; neither did he obtrude even his
sorrow upon her; yet he took the place of a privileged person--she felt
that--and she was obliged to see his pain in the very silence and in
the play of words or of face which she thought assumed to conceal it.
She was very sorry for him, and in the same breath thought she must
have been wrong in something, though she could not see how, or things
would never have come to such a point.
She could not guess--how could she!--that the doctor was playing a
desperate game and had thrown his last stake on the chance of a flaw in
Mr. Linden's confidence towards her or in hers towards him, or of a
flaw in the temper of either of them, or a flaw in their pride, or
affection! There are flaws in so many characters! Did but either of
them lack moral courage, or truth, or trust, or common sense, like a
great many of the rest of the world--and the doctor had gained his
ground! For Dr. Harrison had determined that Faith's religious opinions
should not stand in his way; she should think as he did, or--he would
think with her!
Of all this Faith knew nothing. She had only an intuitive sense that
something was not right; and doubt and annoyance kept her strength
back. She lost ground again. All summed itself up in a longing for Mr.
Linden to come.
Meanwhile Mr. Linden had received and read the following despatch, and
studied and taught before and after it as best he might.
_Pattaquasset_, _April_, 18--.
"MY DEAR LINDEN,
I do not know what impulse prompts me to write this letter to you--A
very strong one, probably, that makes fools of men--Yet even with my
eyes open to this, I go on.
I have unwittingly become your rival. Not in fact, indeed, but in
character. I have been so unfortunate as to love a person you are
somehow concerned in--and before I knew that you had any concern of the
kind. That is a very simple story, and only one to be smothered--not to
be brought to open air,--were it all. But the course of the months
past, which has too late brought me this knowledge of myself, has also
made me believe that--had I a fair field--were there no contrary ties
or fetters of conscience--I should not love in vain. What those ties
are I know nothing--I have not asked--but the existence of _some_
obligation I have been given to understand. With certain natures of
truth and duty, that is a barrier impassable. You would be safe, were I
to act out of honour.
I am a fool, I believe; but I am not yet such a fool as not to know
that there is but one man in the world to whom I could write such a
confession. Nothing better prompts it than pure selfishness, I am
aware--but with me that is strong. I have that notion of you that you
would not care to keep what you held _only_ by priority of claim. I may
be wrong in the supposition upon which I am going--yet it is my chance
for life and I cannot yield it up. That were the lady _free_--in
conscience as well as in fact--she might be induced to look favourably
on me. I ought to add, that I believe such a consciousness has never
shaped itself to her mind--the innocence with which she may at first
have entered into some sort of obligation, would not lessen or alter
its truth or stringency to her pure mind. The game is in your own
hands, Linden--so is
Your unworthy friend
JULIUS HARRISON.
P.S.--One thing further I ought to add--that a somewhat delicate state
of nerves and health, over which I have been for some time watching,
would make any rash broaching of this subject very inexpedient and
unsafe. I need not enforce this hint."