Dr. Harrison took passage in the steamship Vulcan, C. W. Cyclops,
commander, for the Old World; having come to the conclusion that the
southern country was not sufficiently remote, and that only a change of
hemispheres would suit the precise state of his mind. Letters of
combined farewell and notice-giving, reached Pattaquasset too late to
cumber the doctor with a bevy of friends to see him off; but his sudden
motions were too well known, and his peculiarities too long
established, to excite much surprise or dismay by any new
manifestations.
The Vulcan lay getting her steam up in that fair June morning, with
very little regard to the amount of high pressure that her passengers
might bring on board. Nothing could be more regardless of their hurry
and bustle, the causes that brought them, the tears they shed, the
friends they left behind, than the ship with her black sides and red
smoke pipe. Tears did indeed trickle down some parts of her machinery,
but they were only condensed steam--which might indeed be true of some
of the tears of her passengers.
Punctual to her time she left her moorings, steaming down the beautiful
bay with all the June light upon her, throwing back little foamy waves
that glittered in the sun, making her farewell with a long train of
blue rollers that came one after another to kiss the shore. What if
tears sprinkled the dusty sidewalks of Canal St.?--what if that same
light shone on white handkerchiefs and bowed heads?--The answering
drops might fall in the state-rooms of the Vulcan, but on deck bustle
and excitement had their way.
So went on the miles and the hours,--then the pilot left the vessel,
taking with him a little handful of letters; and the passengers who had
been down stairs to write were on deck, watching him off. In the city
business rolled on with its closing tide,--far down on the Long Branch
shore people looked northward towards a dim outline, a little waft of
smoke, and said--"There goes the Vulcan." The freshening breeze, the
long rolls of the Atlantic, sent some passengers below, even
now,--others stood gazing back at the faint city indications,--others
still walked up and down--those who had left little, or cared little
for what they had left. Of these was Dr. Harrison, who paced the deck
with very easy external manifestations.
Some change of mind--some freak of fancy, sent him at last to the other
side of the ship--then to the prow. Here sailors were busy,--here one
passenger stood alone: but if there had been twenty more, Dr. Harrison
could have seen but this one. He was standing with arms folded, in a
sort of immoveable position, that yet accommodated itself easily to the
ship's slow courtseying; as regardless of that as of the soft play of
the sea breeze; looking back--but not to the place where the Vulcan had
lain a few hours before. He was rather looking forward,--looking off to
some spot that lay north or northeast of them: some spot invisible, yet
how clearly seen! Looking thither,--as if in all the horizon that alone
had any interest. So absorbed--so far from the ship,--his lips set in
such grave, sad lines; his eyes so intent, as if they could by no means
look at anything else. Nay, for the time, there was nothing else to
see! Dr. Harrison might come or go--the sailors might do their
utmost,--far over the rolling water, conscious of that only because it
was a barrier of separation, the watcher's eyes rested on Mignonette.
If once or twice the eyelids fell, it was not that the vision failed.
Dr. Harrison stopped short, unseen, and not wishing at that moment to
meet the consequences of being seen. Yet he stood still and looked. The
first feeling being one of intense displeasure and disgust that the
Vulcan carried so unwelcome a fellow-passenger; the second, of
unbounded astonishment and wonder what he did there. _He_ putting the
ocean between him and Pattaquasset? _he_ setting out for the Old World,
with all his hopes just blossoming in the New? What could be the
explanation? Was it possible, Dr. Harrison asked himself for one
moment, that he could have been mistaken? that he could have
misunderstood the issue of the conversation that morning in Faith's
sick room? A moment resolved him. He recalled the steady, dauntless
look of Faith's eyes after his words,--a look which he had two or three
times been privileged to receive from her and never cared to meet;--he
remembered how daintily her colour rose as her eyes fell, and the slow
deliberate uncovering of her diamond finger from which the eyes were
not raised again to look at him; he remembered it with the embittered
pang of the moment. No! he had not been mistaken; he had read her
right. Could it be--it crossed the doctor's mind like a flash of the
intensest lightning--that _his letter_ had done its work? its work of
separation? But the cool reminder of reason came like the darkness
after the lightning. Mr. Linden would not have been at Mrs. Derrick's,
as the doctor had heard of his being there, if any entering wedge of
division had made itself felt between his place there and him. No,
though now he was here in the Vulcan. And Dr. Harrison noticed anew,
keenly, that the expression of the gazer's face, though sorrowful and
grave, was in nowise dark or desponding. Nothing of that! The grave
brow was unbent in every line of it; the grave lips had no hard set of
pain; the doctor read them well, both lips and brow! Mr. Linden was no
man to stand and look towards Pattaquasset if he had nothing there. And
with a twinge he now recollected the unwonted sound of that name from
the pilot's mouth as he took charge of the letters and went off. Ay!
and turning with the thought the doctor paced back again, as
unregardful now of the contents of the Vulcan, animate or inanimate, as
the man himself whom he had been watching.
What should he do? he must meet him and speak to him, though the doctor
desired nothing less in the whole broad earth. But he must do it, for
the maintenance of his own character and the safety of his own secret
and pride that hung thereby. That little piece of simplicity up there
in the country had managed to say him no without being directly asked
to say anything--thanks to her truthful honesty; and perhaps, a twinge
or two of another sort came to Dr. Harrison's mind as he thought of his
relations with her,--yes, and of his relations with _him_. Not
pleasant, but all the more, if possible, Dr. Harrison set his teeth and
resolved to speak to Mr. Linden the first opportunity. All the more,
that he was not certain Mr. Linden had received his letter,--it was
likely, yet Dr. Harrison had had no note of the fact. It might have
failed. And not withstanding all the conclusions to which his
meditations had come, curiosity lingered yet;--a morbid curiosity,
unreasonable, as he said to himself, yet uncontrollable, to see by eye
and ear witness, even in actual speech and conversation, whether all
was well with Mr. Linden or not. His own power of self-possession Dr.
Harrison could trust; he would try that of the other. Yet he took
tolerably good care that the opportunity of speaking should not be this
evening. The doctor did not come in to supper till all the passengers
were seated, or nearly so, and then carried himself to the end of the
apartment furthest from his friend; where he so bore his part that no
mortal could have supposed Dr. Harrison had suffered lately in mind,
body, or estate.
Mr. Linden's part that night was a quiet one, the voluntary part of it,
and strictly confined to the various little tea-table courtesies which
with him might indeed be called involuntary. But it so happened that
the Vulcan carried out quite a knot of his former friends--gentlemen
who knew him well, and these from their various places at the table
spoke either to him or of him frequently. Dr. Harrison in the pauses of
his own talk could hear, "Linden"--"Endecott Linden"--"John, what have
you been doing with yourself?"--in different tones of question or
comment,--sometimes caught the tones of Mr. Linden's voice in reply;
but as they were both on the same side of the table eyesight was not
called for. The doctor sat in his place until the table was nearly
cleared; then sauntered forth into the evening light. Fair, bright,
glowing light, upon gay water and a gay deck-full; but Dr. Harrison
gaining nothing from its brightness, stood looking out on its
reflection in the waves more gloomily than he had seen another look a
little time ago. Then a hand was laid lightly on his shoulder, making
its claim of acquaintanceship with a very kind, friendly touch. The
doctor turned and met hand and eye with as far as could be seen his old
manner, only perhaps his fingers released themselves a little sooner
than once they would, and the smile was a trifle more broad than it
might if there had been no constraint about it.
"I am not altogether taken now by surprise," said he, "though surprise
hasn't yet quit its hold of me. I heard your name a little while ago.
What are you doing here, Linden?"
"Rocking in the cradle of business as well as of the deep," said Mr.
Linden. "The last steamer brought word that I must sail by this, and so
here I am."
"Who rocks the cradle of business?" said the doctor, with the old
comical lift of the eyebrows with which he used to begin a tilt with
Mr. Linden.
"Duty and Interest rock it between them,--singing of rest, and keeping
one awake thereby."
"A proper pair of nurses!" said the doctor. "Why man, they would tear
the infant Business to pieces between them! Unless one of them did as
much for the other in time to prevent it."
"Never--unless Inclination took the place of Interest."
"Don't make any difference," said the doctor;--"Inclination always
follows the lead of Interest.--Except in a few extraordinary specimens
of human nature."
Mr. Linden turned towards the scattered groups of passengers, and so
doing his eye caught the shining of that very star which was rising
over Pattaquasset as he and Mignonette rode home two nights before.
Only two nights!--For a minute everything else might have been at the
antipodes--then Mr. Linden brought at least his eyes back to the deck
of the Vulcan. "What sort of a motley have we here, doctor? Do you know
many of them?"
"Yes," said the doctor slightly;--"the usual combinations of Interest
and Inclination. I wonder if we are exceptions, Linden?"
"The _usual_ combination is not, perhaps, just the best,--it is a nice
matter for a man to judge in his own case how far the proportions are
rectified."
"He can't do it. Human machinery can't do it. Can you measure the
height of those waves while they dazzle your eyes with gold and purple
as they do now?"
"Nay--but I can tell how much they do or do not throw me out of my
right course."
"What course are you on now, Linden?" said the doctor with his
old-fashioned assumption of carelessness, dismissing the subject.
"Now?" Mr. Linden repeated. "Do you mean in studies, travels, or
conversation?"
"In conversation, you have as usual brought me to a point! I mean--if I
mean anything,--the other two; but I mean nothing, unless you like."
"I do like. Just now, then, I am in the vacation before the last year
of my Seminary life,--for the rest, I am on my way to Germany."
"Finish your course there, eh?" said the doctor. "Why man, I thought
you had found the 'four azure chains' long ago."
"No, not to finish my course,--if I am kept in Germany more than a few
weeks, it will not be by 'azure' chains," said Mr. Linden.
"That it will not!" said one of the young men coming up, fresh from the
tea-table and his cigar. "Azure chains?--pooh!--Linden breaks _them_ as
easy as Samson did the green withs. How biblical it makes one to be in
company with such a theologian! But I shouldn't wonder if he was going
to Europe to join some order of friars--he'll find nothing monastic
enough for him in America."
"Mistaken your man, Motley!" said the doctor; who for reasons of his
own did not choose to quit the conversation. "The worst _I_ have to say
of him is, that if he spends an other year in Germany his hearers will
never be able to understand him!"
"Mistaken him!" said Mr. Motley--"at this time of day,--that'll do!
Where did you get acquainted with him, pray?"
"Once when I had the management of him," said the doctor coolly. "There
is no way of becoming acquainted with a man, like that."
"Once when you _thought_ you had," said Mr. Motley. "Well, where was
it?--in a dark passage when you got to the door first?"
"Whenever I have had the misfortune to be in a dark passage with him,
he has _shewed_ me the door," said the doctor gravely but gracefully,
in his old fashion admirably maintained.
"If one of you wasn't Endecott Linden," said Mr. Motley throwing the
end of his cigar overboard, "I should think you had made acquaintance
on a highway robbery."
"Instead of which, it was in the peaceful town of Pattaquasset," said
Mr. Linden.
"Permit me to request the reason of Mr. Motley's extraordinary guess,"
said the doctor.
"So natural to say where you've met a man--if there's no reason against
it," said the other coolly. "But you don't say it was in Pattaquasset,
doctor? Were _you_ ever there?"
"Depends entirely on the decision of certain questions in
metaphysics,"--said the doctor. "As for instance, whether anything that
is, _is_--and the matter of personal identity, which you know is
doubtful. I know the _appearance_ of the place, Motley."
"Are there any pretty girls there?" said Mr. Motley, carelessly, but
keeping his eye rather on Mr. Linden than the doctor.
"Mr. Linden can answer better than I," said Dr. Harrison, whose eye
also turned that way, and whose tone changed somewhat in spite of
himself. "There are none there that could not answer any question about
Mr. Linden."--
"By the help of a powerful imagination," said the person spoken of. Mr.
Motley looked from one to the other.
"I don't know what to make of either of you," he said. "Why doctor,
Endecott Linden is a--a mere--I don't like to call him hard names, and
I can't call him soft ones! However--to be sure--the cat may look at
the king, even if his majesty won't return the compliment. Well--you
and I were never thought hard-hearted, so I'll tell you my story. Did
it ever happen--or _seem_ to happen, doctor--that you, _seeming_ to be
in Pattaquasset, went--not to church--but along the road therefrom?
Preferring the exit to the entrance--as you and I too often do?"
"It has seemed to happen to me,"--said Dr. Harrison, as if mechanically.
"Well--George Alcott and I--do you know George?--no great loss--we were
kept one Sunday in that respectable little town by a freshet. Whether
it was one of those rains that bring down more things from the sky than
water, I don't know,--George declared it was. If it wasn't, we made
discoveries."
"If you and George both used your eyes, there must have been
discoveries," said Mr. Linden. "Did you take notice how green the grass
looked after the rain? and that when the clouds were blown away the sun
shone?"
"You're not all theology yet!" said Mr. Motley. "Be quiet--can't you?
I'm not talking to you. We were sauntering down this same road,
doctor--after church,--falling in with the people, so that we could see
them and be taken for churchgoers. But there wasn't much to see.--Then
George declared that here was the place where Linden had secluded
himself for nobody knows what,--then we fell naturally into lamenting
the waste of such fine material, and conned over various particulars of
his former life and prospects--the great promise of past years, the
present melancholy mania to make money and be useful. Upon which points
George and I fought as usual. Then we grew tired of the subject and of
the mud--turned short about--and beheld--what do you suppose, doctor?"
"How far you had come for nothing?"
"Imagine," said Mr. Motley, taking out a fresh cigar and a match and
proceeding to put them to their respective uses,--"Imagine the vision
that appeared to Balaam's ass--and how the ass felt."
"Nay, that we cannot do," said Mr. Linden. "You tax us too far."
"In both requisitions--" added the doctor.
"There stood," said Mr. Motley, removing his cigar and waving it
gracefully in one hand. "There stood close behind us on the mud--she
could not have been in it--an immortal creature, in mortal merino!
We--transfixed, mute--stepped aside right and left to let her pass,--I
believe George had presence of mind enough to take off his hat; and
she--'severe in youthful beauty', glorious in youthful blushes--walked
on, looking full at us as she went. But such a look! and from such
eyes!--fabulous eyes, doctor, upon my honour. Then we saw that the
merino was only a disguise. Imagine a search warrant wrapped up in
moonbeams--imagine the blending of the softest sunset reflection with a
keen lightning flash,--and after all you have only words--not those
eyes. Linden!--seems to me your imagination serves you better
here,--your own eyes are worth looking at!"
"It has had more help from you," Mr. Linden said, controlling the
involuntary unbent play of eye and lip with which he had heard the
description.
"Well, George raved about them for a month," Mr. Motley went on, "and
staid in Pattaquasset a whole week to see them again--which he didn't;
so he made up his mind that they had escaped in the train of events--or
of ears, and now seeks them through the world. Some day he will meet
them in the possession of Mrs. Somebody--and then hang himself." And
Mr. Motley puffed out clouds of smoke thereupon.
"According to your account, he could not do better," said the doctor
cynically.
"I suppose the world would get on, if he did," said Mr. Motley with
philosophical coolness. "But the queerity was," he added, removing the
cigar once more, "what made her look at us so? Did she know by her
supernatural vision that we had not been to church?--for I must say,
Linden, she looked like one of your kind. Or were her unearthly ears
charmed by the account of your unearthly perfections?--for George and I
were doing the thing handsomely."
"It was probably that," said Mr. Linden. "Few people, I think, can
listen to your stories unmoved."
"Hang it," said Mr. Motley, "I wish I could!--This vixenish old craft
is behaving with a great deal too much suavity to suit my notions. I
don't care about making a reverence to every wave I meet if they're
going to tower up at this rate. But I guess you're right, Linden--the
description of you can be made quite captivating--and her cheeks glowed
like damask roses with some sort of inspiration. However, as George
pathetically and poetically remarks,
'I only know she came and went!'--
the last part of which illustrious example I shall follow. Linden, if
any story don't move _you_, you're no better than the North Cape."
"Can you stand it?"--asked the doctor suddenly of his remaining
companion.
"Yes--I have known Motley a long time."
"Pshaw! no, I mean this wind."
"I beg your pardon! Yes--for anything I have felt of it yet."
"If you will excuse me, I will get something more on. I have come from
a warmer part of the world lately."
The doctor disappeared, and found something in another part of the boat
to detain him.
Dr. Harrison had stood one conversation, but he had no mind to stand a
second. He did not think it necessary. If by any possibility he could
have put himself on board of another steamer, or packet; or have leaped
forward into France, or back into America!--he would have done it. But
since he must see Mr. Linden from time to time in their present
situation, he contrived that that should be all. Even that was as
seldom and as little as possible; the art _not to see_, Dr. Harrison
could practise to perfection, and did now; so far as he could without
rendering it too obviously a matter of his own will. That would not
have suited his plans. So he saw his one-time friend as often as he
must, and then was civil invariably, civil with the respect which was
Dr. Harrison's highest degree of civility and which probably in this
instance was true and heartfelt; but he was cool, after his slight gay
surface manner, and even when speaking kept at a distance. For the
rest, it is notable, even in so small a space as the walls of a steamer
shut in, how far apart people can be that have no wish to be near. Days
passed that saw at the utmost only a bow exchanged between these two;
many days that heard but one or two words. Mr. Linden's own plans and
occupations, the arrangement of his time, helped to further the
doctor's wish. There was many an hour when Dr. Harrison would not have
found him if he had tried, but when they were really together the
non-intercourse was the doctor's fault. For all that had been, Mr.
Linden was still his friend,--he realized more and more every day the
value of the prize for which Dr. Harrison had played and lost; and pity
had made forgiveness easy. He was ready for all their old kindly
intercourse, but seeing the doctor shunned him there was nothing to do
but follow the lead. Sometimes indeed they came together for a few
minutes--were thrown so--in a way that was worse than hours of talk.
The Vulcan had made about half her passage, and a fair, fresh morning
had brought most of the passengers on deck. Mr. Linden was not there,
but the rest were grouped and watching the approach of a homeward bound
steamer; when as she neared them Mr. Linden too came on deck. It was to
talk with the Captain however, not the passengers--or to consult with
him, for the two stood together speaking and smiling. "You can try,"
Dr. Harrison heard the Captain say; and then he lifted his trumpet and
hailed--the other Captain responding. Still the steamer came on, nearer
and nearer,--still the two on the deck of the Vulcan stood side by
side; till at a certain point, just where the vessels were at the
nearest, Captain Cyclops gave his companion a little signal nod. And
Mr. Linden stepping forward a pace or two, lent the whole power of his
skill and strength to send a despatch on board the Polar Bear. The
little packet sped from his hand, spinning through the air like a dark
speck. Not a person spoke or moved--Would it reach?--would it
fail?--until the packet, just clearing the guards, fell safe on the
deck of the other vessel, was picked up by her Captain and proclaimed
through the speaking trumpet. Slightly raising his hat then, Mr. Linden
drew back from his forward position; just as a shout of delighted
acclaim burst from both the boats.
"That went with a will, I tell _you!_" said Captain Cyclops with a
little nod of his head.
"I say, Linden!" spoke out one of the young men--"is that your heart
you sent home?"
"I feel it beating here yet," Mr. Linden answered. But just how much of
it he carried back to his state-room for the next hour has never been
ascertained. Society had no help from Dr. Harrison for more than that
length of time. Neither could proximity nor anything else make him,
visibly, aware of Mr. Linden's existence during the rest of the day.
Mr. Linden knew the doctor too well--and it maybe said, knew Faith too
well--to be much surprised at that. If he could have spared Dr.
Harrison the pain of seeing his little air-sent missive, he would have
done it; but the letter could go but at one time, and from one side of
the ship--and just there and then Dr. Harrison chose to be. But though
the sort of growing estrangement which the doctor practised sprang from
no wish nor feeling but his own, yet Mr. Linden found it hard to touch
it in any way. Sometimes he tried--sometimes he left it for Time's
touching, which mends so many things. And slowly, and gently, _that_
touch did work--not by fading one feeling but by deepening another.
Little as Dr. Harrison had to do with his friend, almost every one else
in the ship had a good deal, and the place which Mr. Linden soon took
in the admiration as well as the respect of the passengers, could not
fail to come to the doctor's notice. Men of very careless life and
opinions pruned their language in his presence,--those who lived but
for themselves, and took poor care of what they lived for, passed him
reverently on some of his errands through the ship. Dr. Harrison had
never lived with him before, and little as they saw each other, you
could as well conceal the perfume of a hidden bunch of violets--as well
shut your senses to the spring air--as could the doctor shut his to the
beauty of that well-grown Christian character. The light of it shone,
and the influence of it went forth through all the ship.
"What a strange, incomprehensible, admirable fellow, Linden is!" said
Mr. Motley one day when he and the doctor were sunning themselves in
profound laziness on deck. It was rather late Sunday afternoon, and the
morning service had left a sort of respectful quietness behind it.
"He must be!" said the doctor with a slight indescribable
expression,--"if at this moment you can be roused to wonder at
anything."
Mr. Motley inclined his head with perfect suavity in honour of the
doctor's words.
"It's a glorious thing to lie here on deck and do nothing!" he said,
extending his elegantly clad limbs rather more into the distance. "How
fine the breeze is, doctor--what do you think of the day, as a whole?"
"Unfinished, at present,--"
"Well--" said Mr. Motley,--"take that part of it which you with such
precision term 'this moment',--what do you think of it as it appears
here on deck?"
"Sunny--" said the doctor,--"and we are flies. On the whole I think
it's a bore, Motley."
"What do you think of the Black Hole of Calcutta, in comparison?" said
Mr. Motley closing his eyes.
"The difference is, that _that_ would have been an insufferable bore."
Mr. Motley smiled--stroking his chin with affectionate fingers. "On the
whole," he said, "I think you're right in that position. What do you
suppose Linden's about at this moment?"
"Is he your ward?" said the doctor.
"He's down below--" said Mr. Motley with a significant pointing of his
train of remarks. "By which I don't mean! that he's left this
planet--for truly, when he does I think it will be in a different
direction; but he's down in the steerage--trying to get some of those
creatures to follow him."
"Which way?"
"You and George Alcott have such a snappish thread in you!" said Mr.
Motley yawning--"only it sits better on George than it does on you. But
I like it--it rather excites me to be snubbed. However, here comes
Linden--so I hope they'll not follow him _this_ way."
"This way" Mr. Linden himself did not come, but chose another part of
the deck for a somewhat prolonged walk in the seabreeze. The doctor
glanced towards him, then moved his chair slightly, so as to put the
walker out of his range of vision.
"He's a good fellow enough," he remarked carelessly. "You were pleased
to speak of him just now as 'incomprehensible'--may I ask how he has
earned a title to that?" The tone was a little slighting.
"Take the last instance--" said Mr. Motley,--"you yourself were pleased
to pronounce the steerage a more insufferable bore than the deck--yet
he chooses it,--and not only on Sundays. I don't believe there's a day
that he don't go down there. He's popular enough without it--'tisn't
that. And nobody knows it--one of the sailors told me. If he was a
medico, like you, doctor, there'd be less wonder--but as it is!--" and
Mr. Motley resigned himself again to the influence of the sunshine. A
moment's meditation on the doctor's part, to judge by his face, was
delectable.
"There isn't any sickness down there?" he said then.
"Always is in the steerage--isn't there?" said Mr. Motley,--"I don't
know!--the surgeon can tell you."
"There's no occasion,--" said the doctor with a little haughtiness. "He
knows who I am."
And Dr. Harrison too resigned himself, apparently, to the sunny
influences of the time and was silent.
But as the sun went down lower and lower, Mr. Motley roused himself up
and went off to try the effect upon his spirits of a little cheerful
society,--then Mr. Linden came and took the vacant chair.
"How beautiful it is!" he said, in a tone that was half greeting, half
meditation. The start with which Dr. Harrison heard him was skilfully
transformed into a natural change of position.
"Beautiful?--yes," said he. "Has the beauty driven Motley away?"
"He is gone.--Your waves are very dazzling to-night, doctor."
"They are helping us on," said the doctor looking at them. "We shall be
in after two days more--if this holds."
Helping us on--perhaps the thought was not unqualified in Mr. Linden's
mind, for he considered that--or something else--in grave silence for a
minute or two.
"Dr. Harrison," he said suddenly, "you asked me about my course--I wish
you would tell me yours. Towards what--for what. You bade me call
myself a friend--may I use a friend's privilege?" He spoke with a
grave, frank earnestness.
The doctor's face shewed but a small part of the astonishment which
this speech raised. It shewed a little.
"I can be but flattered!--" he said with something of the old graceful
medium between play and earnest. "You ask me what I am hardly wise
enough to answer you. I am going to Paris, and you to Germany. After
that, I really know about as much of one 'course' as of the other."
"My question referred, not to the little daily revolutions, but to the
great life orbit. Harrison, what is yours to be?"
Evidently it was an uneasy question. Yet the power of influence--or of
associations--was such that Dr. Harrison did not fling it away. "I
remember," he said, not without some bitterness of accent--"you once
did me the honour to profess to care."
"I do care, very much." And one of the old looks, that Dr. Harrison
well remembered--said the words were true.
"You do me more honour than I do myself," he said, not so lightly as he
meant to say it. "I do not care. I see nothing to care for."
"You refuse to see it--" Mr. Linden said gently and sorrowfully.
Dr. Harrison's brow darkened--it might be with pain, for Mr. Linden's
words were the echo of others he had listened to--not long ago. In a
moment he turned and spoke with an impulse--of bravado? Perhaps he
could not have defined, and his companion could not trace.
"I refuse to see nothing!--but I confess to you I see nothing
distinctly. What sort of an 'orbit' would you propose to me?"
The tone sounded frank, and certainly was not unkind. Mr. Linden's
answer was in few words--"'To them who by patient continuance in well
doing seek for glory and honour and immortality, eternal life'."
Dr. Harrison remained a little while with knitted brow looking down at
his hands, which certainly were in an order to need no examination.
Neither was he examining them. When he looked up again it was with the
frankness and kindliness both more defined. Perhaps, very strange to
his spirit, a little shame was at work there.
"Linden," he said, "I believe in you! and if ever I enter upon an orbit
of any sort, I'll take up yours. But--" said he relapsing into his
light tone, perhaps of intent,--"you know two forces are necessary to
keep a body going in one--and I assure you there is none, of any sort,
at present at work upon me!"
"You are mistaken," said Mr. Linden,--"there are two."
"Let's hear--" said the doctor without looking at him.
"In the first place your conscience, in the second your will."
"You have heard of such things as both getting stagnant for want of
use--haven't you?"
"I have heard of the one being half choked by the other," said Mr.
Linden:
"It's so warm this afternoon that I can't contradict you. What do you
want me to do, Linden?"
"Let conscience do its work--and then you do yours."
A minute's silence.
"You do me honour, to believe I have such a thing as a
conscience,"--said the doctor again a little bitterly. "I didn't use to
think it, myself."
He was unaware that it was that very ignored principle which had forced
him to make this speech.
"My dear friend--" Mr. Linden began, and he too paused, looking off
gravely towards the brightening horizon. "Then do yourself the honour
to let conscience have fair play," he went on presently,--"it is too
delicate a stream to bear the mountain torrents of unchecked will and
keep its clearness."
"Hum!--there's no system of drainage that ever I heard of that will
apply up in those regions!" said the doctor, after again a second's
delay to speak. "And you are doing my will too much honour now--I tell
you it is in a state of stagnation, and I don't at present see any
precipice to tumble down. When I do, I'll promise to think of you--if
that thought isn't carried away too.--Come, Linden!" he said with more
expression of kindliness than Mr. Linden had seen certainly during all
the voyage before,--"I believe in you, and I will!--though I suppose my
words do seem to you no better than the very spray of those torrents
you are talking about. Will you walk?--Motley put me to sleep, but you
have done one good thing--you have stirred me to desire action at
least."
It was curious, how the power of character, the power of influence, had
borne down passion and jealousy--even smothered mortification and
pride--and made the man of the world speak truth. Mr. Linden rose--yet
did not immediately begin the walk; for laying one hand on the doctor's
shoulder with a gesture that spoke both regard and sorrow and entreaty,
he stood silently looking off at the colours in the west.
"Dr. Harrison," he said, "I well believe that your mother and mine are
dear friends in heaven--God grant that we may be, too!"
Then they both turned, and together began their walk. It lasted till
they were summoned to tea; and from that time till they got in there
was no more avoidance of his old friend by the doctor. His manner was
changed; if he did not find enjoyment in Mr. Linden's society he found
somewhat else which had value for him. There was not again a shade of
dislike or of repulsion; and when they parted on landing, though it
might be that there lay in Dr. Harrison's secret heart a hope that he
might never see Mr. Linden again, there lay with it also, as surely, a
secret regret.
Now all that Faith knew of this for a long time, was from a newspaper;
where--among a crowd of unimportant passengers in the Vulcan's
list--she read the names of Dr. Harrison and J. E. Linden.