Say and Seal Volume I Part 70

"Who has told you, Linden, that I believed or disbelieved anything?"

"Yourself."

"May I ask, if any other testimony has aided your judgment, or come in aid of it?"

"No," said Mr. Linden, looking at him with a grave, considering eye. "I am not much in the habit of discussing such points with third parties."

The doctor bit his lip; and then smiled.

"You're a good fellow, Linden. But you see, I can afford to say that now. I have you at advantage. As long as you lie there, and I am your attending physician--which latter I a.s.sure you I look upon as a piece of my good fortune--you _can't_, knock me down, if you feel disposed. I am safe, and can afford to be generous. As to the lights," said the doctor taking up his hat, "I agree to what you say--and that's more of a concession than I ever made on the subject before. But in the atmosphere I have lived in, I do a.s.sure you I have not been able to tell the blue lights from the red!"

"I believe you," said Mr. Linden,--"nor was it altogether the fault of the atmosphere. Even where the colour is right, the gla.s.s is sometimes dim. What then?"

"What then? why the inference is plain. If one can not be distinguished from the other, one is as good as the other!"

"And both s.h.i.+ne with a steady clear light upon the heavenward way?"

"There's no question of s.h.i.+ning," said the doctor half scornfully, half impatiently. "If they shew colour at all, it is on a way that is murky enough, heaven knows!"

"Then what have they to do with the question?" said Mr. Linden,--"you are applying rules of action which you would laugh at in any other case. Does the mult.i.tude of quacks disgust you with the science of medicine?--does the dim burning of a dozen poor candles hinder your lighting a good one? You have nothing to do with other people's lights,--let your own s.h.i.+ne!"

Dr. Harrison stood looking at his adviser a minute, with a smile that was both pleased and acute.

"Linden"--said he,--"it strikes me that you are out of your vocation."

"When I heard that account last night,"--Mr. Linden went on--and he paused, as if the recollection were painful,--"the second thing I thought of was your own words, that heaven is not in 'your line.'"

"Well?--" said the doctor swinging his hat and beginning to pace up and down the room, and speaking as if at once confessing and justifying the charge laid to him,--"Now and then, I believe, a bodily angel comes down to the earth and leaves her wings behind her--but that's not humanity, Linden!"

"True servant of G.o.d, is as fair a name as angel," said Mr. Linden; "and that is what humanity may be and often is. 'Though crowns are wanting, and bright pinions folded.'"

"I don't know--" said the doctor. "I shouldn't have wondered any minute yesterday to see the pinions unfold before me." Which remark was received in silence.

"If such an angel were to take hold of me," the doctor went on meditatively,--"I believe she might make me and carry me whither she would. But I wonder if I shall be forbid the house now!"--He stopped and looked at Mr. Linden with a face of comic enquiry.

"You may come and see _me_," said Mr. Linden, with comforting a.s.surance.

"Do you think I may?" said the doctor. He sat down and threw his hat on the floor.--"What shall I do with Mrs. Derrick? She will want to send me off in a balloon, on some air journey that will never land me on earth!--or find some other vanis.h.i.+ng medium most prompt and irrevocable--all as a penalty for my having ventured to leap a fence in company with her daughter!"

But the prudent fit had perhaps come back upon Mr. Linden, for except a sudden illumination of eye and face, the doctor's speech called forth no opinion.

"The best driver on earth can't be a centaur, man! Horses in these days will have heads of their own." But then the doctor rose up and came gracefully and gravely again to take his friend and patient's hand.

"I agree to all you say!" said he, looking down with a goodhumoured wilful expression to Mr. Linden's face;--"and I know no other man to whom I would own as much, after such words and such _silence_ as you have bestowed on me. Good-bye. But really, remember, a man is not answerable for all his horses--or all his wits--may do."

The doctor went; and then there was an interval of some length. Faith had found several things to do in her down stairs department, which she would not leave to her mother; especially after the shock Mrs.

Derrick's mind and heart had received from the communication of what had happened the day before. So it was a little later than usual when the light tap was heard at Mr. Linden's door and Faith and a cup of cocoa came in. She set the cup down, and then went out again for a dish of grapes and pears--Judge Harrison's and Farmer David's sending--which she brought to the table.

"I didn't know which you would like best, Mr. Linden;--so I brought both."

"I should like to be waiting on you," he said,--"Miss Faith, you ought not to be waiting on me. I shall bestir myself and come down stairs."

There was expression in the kind of happy silence that answered him, as she offered the cocoa.

"I don't know where to begin to talk to you this morning," said Mr.

Linden,--"everything demands the first place. Miss Faith, when you feel that you can, will you tell me all about yesterday? I wish I could give you this couch again, but I suppose in prudence I ought to lie still."

She saw him served with what he would have; then sat down, and a shadow of sweet gravity came over her.

"The ride out was all very pleasant. There wasn't much talk, and I could just enjoy everything. It's a long way, Mr. Linden," she said glancing at him--she spoke generally with her eyes bent somewhere else;--"it must be ten or twelve miles, for we went very fast; and it was beautiful, with the wind and the driving clouds and shadows. So I enjoyed all that part, and wasn't afraid of the horses, or not much afraid--though they went _very_ fast and I saw they felt very gay. I liked the going fast and I thought the doctor could manage them." She paused.

"Are you sure you want to talk of this now?" Mr. Linden said. "You know we have other things to do--this can wait till you choose."

"I like to tell it," she said with another quick glance and a quick breath,--"but the visit comes next--and I don't know how to tell you of that. Mr. Linden, I wish you could see that woman!--And if you can't soon, I must,--somehow."

"If I can't--or if I can, I will find you the 'somehow,' if you want to go. And if you will let me," he added. "Is she really dying?"

"She says so--" Faith said low. And was silent a bit.

"Then we set out to come home, and all went very well till we were half way on the road; but then the horses seemed to grow more frisky than ever--I think the wind excited them; and Dr. Harrison had his hands full, I could see, to hold them in, especially after we turned Lamprey's corner and the wind was in their faces. I think it was something suddenly flung over the fence, that started them off to run--and then they ran faster and faster, and reins and bits were of no use at all."

Faith was excited herself, and spoke slowly and low and with hindered breath.

"I saw they were getting more and more furious,--and there were a few minutes, Mr. Linden, when I thought I should maybe never see home again.--And then I thanked you in my heart."

"_Me?_" he said with quick emphasis, and looking at her.

Faith did not look at him, but after a pause went on very quietly.

"I mean, on earth I thanked you. The end of it was, they took a new fright at something, I believe, just at the top of a hill; and after that it was all a whirl. I hardly knew anything--till I found myself lying on the ground in the meadow. The horses had jumped the carriage and all clean over the fence. The fence was just below the foot of the hill; the road took a turn there.--Sam told you the rest--didn't he, Mr. Linden?"

He said "yes," and not another word, but lay there still with those closely s.h.i.+elded eyes; and lips unbent from their usual repose, with grave humbleness and grief and joy. The silence lasted till Faith spoke again. And that was some little s.p.a.ce of time. A shade graver and lower her tone was when she spoke.

"I shall never forget after this, that it is 'part of a Christian's sailing-orders to speak every vessel he meets.'--I think I shall never forget it again."

Mr. Linden did look then at the little craft that had begun her voyage so undauntedly under the Christian colours, though what he thought of her he said not; apparently his own words were not yet ready, though he spoke.

"'Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy G.o.d is with thee whithersoever thou goest.'"

Faith spoke no more. She sat in the absolutest quiet, of face and figure both; looking into the fire that played in the chimney, with a fixedness that perhaps told--in the beginning--of some doubtfulness of self command. But the happy look of the face was in nowise changed.

A knock at the door was the first interruption, a knock so low down that the latch seemed quite too high to match it; but by some exercise of skill this was lifted, and Johnny Fax presented himself. He looked very wide awake, and smiling, and demure, as was his wont, though to-day the smiles were in the ascendant; owing perhaps to the weest of all wee baskets which he held in his hand. Coming close up to Mr.

Linden, and giving him the privileged caress, Johnny stood there within his arm and smiled benignly upon Faith, as if he considered her quite part and parcel of the same concern. Who smiled back upon him, and enquired "where he had come from?"

Johnny said "From home, ma'am," and looked down at his tiny basket as if it were a weight on his mind that he did not know how to get rid of.

"Johnny," said Mr. Linden, "what have you got in that basket?"