“I certainly never suspected that he was the victim of that quality.”
“No, I imagine not. A man must know him as I do to-understand it. I remember one day, long, long ago, I went so far as to throw out a half hint that I thought he labored under this defect; he only smiled and said, 'You suspect me of diffidence. I am diffident,—no man more so, sir; but it is of the good or great qualities in other men.' Was n't that a strange reply? I never very clearly understood it,—do you?”
“I suspect I do; but here comes a message to us.”
Haire spoke a word with the servant, and then, turning: to Beattie, said: “He wants to see me. I 'll just step in, and be back in a moment.”
Beattie promised not to leave till he returned, and strolled along by the side of a little brook which meandered tastefully through the greensward. He had fallen into a revery,—a curious inquiry within himself whether it were a boon or an evil for a man to have acquired that sort of influence over another mind which makes his every act and word seem praiseworthy and excellent. “I wonder is the Chief the better or the worse for this indiscriminating attachment? Does it suggest a standard to attain to, or does it merely minister to self-love and conceit? Which is it? which is it?” cried he, aloud, as he stood and gazed on the rippling rivulet beside him.
“Shall I tell you?” said a low, sweet voice; and Lucy Lendrick slipped her arm within his as she spoke,—“shall I tell you, doctor?”
“Do, by all means.”
“A little of both, I opine. Mind,” said she, laughing, “I have not the vaguest notion of what you were balancing in your mind, but somehow I suspect unmixed good or evil is very rare, and I take my stand on a compromise. Am I right?”
“I scarcely know, but I can't submit the case to you. I have an old-fashioned prejudice against letting young people judge their seniors. Let us talk of something else. What shall it be?”
“I want to talk to you of Tom.”