He paused a moment, then said, decisively:—
“I will come.”
“That is right. I know we can always depend upon Doctor Urquhart's promises.”
Was my gladness over-bold? Would he misconstrue it? No—he is too clear-sighted, too humble-minded, too wise. With him, I have always the feeling that I need take no trouble over what I do or say, except that it should be true and sincere. Whatever it is, he will judge it fairly. And if he did not, why should I care?
Yes, I should care. I like him—I like him very much. It would be a comfort to me to have him for a friend—one of my very own. In some degree, he treats me as such; today, for instance, he told me more about himself than he ever did to any one of us. It came out accidentally. I cannot endure a man who, at first acquaintance, indulges you with his autobiography in full. Such an one must be either a puppy or an idiot.
—Ah, there I am again, at my harsh judgments, which Doctor Urquhart has so often tacitly reproved. This good man, who has seen more of the world and its wickedness than I am ever likely to see, is yet the most charitable man I ever knew. To return.
Before we reached Rockmount, the sky had clouded over, and in an hour it was a thoroughly wet afternoon. Penelope went upstairs to write her Sunday letter, and Augustus and Lisabel gave broad hints that they wished the drawing-room all to themselves. Perforce, Doctor Urquhart and I had to entertain ourselves.
I took him into the greenhouse, where he lectured to me on the orchidacea and vegetation of the tropics generally,—to his own content, doubtless, and partially to mine. I like to hear his talking, so wise, yet so simple; a freshness almost boyish seems to linger in his nature still, and he has the thoroughly boyish peculiarity of taking pleasure in little things.
He spent half an hour in reviving a big brown bee which had grown torpid with cold, and there was in his eyes a kindness, as over a human creature, when he gave into my charge his “little patient,” whom I promised to befriend. (There he is, poor old fellow, fast asleep on a flower-pot, till the first bright morning I can turn him out.)
“I am afraid, though, he will soon get into trouble again, and not find so kind a friend,” said I, to Doctor Urquhart. “He will intoxicate himself in the nearest flower-cup, and seek repentance and restoration too late.”