“I MUST BE CRUEL ONLY TO BE KIND.”
The plague grew sated and feeble. One morning frost sent a flight of icy arrows into the town, and it vanished. The swarthy girls and lads that sauntered homeward behind their mothers’ cows across the wide suburban stretches of marshy commons heard again the deep, unbroken, cataract roar of the reawakened city.
We call the sea cruel, seeing its waters dimple and smile where yesterday they dashed in pieces the ship that was black with men, women, and children. But what shall we say of those billows of human life, of which we are ourselves a part, that surge over the graves of its own dead with dances and laughter and many a coquetry, with panting chase for gain and preference, and pious regrets and tender condolences for the thousands that died yesterday—and need not have died?
Such were the questions Dr. Sevier asked himself as he laid down the newspaper full of congratulations upon the return of trade’s and fashion’s boisterous flow, and praises of the deeds of benevolence and mercy that had abounded throughout the days of anguish.
Certain currents in these human rapids had driven Richling and the Doctor wide apart. But at last, one day, Richling entered the office with a cheerfulness of countenance something overdone, and indicative to the Doctor’s eye of inward trepidation.
“Doctor,” he said hurriedly, “preparing to leave the office? It was the only moment I could command”—
“Good-morning, Richling.”
“I’ve been trying every day for a week to get down here,” said Richling, drawing out a paper. “Doctor”—with his eyes on the paper, which he had begun to unfold.
“Richling”— It was the Doctor’s hardest voice. Richling looked up at him as a child looks at a thundercloud. The Doctor pointed to the document:—
“Is that a subscription paper?”