"She says she does. Of course, it's fiddlesticks; but the doctor ought to know."
And the doctor, being informed, agreed with Mrs. Joe that conversation with angels was not to be encouraged. "A very little roast beef and a great deal of fresh air," was his prescription, "A trip somewhere when she is stronger. Meanwhile, keep bores away—Father Cameril and Leonard."
"I can't lock Leonard out."
"I wish you could; he has a grievance and may be tempted to unburden his soul to his wife."
"I have heard of no grievance."
"You will; the reaction has come. Yesterday they crowned him with laurels; to-day they are damning him—of course, in parliamentary phrase—from the president of the Seminary down to the janitor."
"Impossible! Why, Doctor, only a few days since Dr. Burley spoke of him in the highest terms."
"A few days since! Ask him now. Leonard has played the frog to Burley's ox. It was right to confute Brigston with Greek texts; they produced a good deal of fog and little illumination. But Leonard must shove himself in as interpreter between the heavyweights and the populace. Of course his action was abhorrent; it is to me. There ought to be an esprit de corps in all professions. I shouldn't approve if some young medical spark were to give away our secrets."
The physician, if flippantly, spoke the truth. Leonard had been rash, as youth is wont to be. Wise and venerable heads had from the beginning wagged in disapproval of his excess of zeal. To bury the Brigstonian deep beneath the fragments of his own exploded logic was well, but it was also well to be wary, to lay no hasty hand upon and drag forth mysteries which could not bear the light of day. Leonard was brilliant; but brilliancy was not caution. Theological argumentation, to be convincing, must be obscure; mystification, rather than conviction, is the prop of faith.
"I'm sorry he's in trouble," observed the lady.