As the Doctor went on with his tale, relaxation had stolen dumbly about Finlay’s brow and lips. He dropped from the plane of his own absorption to the humorous common sense of the recital: it claimed and held him with infinite solace. His eyes had something like the light of laughter in them, flashing behind a cloud, as he fixed them on Dr Drummond, and said, “And did you?”
“We did,” said Dr Drummond, getting up once more from his chair, and playing complacently with his watch-charms as he took another turn about the study. “We left it to Miss Cameron, and the result is”—the Doctor stopped sharply and wheeled round upon Finlay—“the result is—why, the upshot seems to be that I’ve cut you out, man!”
Finlay measured the little Doctor standing there twisting his watch-chain, beaming with achieved satisfaction, in a consuming desire to know how far chance had been kind to him, and how far he had to be simply, unspeakably, grateful. He stared in silence, occupied with his great debt; it was like him that that, and not his liberty, should be first in his mind. We who have not his opportunity may find it more difficult to decide; but from our private knowledge of Dr Drummond we may remember what poor Finlay probably forgot at the moment, that even when pitted against Providence, the Doctor was a man of great determination.
The young fellow got up, still speechless, and confronted Dr Drummond. He was troubled for something to say; the chambers of his brain seemed empty or reiterating foolish sounds. He pressed the hand the minister offered him and his lips quivered. Then a light came into his face, and he picked up his hat.
“And I’ll say this for myself,” chuckled Dr Drummond. “It was no hard matter.”
Finlay looked at him and smiled. “It would not be, sir,” he said lamely. Dr Drummond cast a shrewd glance at him and dropped the tone of banter.
“Aye—I know! It’s no joking matter,” he said, and with a hand behind the young man’s elbow, he half pushed him to the door and took out his watch. He must always be starting somebody, something, in the right direction, the Doctor. “It’s not much after half-past nine, Finlay,” he said. “I notice the stars are out.”
It had the feeling of a colloquial benediction, and Finlay carried it with him all the way.
It was nevertheless nearly ten when he reached her father’s house, so late that the family had dispersed for the night. Yet he had the hardihood to ring, and the hour blessed them both, for Advena on the stair, catching who knows what of presage out of the sound, turned, and found him at the threshold herself.