Say and Seal, Volume II

by Susan Warner; Anna Bartlett Warner

"If you will excuse me, I will get something more on. I have come from a warmer part of the world lately."

The doctor disappeared, and found something in another part of the boat to detain him.

Dr. Harrison had stood one conversation, but he had no mind to stand a second. He did not think it necessary. If by any possibility he could have put himself on board of another steamer, or packet; or have leaped forward into France, or back into America!—he would have done it. But since he must see Mr. Linden from time to time in their present situation, he contrived that that should be all. Even that was as seldom and as little as possible; the art not to see, Dr. Harrison could practise to perfection, and did now; so far as he could without rendering it too obviously a matter of his own will. That would not have suited his plans. So he saw his one-time friend as often as he must, and then was civil invariably, civil with the respect which was Dr. Harrison's highest degree of civility and which probably in this instance was true and heartfelt; but he was cool, after his slight gay surface manner, and even when speaking kept at a distance. For the rest, it is notable, even in so small a space as the walls of a steamer shut in, how far apart people can be that have no wish to be near. Days passed that saw at the utmost only a bow exchanged between these two; many days that heard but one or two words. Mr. Linden's own plans and occupations, the arrangement of his time, helped to further the doctor's wish. There was many an hour when Dr. Harrison would not have found him if he had tried, but when they were really together the non-intercourse was the doctor's fault. For all that had been, Mr. Linden was still his friend,—he realized more and more every day the value of the prize for which Dr. Harrison had played and lost; and pity had made forgiveness easy. He was ready for all their old kindly intercourse, but seeing the doctor shunned him there was nothing to do but follow the lead. Sometimes indeed they came together for a few minutes—were thrown so—in a way that was worse than hours of talk.

The Vulcan had made about half her passage, and a fair, fresh morning had brought most of the passengers on deck. Mr. Linden was not there, but the rest were grouped and watching the approach of a homeward bound steamer; when as she neared them Mr. Linden too came on deck. It was to talk with the Captain however, not the passengers—or to consult with him, for the two stood together speaking and smiling. "You can try," Dr. Harrison heard the Captain say; and then he lifted his trumpet and hailed—the other Captain responding. Still the steamer came on, nearer and nearer,—still the two on the deck of the Vulcan stood side by side; till at a certain point, just where the vessels were at the nearest, Captain Cyclops gave his companion a little signal nod. And Mr. Linden stepping forward a pace or two, lent the whole power of his skill and strength to send a despatch on board the Polar Bear. The little packet sped from his hand, spinning through the air like a dark speck. Not a person spoke or moved—Would it reach?—would it fail?—until the packet, just clearing the guards, fell safe on the deck of the other vessel, was picked up by her Captain and proclaimed through the speaking trumpet. Slightly raising his hat then, Mr. Linden drew back from his forward position; just as a shout of delighted acclaim burst from both the boats.

"That went with a will, I tell you!" said Captain Cyclops with a little nod of his head.

"I say, Linden!" spoke out one of the young men—"is that your heart you sent home?"

"I feel it beating here yet," Mr. Linden answered. But just how much of it he carried back to his state-room for the next hour has never been ascertained. Society had no help from Dr. Harrison for more than that length of time. Neither could proximity nor anything else make him, visibly, aware of Mr. Linden's existence during the rest of the day.

Mr. Linden knew the doctor too well—and it maybe said, knew Faith too well—to be much surprised at that. If he could have spared Dr. Harrison the pain of seeing his little air-sent missive, he would have done it; but the letter could go but at one time, and from one side of the ship—and just there and then Dr. Harrison chose to be. But though the sort of growing estrangement which the doctor practised sprang from no wish nor feeling but his own, yet Mr. Linden found it hard to touch it in any way. Sometimes he tried—sometimes he left it for Time's touching, which mends so many things. And slowly, and gently, that touch did work—not by fading one feeling but by deepening another. Little as Dr. Harrison had to do with his friend, almost every one else in the ship had a good deal, and the place which Mr. Linden soon took in the admiration as well as the respect of the passengers, could not fail to come to the doctor's notice. Men of very careless life and opinions pruned their language in his presence,—those who lived but for themselves, and took poor care of what they lived for, passed him reverently on some of his errands through the ship. Dr. Harrison had never lived with him before, and little as they saw each other, you could as well conceal the perfume of a hidden bunch of violets—as well shut your senses to the spring air—as could the doctor shut his to the beauty of that well-grown Christian character. The light of it shone, and the influence of it went forth through all the ship.

"What a strange, incomprehensible, admirable fellow, Linden is!" said Mr. Motley one day when he and the doctor were sunning themselves in profound laziness on deck. It was rather late Sunday afternoon, and the morning service had left a sort of respectful quietness behind it.

"He must be!" said the doctor with a slight indescribable expression,—"if at this moment you can be roused to wonder at anything."