“Strange!” she thought, as she sat muffled up in her cloak, a silent spectatress of his manœuvres, “that such a mean, dishonest wretch as this, should be empowered to act the petty tyrant, and pass judgment on the integrity of others, who is so destitute of the principles of common honesty himself!”
She certainly forgot, during her mental colloquy, the wisdom concealed beneath the homely adage, “Set a thief to catch a thief!” and the profound knowledge of the world hidden in that brief, pithy sentence.
The provoking business of inspection (for so it seemed to the Captain—to judge by his flushed cheek and frowning brow,) was at length over; the officers withdrew, and were succeeded by the doctor, who was appointed to inspect the health of the crew and passengers, before the ship sailed.
Doctor MacAdie was a lively, little, red haired man, with high cheek-bones, and a large Roman nose out of all proportion to the size of his diminutive body, but perfectly harmonising with his wide, sensible-looking mouth. His sharp, clear blue eyes, seemed to have crept as close to his nose as they possibly could, in the vain hope of glancing over the high, ridgy barrier it formed between them, which gave to their owner a peculiarly acute, penetrating expression,—a glance which appeared to look you through and through; yet, though extremely grotesque, it was a benevolent, pleasing face, full of blunt kindness and ready wit.
The Doctor’s snuff-box seemed part and parcel of himself; for the quaint, old-fashioned horn repository, which contained the pungent powder, real Scotch, never left his hand during his professional dialogue with Mrs. Lyndsay.
He shook his head, as his keen eyes read sickness of mind and body in her weary and care-worn face. “Ye are ill, my gude leddy,” said he in broad Scotch; “in nae condition to undertak’ sic a lang voyage.”
Mrs. Lyndsay answered frankly and truly, that she had been indisposed during the past week, and her recovery was so recent, that she felt much better in health than her looks warranted.
The Doctor examined her tongue, felt her pulse, and still shook his head doubtingly. “Feverish—rapid pulse—bad tongue—just out o’ yer bed, from attack near akin to cholera. I tell ye that ye are mair fit to go to bed again, under the dochtor’s care, than to attempt crossing the Atlantic in a close crib like this.”
“The fresh sea air will soon restore me to health,” said Flora. “You know, Doctor, that we cannot command circumstances, and have things exactly as we could wish;” and she checked the sigh which rose to her lips, as she recalled to mind her dear, comfortable cottage at ——, and glanced round the narrow cabin, and its miserable accommodations.
The Doctor regarded her with eyes full of compassion. He certainly guessed her thoughts, and seemed as well acquainted with complaints of the mind as with bodily ailments.