I left Mr. Blake, to go my rounds among my patients; feeling the better
and the happier even for the short interview that I had had with him.
What is the secret of the attraction that there is for me in this man?
Does it only mean that I feel the contrast between the frankly kind
manner in which he has allowed me to become acquainted with him, and the
merciless dislike and distrust with which I am met by other people? Or
is there really something in him which answers to the yearning that I
have for a little human sympathy--the yearning, which has survived the
solitude and persecution of many years; which seems to grow keener and
keener, as the time comes nearer and nearer when I shall endure and feel
no more? How useless to ask these questions! Mr. Blake has given me a
new interest in life. Let that be enough, without seeking to know what
the new interest is.
June 17th.--Before breakfast, this morning, Mr. Candy informed me that
he was going away for a fortnight, on a visit to a friend in the south
of England. He gave me as many special directions, poor fellow, about
the patients, as if he still had the large practice which he possessed
before he was taken ill. The practice is worth little enough now! Other
doctors have superseded HIM; and nobody who can help it will employ me.
It is perhaps fortunate that he is to be away just at this time. He
would have been mortified if I had not informed him of the experiment
which I am going to try with Mr. Blake. And I hardly know what
undesirable results might not have happened, if I had taken him into my
confidence. Better as it is. Unquestionably, better as it is.
The post brought me Miss Verinder's answer, after Mr. Candy had left the
house.
A charming letter! It gives me the highest opinion of her. There is no
attempt to conceal the interest that she feels in our proceedings. She
tells me, in the prettiest manner, that my letter has satisfied her
of Mr. Blake's innocence, without the slightest need (so far as she
is concerned) of putting my assertion to the proof. She even upbraids
herself--most undeservedly, poor thing!--for not having divined at the
time what the true solution of the mystery might really be. The motive
underlying all this proceeds evidently from something more than
a generous eagerness to make atonement for a wrong which she has
innocently inflicted on another person. It is plain that she has loved
him, throughout the estrangement between them. In more than one place
the rapture of discovering that he has deserved to be loved, breaks its
way innocently through the stoutest formalities of pen and ink, and
even defies the stronger restraint still of writing to a stranger. Is
it possible (I ask myself, in reading this delightful letter) that I,
of all men in the world, am chosen to be the means of bringing these two
young people together again? My own happiness has been trampled under
foot; my own love has been torn from me. Shall I live to see a happiness
of others, which is of my making--a love renewed, which is of my
bringing back? Oh merciful Death, let me see it before your arms enfold
me, before your voice whispers to me, "Rest at last!"