I was thinking thus, when he asked a question, the abrupt coincidence of which with my secret thoughts startled me out of any answer than a simple “No, papa.”
“My dear, have you ever had any letter from Doctor Urquhart?”
How could he possibly imagine such a thing? Could Mrs. Granton, or Penelope, who is quick-sighted in some things, have led papa to think--to suppose--something, the bare idea of which turned me sick with fear. Me, they might blame as they liked; it would not harm me; but a word, a suggestion of blame to any other person, would drive me wild, furious. So I summoned up all my strength.
“You know, papa, Doctor Urquhart could have nothing to write to me about. Any message for me he could have put in a letter to you.”
“Certainly. I merely enquired, considering him so much a friend of the family, and aware that you had seen more of him, and liked him better than your sisters did. But if he had written to you, you would, of course, have told me?”
Papa went on, smoothing his newspaper, and looking direct at the fire:--
“I have not been altogether satisfied with Doctor Urquhart of late, much as I esteem him. He does not appear sufficiently to value what--I may say it without conceit--from an old man to a younger one, is always of some worth. Yesterday, when I invited him here, he declined again, and a little too--too decidedly.”
Seeing an answer waited for, I said, “Yes, papa.”
“I am sorry, having such great respect for him, and such pleasure in his society.” Papa paused. “When a man desires to win or retain his footing in a family, he usually takes some pains to secure it. If he does not, the natural conclusion is that he does _not_ desire it.” Another pause. “Whenever Doctor Urquhart chooses to come here, he will always be welcome--most welcome; but I cannot again invite him to Rockmount.”
This was all. He then took up his Times, and read it through: I lay quiet; quiet all the evening--quiet until I went to bed.
To-day I find in the same old book before quoted:--
“The true theory of friendship is this:--Once a friend, always a friend. But, answerest thou, doth not every day's practice give the lie to that doctrine? Many, if not most friendships, be like a glove, that however well fitting at first, doth by constant use wax loose and ungainly, if it doth not quite wear out. And others, not put off and on, but close to a man as his own skin and flesh, are yet liable to become diseased: he may have to lose them, and live on without them, as after the lopping off of a limb, or the blinding of an eye. And likewise, there be friendships which a man groweth out of, naturally and blamelessly, even as out of his child-clothes: the which, though no longer suitable for his needs, he keepeth religiously, unforgotten and undestroyed, and often visiteth with a kindly tenderness, though he knoweth they can cover and warm him no more. All these instances do clearly prove that a friend is not always a friend.”