“Now, go at once, Roswell,” said Mary,
in an entreating manner; “and show the same
skill in managing the boat that you did the day you
won the race against the Harbour oarsmen.”
“I will do all a man can, to oblige you, Mary,
as well as to serve the sick. If Dr. Sage should
not be at home, am I to look for another physician,
Mr. Pratt?”
“Sage must be at home—we can
employ no other. Your old, long-established physicians
understand how to consider practice, and don’t
make mistakes—by the way, Gar’ner,
you needn’t mention my name in the business,
at all. Just say that a sick man, at the Widow
White’s, needs his services, and that you had
volunteered to take him across. That
will bring him—I know the man.”
Again Gardiner understood what the deacon meant.
He was just as desirous of not paying the physician
as of not paying the messenger. Mary understood
him, too and, with a face still more sad than anxiety
had previously made it, she walked into the house,
leaving her uncle and lover in the porch. After
a few more injunctions from the former, in the way
of prudent precaution, the latter departed, hurrying
down to the water-side, in order to take to the boat.
“All that glisters is not gold,
Often have you heard that told;
Many a man his life hath sold,
But my outside to behold.”
Merchant of Venice.
No sooner was Deacon Pratt left alone, than he hastened
to the humble dwelling of the Widow White. The
disease of Daggett was a general decay that was not
attended with much suffering. He was now seated
in a homely armchair, and was able to converse.
He was not aware, indeed, of the real danger of his
case, and still had hopes of surviving many years.
The deacon came in at the door, just as the widow
had passed through it, on her way to visit another
crone, who lived hard by, and with whom she was in
the constant habit of consulting. She had seen
the deacon in the distance, and took that occasion
to run across the road, having a sort of instinctive
notion that her presence was not required when the
two men conferred together. What was the subject
of their frequent private communications, the Widow
White did not exactly know; but what she imagined,
will in part appear in her discourse with her neighbour,
the Widow Stone.
“Here’s the deacon, ag’in!”
cried the Widow White, as she bolted hurriedly into
her friend’s presence. “This makes
the third time he has been at my house since
yesterday morning. What can he mean?”
“Oh! I dare say, Betsy, he means no more
than to visit the sick, as he pretends is the reason
of his many visits.”
“You forget it is Sabba’ day!” added
the Widow White, with emphasis.
“The better day, the better deed, Betsy.”
“I know that; but it’s dreadful often
for a man to visit the sick—three
times in twenty-four hours!”
