It is near mid-day; two late people are sitting at breakfast; the skylight overhead has been lifted, and the cool sea-air fills the saloon.
"Dead calm again," says Angus Sutherland, for he can see the rose-red ensign hanging limp from the mizen-mast, a blaze of colour against the still blue.
There is no doubt that the White Dove is quite motionless; and that a perfect silence reigns around her. That is why we can hear so distinctly – through the open skylight – the gentle footsteps of two people who are pacing up and down the deck, and the soft voice of one of them as she speaks to her friend. What is all this wild enthusiasm about, then?
"It is the noblest profession in the world!" we can hear so much as she passes the skylight. "One profession lives by fomenting quarrels; and another studies the art of killing in every form; but this one lives only to heal – only to relieve the suffering and help the miserable. That is the profession I should belong to, if I were a man!"
Our young Doctor says nothing as the voice recedes; but he is obviously listening for the return walk along the deck. And here she comes again.
"The patient drudgery of such a life is quite heroic – whether he is a man of science, working day and night to find out things for the good of the world, nobody thanking him or caring about him, or whether he is a physician in practice with not a minute that can be called his own – liable to be summoned at any hour – "
The voice again becomes inaudible. It is remarked to this young man that Mary Avon seems to have a pretty high opinion of the medical profession.
"She herself," he says hastily, with a touch of colour in his face, "has the patience and fortitude of a dozen doctors."
Once more the light tread on deck comes near the skylight.
"If I were the Government," says Mary Avon, warmly, "I should be ashamed to see so rich a country as England content to take her knowledge second-hand from the German Universities; while such men as Dr. Sutherland are harassed and hampered in their proper work by having to write articles and do ordinary doctor's visiting. I should be ashamed. If it is a want of money, why don't they pack off a dozen or two of the young noodles who pass the day whittling quills in the Foreign Office? – "
Even when modified by the distance, and by the soft lapping of the water outside, this seems rather strong language for a young lady. Why should Miss Avon again insist in such a warm fashion on the necessity of endowing research?
But Angus Sutherland's face is burning red. Listeners are said to hear ill of themselves.
"However, Dr. Sutherland is not likely to complain," she says, proudly, as she comes by again. "No; he is too proud of his profession. He does his work; and leaves the appreciation of it to others. And when everybody knows that he will one day be among the most famous men in the country, is it not monstrous that he should be harassed by drudgery in the meantime? If I were the Government – "
But Angus Sutherland cannot suffer this to go on. He leaves his breakfast unfinished, passes along the saloon, and ascends the companion.
"Good morning!" he says.
"Why, are you up already?" his hostess says. "We have been walking as lightly as we could, for we thought you were both asleep. And Mary has been heaping maledictions on the head of the Government because it doesn't subsidise all you microscope-men. The next thing she will want is a licence for the whole of you to be allowed to vivisect criminals."
"I heard something of what Miss Avon said," he admitted.
The girl, looking rather aghast, glanced at the open skylight.
"We thought you were asleep," she stammered, and with her face somewhat flushed.
"At least, I heard you say something about the Government," he said, kindly. "Well, all I ask from the Government is to give me a trip like this every summer."
"What," says his hostess, "with a barometer that won't fall?"
"I don't mind."
"And seas like glass?"
"I don't mind."
"And the impossibility of getting back to land?"
"So much the better," he says defiantly.
"Why," she reminds him, laughing, "you were very anxious about getting back some days ago. What has made you change your wishes?"
He hesitates for a moment, and then he says —
"I believe a sort of madness of idleness has got possession of me. I have dallied so long with that tempting invitation of yours to stay and see the White Dove through the equinoctials that – that I think I really must give in – "
"You cannot help yourself," his hostess says, promptly. "You have already promised. Mary is my witness."
The witness seems anxious to avoid being brought into this matter; she turns to the Laird quickly, and asks him some question about Ru-na-Gaul light over there.
Ru-na-Gaul light no doubt it is – shining white in the sun at the point of the great cliffs; and there is the entrance to Tobbermorry; and here is Mingary Castle – brown ruins amid the brilliant greens of those sloping shores – and there are the misty hills over Loch Sunart. For the rest, blue seas around us, glassy and still; and blue skies overhead, cloudless and pale. The barometer refuses to budge.
