"I beg your pardon," he said, "I am afraid I have not been paying much attention to your talk. Who is this Wolfe Macfarlane?" And then, when he had heard the landlord out, "It cannot be, it cannot be," he added, "and yet I would like well to see him face to face."
"Do you know him, Doctor?" asked the undertaker, with a gasp.
"God forbid!" was the reply. "And yet the name is a strange one;it were too much to fancy two. Tell me, landlord, is he old?"
"Well," said the host, "he is not a young man, to be sure, and his hair is white;but he looks younger than you."
"He is older, though;years older. But," with a slap upon the table, "it's the rum you see in my face—rum and sin.This man, perhaps, may have an easy conscience and a good digestion. two men meet, as one of them had phrased it, face to face.Dr.Macfarlane was alert and vigorous.His white hair set off his pale and placid, although energetic, countenance.He was richly dressed in the finest of broadcloth and the whitest of linen, with a great gold watch-chain, and studs and spectacles of the same precious material.He wore a broad-folded tie, white and speckled with lilac, and he carried on his arm a comfortable driving-coat of fur.There was no doubt but he became his years, breathing, as he did, of wealth and consideration;and it was a surprising contrast to see our parlour sot—bald, dirty, pimpled, and robed in his old camlet cloak—confront him at the bottom of the stairs."
"Macfarlane!" he said somewhat loudly, more like a herald than a friend.
Conscience!Hear me speak. You would think I was some good, old, decent Christian, would you not?But no, not I;I never canted.Voltaire might have canted if he had stood in my shoes;but the brains"—with a rattling fillip on his bald head—"the brains were clear and active, and I saw and made no deductions."