At the edge of the evening Reuben came in to say that Mr. Skip was there with the sleigh.
"Let him put Jerry in the stable and go home," Faith said softly to Mr.Linden. "One of Mr. Fax's men can harness him any time."
"Dear Faith!" he said, "you had better go with him."
"I can't go, Endecott. Don't tell me to go,"—she said with a determinate quietness.
"How can I let you stay?—you ought not to watch here all night—unless there were something for you to do."
"There may be something for me to do," she said, but not as if that were what she wanted to stay for.
"I think not," he said softly, and looking down again,—"Faith—it is near the dawning!—and yet it may not be till the dawning. And dear child, you ought not to watch here."
"It will not hurt me," she said under her breath.
"I know—" he said with a gentle admission of all her reasons and full sympathy with all her wishes,—"but I think you ought not."
"Do you mean," she said after a minute's pause,—"that you wish me to go?"
It was hard for him to say yes—but he did.
She sat still a moment, with her face in the shade; then rose up and arranged everything about the room which her hands could better; made a cup of tea and brought it to Mr. Linden; and prepared herself for her ride. When she came at last, ready, with only her hood to put on, her face was almost as fair as Johnny's. There was no shadow on it of any kind, but clear day, as if a reflection from the "city" she had been looking towards. She put her hand in Mr. Linden's and knelt down as she had done in the morning to kiss Johnny. Her lips trembled—but the kisses were quietly given; and rising to her feet without speaking or looking, Faith went away.
If quietness was broken on the ride home, it was restored by the time she got there; and with the same clear look Faith went in. That Mrs. Derrick was much relieved to see her, was evident, but she seemed not very ready to ask questions. She looked at Faith, and then with a little sigh or two began softly to unfasten her cloak and furs, and to put her in a comfortable place by the fire, and to hasten tea, but all in a sort of sorrowful subdued silence; letting her take her own time to speak, or not speak at all, if she liked it better. Faith's words were cheerfully given, though about other things. And after tea she did in some measure justify Mr. Linden's decision in sending her home; for she laid herself on the couch in the sitting-room and went into a sleep as profound and calm as the slumbers she had left watching. Her mother sat by her in absolute stillness—thinking of Faith as she had been in her childhood and from thence until now; thinking of the last time she herself had been in that sick room, of the talk she had heard there—of the silence that was there now: wiping away some tears now and then—looking always at Faith with a sort of double feeling; that both claimed her as a child, and was ready to sit at her feet and learn. But as it came to the hour of bedtime, and Faith still slept, her mother stooped down and kissed her two or three times to wake her up.
"Pretty child," she said, "you'd better go to bed."
Faith started with a recollective look and asked what time it was; then sank down again.
"I'll wait an hour yet."
"Had you better?" her mother said gently. "I'll sit up, dear, and call you if you're wanted. Did you think they'd send?"
"Send?—O no, mother!"
Mrs. Derrick was silent a minute. "Mr. Linden wouldn't come home to-night, dear."
"Wouldn't he?" said Faith startling; and for a minute the sorrowful look came back to her face. But then it returned to its high quiet; she kissed her mother and they went up stairs together.
No, he did not come home,—and well assured that he would not, Faith ceased to watch for him, and fatigue and exhaustion again had their way. The night was very still—the endless train of stars sweeping on in their appointed course, until the morning star rose and the day broke. Even then Faith slept on. But when the more earthly light of the sun came, with its bestirring beams, it roused her; and she started up, in that mood where amid quick coming recollections she was almost breathless for more tidings—waiting, as if by the least noise or stir she might lose something.
It was then that she heard Mr. Linden come in—even as she sat so listening,—heard him come in and come up stairs, with a slow quiet step that would have told her all, if the fact of his coming had not been enough. She heard his door close, and then all was still again, except what faint sounds she might hear from the working part of the house below. Faith sat motionless till she could hear nothing more up stairs—and then kept her position breathlessly for a second or two longer, looking at the still sunbeams which came pouring into her room according to their wont, with their unvarying heavenly message;—and then gave way—rare for her—to a burst of gentle sorrow, that yet was not all sorrow, and which for that very mingling was the more heart-straitening while it lasted. The light of the fair clear Sunday morning bore such strange testimony of the "everlasting day" upon which her little charge of yesterday had even entered! But the sense of that was quieting, if it was stirring.
Not until the breakfast hour was fully come did Mr. Linden make his appearance; but then he came, looking pale indeed, and somewhat worn, yet with a face of rest. He gave his hand to Mrs. Derrick, and coming up to Faith took her in his arms and kissed her, and gently put her in her chair at the table; waiving all questions till another time. There were none asked; Mrs. Derrick would not have ventured any; and the tinge in Faith's cheeks gave token of only one of various feelings by which she was silenced. Yet that was not a sorrowful breakfast—for rest was on every brow, on two of them it was the very rest of the day when Christ broke the bars of death and rose.
Breakfast had been a little late, and there was not much time to spare when it was over.
"You had better not try to go out this morning, dear Faith," Mr. Linden said as they left the table and came round the fire in the sitting-room.
"O yes! I can go.—I must go"—she added softly.
"I have not much to tell you,"—he said in the same tone,—"nothing, but what is most sweet and fair. Would you like to go up there with me by and by?"
"Yes.—After church?"
"After church in the afternoon would give us most time."
The Sunday classes were first met—how was not likely to be forgotten by scholars or teachers. It was an absorbing hour to Faith and her two little children that were left to her; an hour that tried her very much. She controlled herself, but took her revenge all church time. As soon as she was where nobody need know what she did, Faith felt unnerved, and a luxury of tears that she could not restrain lasted till the service was over. It lasted no longer. And the only two persons that knew of the tears, were glad to have them come.
After the afternoon service, when people were not only out of church but at home, Mr. Linden and Faith set out on their solitary drive—it was too far for her to walk, both for strength and time,—the afternoon was well on its way.
The outer room into which Faith had first gone the day before, had a low murmur of voices and a little sprinkling of people within; but Mr. Linden let none of them stop her, and merely bowing as he passed through, he led her on. In the next room were two of the boys, but they went away at once; and Mr. Linden put his arm round Faith, letting her lean all her weight on him if she chose, and led her up to the bedside. They stood there and looked—as one might look at a ray of eternal sunlight falling athwart the dark shadows of time.
The child lay in his deep sleep as if Mr. Linden had just laid him down; his head a little turned towards them, a little drooping, his hands in their own natural position on breast and neck. A faint pink-tinted wrapper lay in soft folds about him, with its white frills at neck and wrists,—on his breast a bunch of the first snowdrops spoke of the "everlasting spring, and never withering flowers!"
With hearts and faces that grew every moment more quiet, more steady, Johnny's two teachers stood and looked at him,—then knelt together, and prayed that in the way which they had shewed him, they might themselves be found faithful.
"You shouldn't say we"—said Faith when they had risen and were standing there again. "It was you—to him and me both." And bending forward to kiss the little face again, she added, "He taught me as much as he ever learned from me!"
But the words were spoken with difficulty, and Faith did not try any more.
They stood there till the twilight began to fall, and then turned their faces homewards with a strange mingling of joy and sorrow in their hearts. How many times Mr. Linden went there afterwards Faith did not know—she could only guess.
There was no school for the next two days. Tuesday was white with snow,—not falling thick upon the ground, but in fine light flakes, and few people cared to be out. Mr. Linden had been, early in the morning,—since dinner he had been in his room; and now as it drew towards three o'clock, he came down and left the house, taking the road towards that of Jonathan Fax. Other dark figures now appeared from time to time, bending their steps in the same direction,—some sturdy farmer in his fearnought coat, or two of the school-boys with their arms round each other. Then this ceased, and the soft falling snow alone was in the field.
The afternoon wore on, and the sun was towards the setting, when a faint reddish tinge began to flush along the western horizon, and the snowflakes grew thinner. Then, just as the first sunbeams shot through their cloudy prison, making the snow a mere white veil to their splendour, the little carriage of Mr. Somers came slowly down the road, and in it Mr. Somers himself. A half dozen of the neighbouring farmers followed. Then the little coffin of Johnny Fax, borne by Reuben Taylor and Sam Stoutenburgh and Phil Davids and Joe Deacon, each cap and left arm bound with crape; followed by Johnny's two little classmates—Charles Twelfth and Robbie Waters. Then the chief mourners—Jonathan Fax and Mr. Linden, arm in arm, and Mr. Linden wearing the crape badge. After them the whole school, two and two. The flickering snowflakes fell softly on the little pall, but through them the sunbeams shot joyously, and said that the child had gone—
"Through a dark stormy night,
To a calm land of light!"—
"Meet again? Yes, we shall meet again,
Though now we part in pain!
His people all
Together Christ shall call,
Hallelujah!"
"Child," said Mrs. Derrick in a choked voice, and wiping her eyes, when the last one had long passed out of view, "it's good to see him and Jonathan Fax walking together! anyway. I guess Jonathan 'll never say a word against him again. Faith, he's beautiful!"
CHAPTER XIII
It seemed to Faith as if the little shadow which February had brought and left did not pass away—or rather, as if it had stretched on till it met another; though whence that came, from what possible cloud, she could not see. She was not the cloud—that she knew and felt: if such care and tenderness and attention as she had had all winter could be increased, then were they now,—every spare moment was given to her, all sorts of things were undertaken to give her pleasure, and that she was Mr. Linden's sunbeam was never more clear. Yet to her fancy that shadow went out and came in with him—lived even in her presence,—nay, as if she had been a real sunbeam, grew deeper there. And yet not that,—what was it? The slight change of voice or face in the very midst of some bright talk, the eyes that followed her about the room or studied her face while she studied her lesson—she felt if she did not see them,—even the increased unwillingness to have her out of his sight,—what did they all mean? So constant, yet so intangible,—so going hand in hand with all the clear, bright activity that had ever been part of Mr. Linden's doings; while the pleasure of nothing seemed to be checked, and yet a little pain mingled with all,—Faith felt puzzled and grieved by turns. She bore it for a while, in wondering and sorrowful silence, till she began to be afraid of the shadow's spreading to her own face. Nay, she felt it there sometimes. Faith couldn't stand it any longer.
He had come in rather late one evening. It was a bleak evening in March, but the fire—never more wanted—burned splendidly and lit up the sitting-room in style. Before it, in the easy-chair, Mr. Linden sat meditating. He might be tired—but Faith fancied she saw the shadow. She came up behind his chair, put both hands on one of his shoulders and leaned down.
"Endecott"—she said in some of her most winning tones,—"may I ask you something?"
He came out of his muse instantly, and laying his hand on hers, asked her "what she thought about it herself?"
"I think I may, if you'll promise not to answer me—unless you have a mind!"
"Do you suppose I would?" Mr. Linden said laughing. "What trust you have in your own power!"
"No, not a bit," said Faith. "Then shall I ask you?"
"You are beginning to work upon my timid disposition!—of which I believe I once told you. What are you going to ask me?—to challenge Dr. Harrison?—or to run for President?"
"Would you like to do either of those two things?"
"I was only putting myself at your disposal—as I have done before."
"Would you do either of 'em if I asked you?" said Faith softly.
"I suppose I am safe in saying yes!" said Mr. Linden smiling. "Little bird—why do you keep on the wing?"
"I wanted to make sure of lighting in a right place," said Faith. "Endy"—and her voice came back to the rich softness of the tones of her first question, a little dashed with timidity,—"has anybody been putting 'nonsense' into your head?"
He lifted her hand from its resting place, bringing it round to his cheek and lips at first in silence,
"Do you know," he said, "that is just the point over which I thought you were hovering?"—But the certainty had changed his tone. And rising up quick and suddenly, he drew her off to the sofa and seated her there, keeping his arm still about her as if for a shield.
"Faith," he said, "do you remember that I promised some time to tell you a long story?"
She looked up into his face gravely and affectionately, reading his look. "But you won't have time for it now, Endecott—tea will be ready directly. We must wait till by and by."
"My little Sunbeam," he said, looking at her and gently pushing back her hair, "do you know I love you very much!—What made you think there was anything in my head but the most profound and abstract sense?"
Faith shook her head with a little bit of a smile.
"I saw that you were growing either more sensible of late—or less,—and I wanted to know which it was."
"Please to explain yourself! How could I grow more sensible?—and in what way did I grow less?"
"I am talking nonsense," said Faith simply. "But if it was sense in your head, Endy, there was a little too much of it; and I had seen nonsense look so—so I wanted to know."
"Faith," Mr. Linden said, "you remind me often of that EnglishmanMadame D'Arblay tells about,—who to the end of his life declared thathis wife was the most beautiful sight in the world to him! Do you knowI think he will have a successor?"
Her colour rose bright, and for a minute she looked down at her diamonds. Then looked up demurely, and asked who Madame D'Arblay was?
"She was an English woman, an authoress, a maid of honour to the Queen.Do you wish to know anything about the other two persons I alluded to?"
One sparkling flash of Faith's soft eye, was all she gave him. "No, I don't think I do," she said.
"You know enough already?—or too much? Faith—are Christmas roses to be in season all the year round?"
"I don't know,—but tea is. Suppose I go and see about it—Monsieur?"
"Eh bien—Mademoiselle," he said gravely but holding her fast,—"suppose you do!"
"Then we should have it."
"Undoubtedly, Mademoiselle! Vous avez raison."
"And what have you?" said Faith laughing.
"I have you!—Love and Reason did meet once, you know."
"Did they?" said Faith looking up. "How should I know?"
"You never found it out in your own personal experience?"
"You say it's a fact," said Faith. "I thought you referred to it as a former fact."
"Like tea—" said Mr. Linden.
"Like tea, Endecott!—what are you talking of?"
"Former facts."—
"I wonder what I shall get you to-night, Endecott"—she said merrily twisting round to look at him,—"you must want something! Is a thing properly said to be former, as long as it is still present?"
"What is present?"
"Tea isn't past"—said Faith with another little flash of her eye.
"If you are going to set up for Reason," said Mr. Linden, "there is no more to be done; but as for me, I may as well submit to my fate. Shakspeare says, 'To love, and to be wise, exceeds man's might.'"
"I don't think I set up for reason," said Faith,—"only for tea; and you obliged me to take reason instead. I guess—Shakspeare was right."
"Unquestionably!" said Mr. Linden laughing. "Faith, did you ever hear of 'Love in a Cottage'?"
"I believe I have."
"I hope you don't think that includes tea?"
"I never thought it included much good," said Faith. "I always thought it was something foolish."
"There spoke Reason!" said Mr. Linden,—"and I shall not dare to speak again for ten minutes. Faith, you will have time to meditate." And his eyes went to the fire and staid there. Faith meditated—or waited upon his meditations; for her eyes now and then sought his face somewhat wistfully to see if she could read what he was thinking of—which yet she could not read. But her exploring looks in that direction were too frequent to leave room for the supposition that Reason made much progress.
"Faith," Mr. Linden said, suddenly intercepting one of these looks, "now let us compare results—before we meditate any further. What have you to shew?"
"Nothing"—said Faith frankly.
"I on my part have made a great discovery, which will perhaps answer for us both. It is very simple, as most great discoveries are, being merely this: that I prefer other things than reproofs from the lips of Reason. Will you have an illustration?"
"Can't I understand without?" said Faith laughing, but with also a little rising colour. And very smilingly she had her answer—the only answer she could expect.
"I believe you are principled against saying yes!" said Mr. Linden."The most encouraging thing you ever said to me was 'Oh no!'"
What swift recollection, what quick sympathy with that time, spoke in the crimson of Faith's cheeks! It was something to see "the eloquent blood." Eyes were not to be seen. Mr. Linden smiled, touching his hand softly to her cheeks.
"O Mignonette!" he said—"or I should rather say, O Roses! or OCarnation! Is there anything beyond that in your Flora?"
In the emergency Faith took possession of the hand that invaded her carnations and turning the full display upon him asked if he would not like to have something more substantial. Apparently "the display" was approved, though there were no words to that effect.
"I suppose I must let you go," he said, "because if we are to study all the evening after tea, it will not do to talk away the whole evening before. You shall choose your own time for hearing my story, dear child—only let me know when the time comes."
There was no shadow upon the tea hour, on Faith's part, nor on the hours of study that followed. The wind swept round the house, March fashion, but the fire and the open books laughed at him. There seemed even a little more than usual of happy gayety in Faith's way of going through her work; she and the fire played at which should get ahead of the other; and between whiles she was obliged to use a little caution to obviate Mr. Linden's surprise at finding how far she was getting ahead of herself. For Faith's early morning studies were not now by any means confined to the lessons he set for her and expected her to do; her object and endeavour was to prevent his requirements, and so prepare the ground before his teachings that without finding out how it came to be so ready, he should simply occupy more of it and cultivate higher. It was rather a nice matter! not to let him see that she had done too much, and yet to make him know that he might take what harvests he pleased off the ground; with such keen eyes too, that knew so well all the relative forces of soil and cultivation and could estimate so surely the fruits of both. Faith managed by not managing at all and by keeping very quiet, as far as possible shewing him nothing he did not directly or indirectly call for; but sometimes she felt she was grazing the edge of discovery, which the least lifting of the veil of Mr. Linden's unsuspiciousness would secure. She felt it to-night, and the fire and she had one or two odd little consultations. Just what Mr. Linden was consulting with himself about at those times, she did not know; but she half fancied it was something. Once the fire called her off at the end of a lesson, and when she came back to the table he had the next book open; but it was not till this set of questions and answers and explanations was half through, that Faith discovered he had opened the book at a different place from the one where it had been closed the day before,—then it suddenly flashed upon her; but whether it had been by accident, or of intent, she did not know.
One last consultation Faith held with the fire while Mrs. Derrick was gathering her work together to go to bed. Then she brought a low seat to Mr. Linden's feet. "Now, Endy,—I am ready." A little smile—a soft, lingering touch upon her forehead, came with his words.
"My little Mignonette, what do you suppose I came to Pattaquasset for?"
She looked rather wondering at him, and then said, "I supposed—to teach the school."
"Yes, but to what end?—I mean in my intent. I know now what I came for, in one sense," he said, securing one of her hands.
"Why—Endecott, do you want me to tell you?"
"If you know or guess."
"I don't know nor guess anything. I supposed merely that you did that as other people do other things—and for the same reason."
"It was for a very commonplace reason," Mr. Linden said, watching her face with two or three things at work in his own: "it was to get money to finish my studies for your favourite profession."
"My favourite profession!—Which do you mean?"
"Have you forgotten Miss Essie's question? I have not—nor the dear child who was so unwilling to answer it."
Faith's mind went back to Miss Essie, the question and answer,—and took the round of the subject,—and even as she did so her face changed, a sort of grave light coming into it,
"Do you mean that, Endy?" she said half under her breath.
"I mean that, and no other."
The light brightened and deepened—her colour flushed like a morning sky,—till at last the first sunbeam struck athwart her face, in the shape of a smile. It was not a lip smile—it was on eye and brow and lip and cheek together. Mr. Linden bent down by her, lifting her face to meet his eyes, which through all their intentness smiled too.
"Faith, I want to hear every word of that."
"Of what?"
"Of all that is in your mind and face just now."
Her two little answering sentences evidently only gave the key of very deep tones.
"I think it is good, Endy. I am glad."
"I thought you would be. But that does not satisfy me, dear Faith—I want you to say to me all the different things that your thoughts were saying to you. You are not afraid of me at this time of day?" he said bringing her face closer.
"I have nothing to say I need be afraid to say," Faith answered slowly,—"but it is hard to disentangle so many thoughts. I was thinking it is such great and high work—such happy work—and such honour—and then that you will do it right, Endecott—" she hesitated.—"How could I help but be glad?"
"Do you like your new prospective position, little Sunbeam?"
A deep colour came over her face, and the eyes fell Yet Faith folded her hands and spoke.
"I was glad to think—" She got so far, but the sentence was never finished.
"Glad to think what, dear child?"
Faith glanced up. She did not want to answer. Then she said with the greatest simplicity, "I am glad if I may do something."
"Glad that I should realize my ideal?" Mr. Linden said with a smile, and softly bringing her face round again. "Faith, do you know what a dear little 'minister's wife' you will make?—Mignonette is so suitable for a parsonage!—so well calculated to impress the people with a notion of the extreme grave propriety which reigns there! For is not Mignonette always sweet, demure, and never—by any chance!—high coloured?"
She would not let her face be held up. It went down upon her lap—into her hands, which she pressed close to hide it.
"Oh Endecott!—" she said desperately.—"You'll have to call me something else."
"O Faith!" was his smiling reply,—"I will, just so soon as I can.Don't you want to come over to the sofa and hear the rest of my story?"
"Your story! Oh yes!"—
And first having a sympathizing interview with the fire, Faith went over to the sofa and sat down; but hid her face no more. Much as he had done before tea, Mr. Linden came and sat down by her,—with the same sort of gentle steadiness of manner, as if some strong thread of feeling had wrapped itself round an equally deep thread of purpose,—his gay talk now as then finding always some contrast in his face. But of this Faith had seen little or nothing—her eyes had not been very free to look. She did notice how silently he stood by her as she put the fire in order, she did notice the look that rested on her as she took her seat, but then he began his story and she could thing of nothing else.
"It was given to me, dear Faith," he said, "to spend my boyhood in an atmosphere more like the glow of that firelight than anything I can compare it to, for its warmth and radiance; where very luxurious worldly circumstances were crowned with the full luxury of earthly love. But it was a love so heaven-directed, so heaven-blessed, that it was but the means of preparing me to go out into the cold alone. That was where I learned to love your diamonds," he added, taking the jewelled hand in his,—"when I used to see them not more busy among things of literature and taste, than in all possible ministrations to the roughest and poorest and humblest of those whom literature describes and taste shrinks from!—But I used to think," he said speaking very low, "that the ring was never so bright, nor so quick moving, as when it was at work for me."
Faith's eye fell with his to the diamonds. She was very still; the flash all gone.
"That time of my life," Mr. Linden presently went on, "was passed partly in Europe and partly here. We came home just after I had graduated from a German University, but before I went away again—almost everything I had in the world went from me." He was silent for a little, drawing Faith's head down upon his shoulder and resting his lightly upon it, till she felt what she was to him. Then he looked up and spoke quietly as before.
"Pet and I were left alone. A sister of my father's was very anxious to take her, but Pet would not hear of it, and so for a year we lived together, and when I went to the Seminary she went too,—living where I lived, and seeing what she could of me between times. It was not very good for her, but it was the best we could do then. I suppose there was some mismanagement on the part of my father's executors—or some complication in his affairs, I need not trouble you with details; but we were left without much more than enough to give her the income I wished her to have for her own private use. Of course I would not touch that for our joint expenses. But until a year ago we did still live together—by various means. Then this sister of my father's set her heart upon taking Pet with her to Europe—and I set mine almost as much; I could better bear to live alone, than to have her; and her life then amounted to that. And so between us both she consented—very unwillingly; and she went to Italy, and I studied as long as I had ways and means, and then came here to get more. So you see, dear child," Mr. Linden said with a smile, "it is not my fortune I have asked you to share, but my fortunes."
She gave him a smile, as bright and free as the glancing of a star; then her look went away again. And it was a good little while before perhaps she dared speak—perhaps before she wanted to speak. So very steady and still her look and herself were, it said that they covered thoughts too tender or too deep to be put into words. And the thoughtfulness rather deepened as minutes rolled on—and a good many of them rolled on, and still Faith did not speak. Mr. Linden's watch ticked its remarks unhindered. Words came at last.
"Endecott—you said something about 'means' for study. How much means does it want?—and how much study?" The interest at work in the question was deeper than Faith meant to shew, or knew she shewed.
He told her the various expenses, ordinary and contingent, in few words, and was silent a moment. But then drawing her close to him, with that same sort of sheltering gesture she had noticed before, he went on to answer her other question; the voice and manner giving her a perfect key to all the grave looks she had mused over.
"Do you remember, dear Faith, that I once called you 'a brave little child'?"
"Yes."
"You must be that now," he said gently,—"you and I must both be brave, and cheerful, and full of trust. Because, precious child, I have two years' work before me—and the work cannot be done here."
She looked in his face once, and was silent;—what her silence covered could only be guessed. But it lasted a little while.
"It must be done at that place where you were with your sister?"
"Yes, little Mignonette, it must be done there."
"And when must you begin the work, Endecott?" If the words cost her some effort, it only just appeared.