CHAPTER XXVII
What a twitter of birds was in Faith's ears as she awoke next morning! Perhaps they were not really more noisy than usual, but she seemed to hear them more; and then it was a soft balmy morning, with a joyous spring sunshine and a dancing spring air, which gave full effect to all the bird voices. Faith listened to the chorus, the choir, the concert, the solos, with a charmed ear. The minute's hush; the low twitter—answered softly from bush and tree; the soft chiming in of other notes; the swelling, quickening, increasing song—till every sparrow and kildeer in all Pattaquasset drew his bow and clattered his castanets with the speed and the eagerness of twenty fiddlers. Only in this orchestra the heads turned gracefully on swelling throats, and for the angular play of elbows there was the lifting flutter of joyous wings; and the audience of opening leaves "clapped their little hands" for an encore.
Such were the sounds that came to Faith from without;—within her room, Mrs. Derrick moved silently about, lighting the fire, arranging the window curtains, the table and couch, laying out Faith's dressing gown to air, but not saying a word to her yet, lest she might be asleep. Faith could see the relief and gladness in every step her mother took—and well knew why. On the white spread before her lay a glowing little bunch of spring flowers, the last night's dew yet hiding in the depths of the violets, and sprinkling the leaves of the May roses, and making the windflowers look at her with wet eyes. Faith grasped these and held a considerably long conversation with them; then found it in her heart to speak otherwise.
"Mother," said she, with a little smile upon the contented languor of convalescence,—"you feel better!"
Mrs. Derrick came quick to her side, and kissed her and stroked her face. "Pretty child," she said, "so do you."
Which fact Faith confirmed by setting about the business of dressing with more energy and good will than she had for many a day brought to it. The pale cheeks were not quite so pale this morning. The white dress was tied round the waist with that blue ribband of long ago—never yet spoiled with wearing; and in it the roses and violets made a spot of warmer colour. When at last she was ready, and had stepped out into the hall, Mr. Linden met her there as he had done the night after the fire; and as then, stayed her for a minute and scanned her face: with a different look from then, with a different sort of gravity, which gladness did not quite cover up. He asked no questions but with his eyes, and did not say much but with his lips; then carried her down to the breakfast-room.
"Mignonette," he said, "what time to-day will it please you to take a drive?"
The pleasure of the idea brought the colour to Faith's cheeks. "I suppose I had better ask Dr. Harrison first whether I may go," she said gravely.
"Not at all. He has nothing whatever to say about it."
"Then as soon as he is gone, I am ready."
"We will not wait for him," said Mr. Linden.
"But Endy, later will do just as well, won't it?"
"No, love—not half so well."
"Why?"
"Principally, because I want you to be out when Dr. Harrison comes." And quitting that subject, Mr. Linden wheeled her round to the nearer consideration of biscuits and coffee; leaving Dr. Harrison, for the time, quite out of sight. Out of his own sight, that is; for Faith plainly did not forget him. She was a delicious thing to take care of this morning; in that delicacy of bodily condition to which the strong love to minister, and a tenderness of spirit which grew out of other things and which to-day she had no force to hide. And there was an apprehension which Mr. Linden could see behind her eyes every time they came to his face. Faith was gathering her powers for a struggle. Yet she had no mind to begin it, and waited after breakfast till Mr. Linden should bring up the subject again. He seemed in no haste to bring it up. For some reason or other, he was in a mood that could not do enough for her. It was a mood Faith must try.
As the morning had worn on and she saw some preliminary movement on Mr. Linden's part, which looked like action, she put her hand in his and lifted her eyes to his face, with a gentle plea in them, speaking in musical softness. "Endy, will you let me wait till Dr. Harrison has made his visit?" The little hand was clasped and held fast.
"He would not wish to see you with me, Mignonette—and I certainly will not let him see you without."
"O why, Endy?"
"Because—Mignonette I cannot tell you. Don't ask me."
Faith flushed and looked troubled but somewhat timid too, and asked no more. She puzzled over the subject.
"Then, Endy, suppose we don't go out to drive to-day?"
"Suppose we do. What are you rouging your cheeks for?" he added smiling. "Faith, I know I have no legal right to control your actions—and yet in this case you must let me say for you what I should for my sister or my wife."
How Faith wished to know why. The rouge grew bright; but forbidden to ask, she dared not ask. "Would you care if we did not go out to-day?" she said with some timid hesitation.
"Very much."
She was silenced. That Mr. Linden had some strong reason it was plain; not the less the thought of Dr. Harrison grieved her. But she said nothing. Nor did he, upon that subject,—threw it to the winds apparently. The first move was to take her up stairs again and bestow her daintily among cushions, then to sit by her and spice her cup of chicken broth with pepper and talk, till both it and Faith were warm, and Mrs. Derrick in a state of delight. The good, sweet effect of which mode of treatment, was shewn in the way "the fringed curtains" of Faith's eyes were by and by dropped by sleep herself. When she awoke Mr. Linden was gone; and Mrs. Derrick sat there keeping watch.
"Has the doctor been here, mother?"
"Why child," said her mother, "he's slipped off Stranger, in some of his capers, and hurt his ancle,—so Reuben says he won't come till to-morrow. Shall I tell Mr. Linden he may come up?"
"Yes." Faith felt it a relief.
Mr. Linden came to tell her the carriage was ready.
It seemed to Faith as if Jerry knew his old driver, with such good will did he set forth, with such little snorts of high spirit and tossings of head and mane. Down the old farm road, among fields of fresh grain and fresh ploughing, where blue birds sat on the fences, and jocund dandelions sunned themselves by the wayside. The breeze came fresh into Faith's face, tossing back her hair; and presently with the scent of buds and flowers and ploughed land came a mingling of the sea breeze, for Mr. Linden was driving that way. He was right to make her come!—Faith felt it in her heart, and so did he. There had been few words spoken hitherto, but now he turned to her with a smile of great satisfaction, saying,
"Mignonette, this breeze is telling upon your cheeks."
"It is going all through me!" said Faith, drawing an eager breath of appreciation. Mr. Linden gave her shawls and cushions some arranging touches, and to her a glad word or two of answer, then drove on down to the shore. Not at their usual bathing and picnic place, but at the further out Barley Point; where the breeze came in its full freshness and the waves rolled in white-crested. There he made Jerry stand still for a while, and made Faith lean upon him and so rest.
They were somewhat elevated above the sea, where the barren face of the land broke down suddenly some twenty feet. With what a sweet dash the waves broke upon the beach, chasing up the wet sand and laying down a little freight of seaweed here and there: how the water sparkled and glittered, and was blue and white and green and neutral tint,—how the gulls soared and stooped and flapped their wings in the gay breeze, before which the white-winged vessels flew on a more steady course. Jerry pawed the turf, and shook his head in approbation, and Faith's head lay very still. Perhaps Mr. Linden thought she had done talking enough that day, for he was rather silent; only watching her lest she should be tired, or have too much of the air. What he watched her for all the rest of the time, was best known to himself. Her brow had its old quiet again now, though her face was grave beyond its old wont; and the eyes, as he could see them, were softly grave and softly glad together, intently going from the white-tipped water to the white-winged gulls and the clouds grey and white that sailed above them. Suddenly, after a long roaming over the fresh life that was abroad there, the eyes were lifted to his face.
"Endecott—if I don't say anything, it is because I can't say anything good enough!"
"Faith," he said with that same glad look at her, "your face says that you are getting better every minute. Not tired yet?"
"I feel as if I was in a grand dream."
"Do you?" said Mr. Linden,—"I am glad I do not. It brings me out of a dream to see you begin to look like yourself. I have not felt so real before since I came home."
"You are real enough," said Faith; "and so is everything else. It is only my feeling that is dreamy. And this air will wake me up, if I stay here a little while longer. How good it is!"
"Do you see that dark rock out in the midst of the waves? and how the waves half cover and then leave it bare?"
"Yes."
"I was thinking of what Rutherford says of the changing, swaying, unsteady tide of life-joys and sorrows,—'Our rock doth not ebb and flow, but our sea.'"
Faith thought her own life had not been much like that changing tide; then remembered his had, in nearer measure. The next question was not far off; she put it, looking up anxiously and regretfully. "Endecott, what are you working so hard for?"
A very gay change of face answered her.
"So hard as what?"
"As you do."
"What makes you think I am working 'so hard,' little Mignonette?—haveI given you that impression? I did not mean it. Do I look overworked?"
"No—" said Faith—"I think not,—but that is not the thing. Why do you, Endecott?"
It was a very gently put question, but put with eyes and lips as well as the sweet voice, dainty in its half timidity mixed with the sweetness. Mr. Linden looked down at her till the question was finished, but then he looked off at the dancing water; the smile which had been dawning upon his lips breaking out into very full sunshine. It was a strange smile—very enjoying and yet a little moved.
"Mignonette," he said looking down at her again, "do you know what a dear little child you are?"
Her eyes wavered, then faced him again with a sort of smiling gravity, as not relinquishing their answer.
"You will be dreadfully shocked if I tell you."
"Shall I?"—she said, not believing him.
"Yes. But what do you suppose I am doing?—what has put all this into your head?"
"I heard it," said Faith.
"From whom?"
"I don't know. But somebody that wondered what you were doing it for."
"Most enigmatical information! What 'it' did somebody say I was doing?"
"Working hard—giving lessons," said Faith dropping her voice.
"Well—what else was I doing when I was here? That should not shock you, dear child."
"You were not doing anything else when you were here—that is the very thing, Endecott."
"Mignonette—I have done nothing to hurt myself, as you may see. I am very strong to work."
She gave a little grave glance at him, grave with a background of regretfulness, and placed herself back in her former position; pushing her questions no further. But Mr. Linden did not look grave.
"I am quite willing to tell you all about my work," he said,—"that I did not long ago was for two or three reasons which you will understand. I told you once, dear Faith—upon a night which I shall never forget—that I had means enough to carry me through my studies; but two things made me take measures to earn a good deal more. One was, that I would always rather work than not to have what I want to spend in various good and pleasant ways."
"Yes—?" she said a little eagerly. He looked at her with that same smile coming over his face.
"It will shock you," he said,—"however—The other reason was this. We agreed how I should choose between two gardens wherein to place my Mignonette. But it may chance that for even the offer of one I shall have to wait—and for Mignonette I cannot. Voyez-vous, Mademoiselle?"
Yes, plainly enough; as he could tell by the bright flush which mounted up to her forehead and made her a Rhodora again. And doubtless Faith would have said several things, only—she could not! and so sat like the stillest of scared mice; with no more words at command. Mr. Linden laughed telling her he thought there was no hope of benefitting her cheeks any further that day, and that to judge by her eyelids sleep would be the next thing; and so turned the little carriage round and Jerry's head towards home.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Dinner was ready when they reached home, so that Faith was taken at once to the table; and when dinner was over, up stairs to go to sleep. And sleep held her well nigh all the afternoon. The sunbeams were long, the light of day was growing gentle, when Faith at last awoke and arose, with a tinge in her cheeks and a face getting to be itself again. She put her hair and her dress in fresh order, and went softly about doing the same office for several things in the room; thinking all the while what Mr. Linden had been working for, and how shut her mouth was from saying anything about it.
"Where is Mr. Linden, mother?"
"Down stairs."
"I am going down too. I am quite well enough without being carried.Come, mother."
"He won't like it, child,—you'd better let me call him."
"No indeed," said Faith. "I'll just take your arm, mother. It will do me good."
So softly and with a little wilful pleasure on Faith's part, the stairs were descended; and not content with that, Faith went into the tea-room and began as of old to give a delicate hand to the tea-table arrangements. Then when all was done, slowly made her entrance into the other room. But there, to Faith's dismay, were two gentlemen instead of one, standing in the middle of the floor in earnest conversation. Both turned the minute she opened the door, and Squire Stoutenburgh came towards her, exclaiming, "Why Miss Faith!—nobody gave me any hope of seeing you. My dear, are you as well as you look?"
Faith's instant extreme desire was to quit the field she had so rashly ventured upon. Her answer to Mr. Stoutenburgh, if made, was too unintelligible to be understood or remembered; and meanwhile she was as the Squire had hinted, looking very well, and a picture of dainty confusion. It might not help the confusion, though it did put her face more out of sight, to be rescued from the Squire's hands and placed in the easy-chair.
"No, she is not as well as she looks, Mr. Stoutenburgh, and therefore you must not keep her standing."
"I won't keep her—nor you neither—long," said the Squire. "Miss Faith, I hope you'll keep him—standing or kneeling or something—all summer. How long are you going to stay, sure enough?"
"Till I must go." Faith heard the smile with which it was spoken.
"Then I shall go home a happy man!" said Mr. Stoutenburgh, with a sort of earnest heartiness which became him very well. "My dear, I'm as glad as if you were my own daughter—and you'll let me say that, because your father and I were such friends." With which original and sincere expression of feeling the Squire went off.
"You naughty child," Mr. Linden said, coming back to Faith's chair, "who gave you leave to come down stairs? I shouldn't be at all surprised if you had been after cream."
"No I haven't, Endy,"—said Faith lifting up her face which was in a sort of overwhelmed state.
"What is the matter?" he said smiling.
"Don't mind me," said Faith passing her hands over her face. "I am half ashamed of myself—I shall be better in a day or two."
"How do you feel, after your ride and your sleep?"
"O well!—nicely,"—she said in happy accents.
"What made you try to walk down stairs?"
"I thought I could do it."
"And knew I would not let you. Will you be in a talking mood after tea?"
"I am now. I have been wanting to talk to you, Endecott, ever since you got home."
"What about?"
"About these weeks."
The summons to tea came then, however; but when tea was disposed of, and Faith had come back to her sofa in the sitting-room, Mr. Linden took his place at her side.
"Now I am ready for 'these weeks,'" he said.
Faith was less ready than he, though she had wished for the talk. Her face darkened to something of the weary look with which he had found her.
"Endecott, I have wanted to see you dreadfully!" He looked pained—not merely, she knew, because of that: but the thought had no further expression.
"What has been the matter, my dear child?"
Faith's hand and head went down on his shoulder, as on a rest they had long coveted. "I am afraid you will be ashamed of me, Endecott,—but I will tell you. You know since I have been sick I have seen a great deal of Dr. Harrison—every day, and twice a day. I couldn't help it."
"No."
"And Endy,—he used to talk to me."
"Yes,"—the word was short and grave.
"I don't know why he did it; and I did not like it, and I could not help it. He would talk to me about Bible things."
"Well?—He used to do that long ago."
"And long ago you told me not to let him talk to me of his doubts and false opinions. Endecott, I didn't forget that—I remembered it all the while,—and yet he did talk to me of those things, and I could not tell how to hinder it. And then, Endecott—the things were in my head—and I could not get them out!"—The manner of Faith's slow words told of a great deal of heart-work.
Mr. Linden did not start—but Faith felt the thrill which passed over him, even to the fingers that held hers. Clearly this was not what he expected.
"Faith,"—he said,—"has he touched your faith?"
Faith's head drew nearer to his, with a manner half caressing, half shrinking, but the answer was a low, "No—never."
"Child!" he said with a sort of deep terror in his voice,—"I think I could not have borne that. I would rather he had won away your heart from me!"
Faith did not move, and seemed to herself scarce to breathe, such a spasm of various feelings was upon her heart. "It did not, Endy,"—she whispered.
He stooped to kiss her, as if that was the only answer he could give just then; merely saying, "Tell me all about it."
"I don't know how he did it"—Faith went on hesitatingly, as if the words were not easy to her;—"and always before I knew it was coming, it was said,—something that troubled me; almost every time he came. I don't know whether it troubled him too, or whether—But no matter what it was said for! He would tell me of some question that had occurred to him, or some difficulty that he could not understand; or else it was a contrary fact that somebody else had stated, or a cunning explanation that somebody had found out, or a discovery that was against the truth, or some train of consequences and inferences that would undermine it. And these things were always so curiously put, that though I knew they were false, Endy—I never doubted that—I knew they were not the truth;—yet I could not shew him that they were not; and that hurt me. It pained me by day and by night;—but that was not all." Faith hesitated. "These things never did touch my faith, Endecott—but it seems to me now as if they had shut it up in a fortress and besieged it. I hadn't a bit of comfort of it except by snatches—only I knew it was there—for ever so long. When I tried to read the Bible, often I could think of nothing but these thoughts would push themselves in between—like a swarm of gnats humming in my ears;—and often I had no good of prayer,"—she added in a yet lower voice.
"Have you now?" Mr. Linden said. "Has that passed away?"
She hesitated again, perhaps struggling with some emotion which she would not let get the better of her. Her words were quiet. "It is passing. Earth and sky are all cleared since you came—as I knew they would be."
Mr. Linden was silent and motionless,—looking down at her, curbing as he best might the grief and indignation which were by turns as much as he could manage. He did not speak for some time.
"I think, Endy," said Faith, "I shouldn't have felt so if I had been well and strong. I am almost sure it was partly that. I wasn't strong in mind or body—and how I wanted you!"
"And where was my place in the world if not here!"
"I didn't want you till you came," she said in a very sweet low tone.
"Ah, child! you do not know what you are talking of,—nor what a snare was spread for you."
"Do you think that, Endy?" she said in a scared way.
"What else?"
"But he always seemed—I always hoped, he was really interested in those things himself."
"No man carries truth in one hand and falsehood in the other," said Mr.Linden sternly.
Faith was sitting upright, looking very thoughtful and very grieved. "But you do not think, Endecott,—you do not think—there was no truth in it?"
His face caught her grieved look,—he answered slowly, "Child, you must leave all that. I only know that he tried to get rid of every barrier in his way."
"And how in this, Endecott?—What?"
"He doubtless thought your belief stood between him and your favour."
"And that if he could change that!"—Faith's head sank with a low word of pain. Mr. Linden was silent. She looked up again, with a face of yearning sorrow which it was a pity perhaps Dr. Harrison could not see. "And now," she said, "we never can do anything more for him!"
But Mr. Linden was not ready for the wish,—the sternness of his face did not relax this time even under the power of hers. Until as he looked, with the sight of all her loveliness and the thought of all the wrong done her, came the keen realization of why it had been done;—then his look changed and saddened.
"Endecott," she said after a while, humbly, "do you think any one who loves Christ could be brought to disbelieve him?"
"No—not really and permanently. The promise says, 'Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him.'"
"Then what did you fear so much for me, Endy?"
She had cause for the question; he had spoken and looked and listened with that intentness of sense which shews some hidden anxiety,—measuring jealously every look and word of hers by some old well-remembered standard.
"You remember, dear Faith," he said, "that when the thieves set upon one of the pilgrims, though he made out to keep his jewels yet they took from him all his spending money; and in the want of that he went to the end of his life."
But the smile that answered him was an answering smile. Though there was sorrow in it, and humbleness, and even fear, its fullest burdens were the free guaranty that she was not hurt, and an untold wealth of affection, that almost breathed out of the moving and parted lips. "Endy,—it was only a cloud—I knew at the time it would scatter away just as soon as you came. I knew it was a cloud, but I wasn't well."
Mr. Linden lifted her face, gazing at it intently. "My little Mignonette," he said, "are you sure that you 'hold fast the beginning of your confidence?' Are you sure he has not dimmed the light that used to shine so bright in your heart?—that he has not made heaven seem less real, nor the promises of less effect? Are you sure, Faith?—If he has, find it out now!"
She had never seen him look so—never heard him speak with such earnestness. The words seemed to come from the very depths of his heart; freighted not only with their own moment, but with the pain which the raising such questions had stirred in him. Faith knew little of even the pictures of angels—if she had she might have thought of one then. Her child nature would have thrown itself into his arms to give the answer; as it was, the woman drew a little back and spoke with veiled eyes.
"If he has, I don't know it, Endecott. It was a cloud that hindered all enjoyment from me,—I knew at the time it was no more. It is gone, or almost. It was wrong to be on me at all—but I was weak and not well." Her speech was very humble, and the innocent trembling of the lips was as one might answer an angel.
His eyes changed as she spoke, watching her still, but less clearly; and bringing her where she had not dared to place herself, Mr. Linden kissed her again and again—as one rejoices over what has been lost or in deadly peril. Not many words—and those low and half uttered, of deep thanksgiving, of untold tenderness. But Faith hid her face in her hands, and though she did not shed any tears, shook and trembled.
"This will not do, for you nor for me," said Mr. Linden. "Mignonette—have my words grieved you? they need not—there was not a breath in them harsher than a summer wind."
"I didn't think it, Endy."
"What are you thinking of, my child?"
"Nothing—Never mind me,—" she said deprecatingly.
"Tell me, Faith," he repeated.
But she did not. The quivering emotion passed away or was overcome; and then her answer was a very grave and sweet look and smile; still such a one as might without any force have been given to an angel.
"Faith, what will make you speak?—this?—Tell me what you were trembling about—I shall begin to think you have grown afraid of me."
"I don't think I have,—" she said very quietly.
"You are a sort of willowbranch,—so very pliant that you glide out of reach on the very breath that comes after you. Now I think the very profound confidence I reposed in you this morning, deserves some return. I'm afraid I cannot ask for it with such persuasive eyes."
"It's no confidence—" said Faith. "I didn't know I had been in such danger; and"—she spoke with some difficulty—"I didn't know what it would be to offend you."
"Did you think you could?"
"If I did wrong—?"
"Faith," he said, "do you know what I should expect 'if I did wrong,' as you say?—that you would break your heart, perhaps, but never that you would be offended. I should expect to find you more than ever my sweet ministering spirit."
A look of intense grave earnestness followed and echoed his thought with one or two of her own; then her gravity broke in a radiant little smile. "I am not exactly like you, Endecott," she said.
"What is the precise bearing of that remark?"
"You might be offended—where I should have no right,—" she said with slow utterance and consideration of her words.
"But why—little Arabic poem?"
The colour started into Faith's cheeks, but she answered. "You are better than I,—and besides,—you know, Endy!—it would be right for you to do what it wouldn't be right for me to do." Her colour deepened to brightness and her eyes were very cast down. Mr. Linden looked at her—smiling a grave sweet smile.
"Faith," he said, "I have heard—or imagined—that a man might have an angel for his wife, but I never heard yet of a woman who had an angel for her husband—did you?"
Faith endeavoured to shield her eyes and cheek with a very insufficient hand. "You put me in the witness-box,—what can I do?" she said.
"You can do one thing as well as anybody I ever saw," Mr. Linden said, taking her hand down. "Faith, where did you get such pink cheeks?"
"What is an Arabic poem?" said Faith gravely.
"A pretty thing that requires translating. Faith, I have a great desire to take you all about Pattaquasset and tell everybody what you are to be."
"Endecott!"—said Faith with a startled glance.
"What?" he answered laughing.
"Why do you say so?"
"Just imagine the delight of all Quapaw, and the full satisfaction of the Roscoms. Shouldn't you like to see it?"
Faith looked at him in a sort of frightened mood of mind, discerning some earnest in the play. Mr. Linden's face did not reassure her, though he carried the play at that time no further.