"I fancy she knows," said his wife demurely.
"Well," said the Squire, "the next place is the first place, after all, and I haven't the right to do much but take care of her. But my dear, I have it under hand and seal to take better care than that."
"Than what, sir?"—said Faith with very deep colour, but unchanged bearing.
"I don't know yet," said Mr. Stoutenburgh, "any more than you know what you are going to do. Than to let you do anything that would grieve your dear friend and mine. If I could shew you the letter you'd understand, Miss Faith, but I'm not good at repeating. 'To take care of you as lie would'—that was part of it. And because I can't half carry out such instructions, is no sign I shouldn't do it a quarter." And the Squire stood as firm on his ground as Faith on hers.
No, not quite; for in her absolute gentleness there was a power of intent expressed, which rougher outlines could but give with less emphasis. The blood spoke for her eloquently before Faith could find any sort of words to speak for herself, brought now by more feelings than one; yet still she stood before the Squire, drooping her head a little, a soft statue of immoveability. Only once, just before she spoke, both Faith's hands went up to her brow to push the hair back; a most unusual gesture of agitation. But her look and her words were after the same steady fashion as before, aggravated by a little wicked smile, and Faith's voice sounded for sweetness like silver bells.
"You can't do it, Mr. Stoutenburgh!—not that way. Take care of me every other way;—but I'll not have—of that sort—a bit of help."—
The Squire looked at her with a mixture of amusement and perplexity.
"Pin to follow suit—" he said,—"but then I don't just know what Mr.Linden would do in such a case! Can you tell me, Miss Faith?"
"It is no matter—it would not make any difference."
"What would not?" said the Squire innocently.
"Anything that he could do, sir;—so you have no chance." She coloured gloriously, but she smiled at him too with her last words.
"Well, Miss Faith," said Mr. Stoutenburgh, "I have my doubts as to the correctness of that first statement; but I'll tell you what I shall do, my refractory young lady. If you set about anything outside the limits, I'll do my best to thwart you,—there!"
If Faith was not a match for him, there was no meaning in the laugh of her dark eye. But she only bade Mrs. Stoutenburgh an affectionate good night, took her bunch of white roses and Mr. Stoutenburgh's arm and set out to go home.
CHAPTER XXXIV
Faith put her roses in water and listened half a minute to their strange silent messages. But after that she did a great deal of thinking. If all went well, and Mr. Linden got home safe from abroad,—and this year were all she had to take care for, it was a very little matter to keep the year afloat, and very little matter, in her estimation, whatever she might have to do for the purpose. But those "ifs" no mortal could answer for. Faith did not look much at that truth, but she acted upon it; prayed over her thoughts and brought her plans into shape in very humble consciousness of it. And at the early breakfast the next morning she began to unfold them; which as Mrs. Derrick did not like them, led on to a long talk; but Faith as usual had her way.
After some preliminary arrangements, and late in the day, she set off upon a long walk to Miss Bezac's. The slant beams of the summer sun were again upon the trim little house as Faith came up towards it. Things were changed since she was there before! changed a good deal from the gay, joyous playtime of that visit. Mr. Linden in Europe, and she—"It is very well," thought Faith; "it might not have been good for me to have too much of such a time. Next year"—
Would if it brought joy, bring also an entering upon real life-work. Faith knew it; she had realized long before with a thought of pain, that this summons to Europe had perhaps cut short her last time of absolute holiday pleasure. Mr. Linden could hardly now be more than a few days in Pattaquasset before "next year" should come—and Faith did not stop to look at that; she never thought of it three minutes together. But life-work looked to her lovely;—what did not? Even the little pathway to Miss Bezac's door was pleasant. She was secretly glad of that other visit now, which had made this one so easy; though yet a sympathetic blush started as she went in.
"Why Faith!" said Miss Bezac,—"you're the very person I was thinking of, and the very one I wanted to see! though I always do want to see you, for that matter, and don't often get what I want. Then I don't generally want much. But what a beautiful visit we had last time! Do you know I've been conjuring ever since how your dress should be made? What'll it be, to begin with?—I always do like to begin with that—and it's bothered me a good deal—not knowing it, I mean. I couldn't arrange so well about the making. Because making white satin's one thing, and muslin's another,—and lace is different from 'em both—and indeed from most other things except spider's webs." All which pleasant and composing sentiments were uttered while Miss Bezac was clearing a chair for Faith, and putting her in it, and laying her various pieces of work together.
"I shouldn't be the least bit of help to you," said Faith who couldn't help laughing. "Can't it wait?"
"Why it'll have to," said Miss Bezac; "he said it must,—but that's no reason I should. I always like a reason for everything. It took me an age and a quarter to find out why Miss Essie De Staff always will wear aprons. She wears 'em out, too, in more ways than one, but that's good for me. Only there's so many ways of making them that I get in a puzzle. Now this one, Faith—would you work it with red flowers or green?—I said black, but she will have colours. You've got a good colour to-day—O don't you want some bread and milk?" said Miss Bezac, dropping the apron.
"No, thank you!" said Faith laughing again,—"not to-day. I should work that with green, Miss Bezac."
"But I'm afraid green won't do, with black above and black below," said Miss Bezac. "Two sides to things you know, Faith,—aprons and all the rest. I'd a great mind to work it with both, and then she couldn't say she'd rather have had 'tother. What things I have worked in my day!—but my day's twilight now, and my eyes find it out."
"Do you have more to do than you can manage, generally?" said Faith.
"Why no, child, because I never take any more,—that's the way not to have things—troubles or aprons. I could have my hands full of both, but what's the use?—when one hasn't eyes—for sewing or crying. Mrs. Stoutenburgh comes, and Mrs. Somers, and Miss Essie—and the landlord, and sometimes I let 'em leave me a job, and sometimes I don't,—send 'em, dresses, and all, off to Quilipeak."
"Then I'll tell you what you shall give me to-day—instead of bread and milk;—some of the work that you would send off. Don't you remember," said Faith, smiling quietly at Miss Bezac's eyes,—"you once promised to teach me to embroider waistcoats?"
"Why yes!" said Miss Bezac—"and so I will. But, my dear, are you sure he would wear it?—and after all, isn't it likely he'll get everything of that sort he wants, in Paris? And then the size!—who's to tell what that should be? To be sure you could do the fronts, and have them made up afterwards—and of course he would wear anything you made.—I'll go right off and get my patterns."
Faith's confusion was startled. It was Miss Bezac's turn to look at her. She caught hold of the seamstress and brought her back to listening at least.
"Stop!—Miss Bezac!—you don't understand me. I want work!—I want work. I am not talking of making anything for anybody!—" Faith's eyes were truthful now, if ever they were.
"Well then—how can you work, if you won't make anything for anybody? Want work, Faith?—you don't mean to say all that story about Sarn Deacon's true? Do you know," said Miss Bezac, dropping into a chair and folding her hands, "when I heard that man had gone out of town, I said to myself, it would be a mercy if he never came back!"—which was the severest censure Miss Bezac ever passed upon anybody. "I really did," she went on,—"and now he's come, and I s'pose I've got to say that's a mercy too—and this,—though I wouldn't believe it last night."
"Then you have heard it?"
"My ears did, and they're pretty good ears too,—though I do get out of patience with them now and then."
"It's true," said Faith, "and it's nothing very dreadful. Mother and I have nothing to live upon but what I can make by butter; so I thought I would learn and take work of you, if you had it for me. I could soon understand it; and then you can let people bring you as much as they will—what you cannot do, I will do. I could think of nothing so pleasant;—no way to make money, I mean."
For a minute Miss Bezac sat quite still,—then she roused up.
"Nothing to live upon but butter!"—she said,—"well that's not much,—at least if there's ever so much of it you want something else. And what you want you must have—if you can get it. And I can get you plenty of work—and it's a good thing to understand this sort of work too, for he might carry you off to some random place where they wear calico just as they can put it on—and that wouldn't suit you, nor him neither. I don't believe this'll suit him though—and it don't me, not a bit. I'm as proud as a Lucifer match for anybody I love. But I'll make you proud of your work in no time. What'll you do first? embroider or stitch or cut out or baste or fit?"
"What you please—what you think best. But Miss Bezac, what are you 'proud' about?"
"O I've my ways and means, like other folks," said Miss Bezac. "And you can do something more striking than aprons for people that don't need 'em. But I'm not going to give you this apron, Faith—I sha'n't have her wearing your work all round town, and none the wiser. See—this is nice and light and pretty—like the baby it's for,—you like green, don't you? and so will your eyes."
"I'd as lieve have Miss Essie wear my work as eat my butter," said Faith. "But," she added more gravely,—"I think that what God gives me to do, I ought to be proud to do,—and I am sure I am willing. He knows best."
"Yes, yes, my dear—I believe that,—and so I do most things you say," answered Miss Bezac, bringing forth from the closet a little roll of green calico. "Now do you like this?—because if you don't, say so."
"I'll take this," said Faith, "and the next time I'll take the apron. I must do just as much as I can, Miss Bezac; and you must let me. Would you rather have the apron done first? I want Miss Essie's apron, Miss Bezac!"
"Well you can't have it," said Miss Bezac,—"and what you can't, you can't—all the world over. Begin slow and go on fast—that's the best way. And I'll take the best care of you!—lay you up in lavender,—like my work when it's done and isn't gone home."
So laughingly they parted, and Faith went home with her little bundle of work, well contented.
A very few days had seen the household retrenchments made. Cindy was gone, and Mr. Skip was only waiting for a "boy" to come. Mother and daughter drew their various tools and conveniences into one room and the kitchen, down stairs, to have the less to take care of; abandoning the old eating-room except as a passage-way to the kitchen; and taking their meals, for greater convenience, in the latter apartment.
Faith did not shut up her books without some great twinges of pain; but she said not one word on the matter. She bestowed on her stitching and on her housework and on her butter the diligent zeal which used to go into French rules and philosophy. But Mrs. Stoutenburgh had reckoned without her host, for there was a great deal more of the butter than she could possibly dispose of; and Judge Harrison's family and Miss De Staff's became joint consumers and paid the highest price for it, that Faith would take. But this is running ahead of the story.
Some days after Faith's appeal to Mr. Stoutenburgh had passed, before the Squire presented himself to report progress. He found both the ladies at work in the sitting-room, looking very much as usual, except that there was a certain not inelegant disposition of various pieces of muslin and silk and ribbon about the room which carried the appearance of business.
"What rent will Mr. Deacon have, Mr. Stoutenburgh?" said Faith looking up from her needle.
"My dear, he'll have what he can get," said the Squire, "but what that'll be, Miss Faith, he and I haven't just made up our minds."
"How much ought it to be, sir, do you think?"
"Nothing at all," said the Squire,—"not a cent."
"Do you think not, sir?" said Faith doubtfully.
"Not a cent!" the Squire repeated,—"and I told him so, and said he might throw the barn into the bargain and not hurt himself."
"Will he agree to that, Mr. Stoutenburgh?—I mean about the house. We can pay for it."
"My dear, I hope to make him agree to that, and more too. So just let the hay stand, and the house, and the barn, and everything else for the present. I'll tell you time enough—if quarter day must come. And by the way, talking of quarters, there's one of a lamb we killed yesterday,—I told Tim to leave it in the kitchen. How does your ice hold out?"
"Do you want some, sir?" said Faith, in whose eyes there shone a soft light the Squire could be at no loss to read.
"No my dear, I don't—though Mrs. Stoutenburgh does tell me sometimes to keep cool. But I thought maybe you did. Do you know, Miss Essie De Staff never sees me now if she can help it—what do you suppose is the reason?"
"I don't think there can be any, sir."
"Must be!" said the Squire,—"always is a reason for every fact. You know what friends we used to be,—it was always, 'Hush, Mr. Stoutenburgh!' or, 'How do you know anything about it?' Ah, he's a splendid fellow!—My dear, I don't wish to ask any impertinent questions, but when you do hear that he's safe across, just let me know—will you?" And the Squire bowed himself off without waiting for an answer.
CHAPTER XXXV
Faith found that sewing and housework and butter-making took not only her hands but her minutes, and on these little minute wheels the days glided off very fast. She had plenty of fresh air, withal, for Mrs. Stoutenburgh would coax her into a horseback ride, or the Squire take her off in his little wagon; or Mrs. Derrick and Jerry go with her down to the shore for clams and salt water. The sea breeze was more company than usual, this summer.
By the time August days came, there came also a letter from Europe; and thereafter the despatches were as regular and as frequent as the steamers. But they brought no special news as to the point of coming home. Mrs. Iredell lingered on in the same uncertain state, neither worse nor better,—there was no news to send. Everything else the letters had; and though Faith might miss that, she could not complain.
So the summer days slipped away peacefully; and when the mother and daughter sat sewing together in the afternoon, (for Mrs. Derrick often took some little skirt or sleeve) nobody would have guessed why the needles were at work.
There was one remarkable thing about the boy Reuben had found to supply Mr. Skip's place—he was never visible. Nor audible either, for that matter, except that Faith at her own early rising often heard the wood-saw industriously in motion. He was not to sleep in the house for the first month,—that had been agreed; but whether he slept anywhere seemed a matter of doubt. A doubt Faith resolved to set at rest; and one August morning, while the birds were a-twitter yet with their first getting up and the sun had not neared the horizon, Faith crossed the yard to the woodshed and stood in the open doorway,—the morning light shewing the soft outlines of her figure in a dark print dress, and her white ruffles, and gleaming on her faultlessly soft and bright hair.
The woodshed was in twilight yet; its various contents shewing dimly, the phoebe who had built her nest under the low roof just astir, but the wood work was going on briskly. Not indeed under the saw—that lay idle; but with the sort of noiseless celerity which was natural to him, Reuben Taylor was piling the sticks of this or yesterday's cutting: the slight chafing of the wood as it fell into place chiming with the low notes of a hymn tune which Faith well remembered to have heard Mr. Linden sing. She did not stir, but softly, as she stood there, her voice joined in.
For a minute Reuben did not hear her,—then in some pause of arrangement he heard, and turned round with a start and flush that for degree might have suited one who was stealing wood instead of piling it. But he did not speak—nor even thought to say good morning; only pushed the hair back from his forehead and waited to receive sentence.
"Reuben!"—said Faith, stepping in the doorway. And she said not another word; but in her eyes and her lips, even in her very attitude as she stood before him, Reuben Taylor might read it all!—her knowledge for whose love he was doing that work, her powerlessness of any present means of thanks, and the existence of a joint treasury of returned affection that would make itself known to him some day, if ever the chance were. The morning sun gleamed in through the doorway on her face, and Reuben could see it all there. He had raised his eyes at the first sound of her voice, but they fell again, and his only answer was a very low spoken "Good morning, Miss Faith."
Faith sat down on a pile of cut sticks and looked up at him.
"Reuben—what are you about?"
"Putting these sticks out of the way, Miss Faith"—with a half laugh then.
"I shall tell Mr. Linden of you," (gravely.)
"I didn't mean you should have a chance, Miss Faith."
"Now you are caught and found—do you know what your punishment will be?"
Reuben looked up again, but did not venture to guess.
"You will be obliged to come in and take a cup of coffee with me every morning."
"O that's not necessary!" Reuben said with a relieved face,—"thank you very much, Miss Faith."
"It is necessary," said Faith gravely;—"and you are not to thank me for what you don't like."
"It was partly for what I do like, ma'am," said Reuben softly pitching up a stick of hickory.
"It's so pleasant to have you do this, Reuben," said Faith, watching him, "that I can't tell you how pleasant it is; but you must drink my coffee, Reuben, or—I will not burn your wood! You know what Mr. Linden would make you do, Reuben." Faith's voice lowered a little. Reuben did not dispute the commands so urged, though a quick glance said that her wish was enough.
"But dear Reuben, who's coming when you're gone?"
"Would you like Dromy Tuck, Miss Faith?—but I don't know that you ever saw him. He's strong, and honest—he's not very bright. I'll find somebody." And so the matter ended.
August went on,—Reuben sawed his last stick of wood and eat his last breakfast at Mrs. Derrick's, and then set forth for Quilipeak, to begin his new life there. The little settlement at Quapaw was not alone in feeling his loss,—Mrs. Derrick and Faith missed him every day. One of Reuben's last doings in Pattaquasset, was the giving Dromy Tuck in charge to Phil Davids.
"Look after him a little, Phil," he said, "and see that he don't go to sleep too much daytimes. He means to go straight, but he wants help about it; and I don't want Mrs. Derrick to be bothered with him." Which request, enforced as it was by private considerations, favoured Dromy with as strict a censorship as he desired.
From Germany news came at last,—but it was of the sort that one can bear to wait for. Mrs. Iredell was not able to be moved nor certain to get well. Mr. Linden could neither come with his sister nor from her. And thus, hindered from getting home to his Seminary duties in America, there was but one thing he could do—finish his course in a German University. But that ensured his being in Europe the whole year! No question now of fall or winter or spring,—summer was the first time that could be even thought of; and in this fair September, when Faith had been thinking of the possibility of his sudden appearance, he was beginning his work anew in a foreign land.
It came heavily at first upon her. Faith had not known how much she counted on that hope or possibility. But now when it was gone she found she had lost a large piece of her sunlight. She had read her letter alone as usual, and alone she struggled with her sorrow. It cost Faith for once a great many tears. Prayer was always her refuge. But at last after the tears and the signs of them were gone, Faith went into her mother's company again, looking wistful and as gentle and quiet.
Perhaps it was well for Faith that her mother knew what this quiet meant—it saved her countless little remarks of wonder and comment and sorrow. More devoted to her Mrs. Derrick could not be, but she had her own strong box of feeling, and there locked up all her sorrow and anxiety out of sight. Yet it was some time before the little sitting-room, with its scattered bits of work, could look bright again.
"And I sha'n't see him again till–." It gave Faith a great pang. That "next year" she never looked at much. She would have liked a little more of those innocent play days which had been so unexpectedly broken off. "Next year" looked serious, as well as glad. "But it is good for me," she said to herself. "It must be good for me, to be reminded to live on what cannot fail. I suppose I was getting to be too very happy."—And after a few such talks with herself Faith went straight on, for all that appeared, as peacefully as ever, and as cheerfully.
It was not long after this, that passing Mr. Simlins' gate one afternoon, as she was coming home from a walk, Faith was hailed by the farmer. She could not but stop to speak to him, and then she could not prevent his carrying her off into the house.
"'Twont hurt you to rest a minute—and 'twont hurt me," said he. "Why I haint seen you since–How long do you s'pose folks can live and not see moonshine? Now you pull off your bonnet, and I'll tell Mrs. Hummins to give us something good for tea."
"What would mother do for hers, Mr. Simlins?" said Faith resisting this invitation.
"Well you can sit down anyhow, and read to me," said Mr. Simlins, who had already taken a seat himself in preparation for it. "People can't get along without light from one phenomenon or the other, you know, Faith."
She took off her bonnet, and brought the Bible. "What do you want, Mr.Simlins?" her sweet voice said meaningly.
"Fact is," said the farmer rather sorrowfully, "I s'pose I want about everything! I don't feel to know much more'n a baby—and there aint more'n three grains of corn to the bushel in our minister's preachin'. I go to meetin' and come home with my head a little more like a bell than 'twas; for there's nothing more in it but a ringin' of the words I've heerd. Do you mind, Faith, when somebody—I don't know whether you or I like him best—wanted me to try a new kind of farming?—you mind it? I guess you do. It never went out o' my head again, till I set out to try;—and now I find I don't know nothin' at all how to work it!"
"What is the trouble, dear Mr. Simlins?" said Faith looking up.
The farmer hesitated, then said low and huskily, "I don't know what to do about joinin' the church."
"The Bible says, 'If a man love God, the same is known of him,'"—Faith answered softly.
"Well, but can't it be known of him without that? Fact is, Faith, I'm afeard!"—and a rough hand was drawn across the farmer's eyes—"I'm afeard, if I do, I'll do something I hadn't ought to do, and so only just dishonour the profession—and I'd better not have anything to do with it!"
Faith turned back the leaves of the Bible.
"Listen to what God said to Joshua, Mr. Simlins, when he was going to lead the people of Israel over into a land full of enemies.—
'Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed.'"
"It's easy to say 'be strong'," said the farmer after pausing a minute,—"but how are you going to contrive it?"
Faith read from the Psalms; and her words fell sweeter every one. "'In the day when I cried thou answeredst me, and strengthenedst me with strength in my soul.' That is what David says, Mr. Simlins; and this is Isaiah's testimony.—'They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.'"
"Go ahead, Faith!"—said the farmer, who was sitting with his head down in his hands. "You aint leavin' me much of a corner to hide in. Turn down a leaf at them places."
Faith was still again, turning over leaves.
"Paul was in trouble once, Mr. Simlins, and prayed earnestly about something; and this is what he says of the Lord's answer to him.—'And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.'—'When I am weak, then am I strong.'—And in another place—'I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.'"
"But he wa'n't much like me," said Mr. Simlins "he was an apostle and had inspiration. I hain't none."
"He was a man, though," said Faith, "and a weak one, as you see he calls himself. And he prays for the Christians at Ephesus, that God would grant them 'to be strengthened with might by his Spirit;' and they were common people. And the Bible says 'Be strong in the Lord and in the power of his might;'—we aren't bid to be strong in ourselves; but here again, 'Strengthened with might, according to his glorious power, unto all patience and long-suffering with joyfulness.' Won't that do?" said Faith softly.
"Have you put marks in all them places?" said the farmer.
"I will."
"If that don't do, I s'pose nothing will," said Mr. Simlins. "They're mighty words! And they've stopped my mouth."
Faith was silently marking the places. The farmer sat looking at her.
"You do know the Scripturs—I can say that for you!" he remarked.
"No, Mr. Simlins!—" said Faith looking up suddenly, "I don't know this string of passages of myself. Mr. Linden shewed them to me," she said more softly and blushing. She went on with what she was about.
"Well don't he say you like to speak truth rayther than anything else?" said the farmer. "If he don't, I wouldn't give much for his discretion. When's he going to have leave to take you away, Faith?" It was half sorrowfully spoken, and though Faith rose up and blushed, she did not answer him quickly.
"My business must take me away now, sir;—good night."
But Mr. Simlins shouted to Jem Waters, had the wagon up, put Faith in with infinite care and tenderness, and sent her home so.
One rainy, stormy, wild equinoctial day in the end of September—not long after that letter had come, Squire Stoutenburgh came to the door. Faith heard him parleying with her mother for a minute—heard him go off, and then Mrs. Derrick entered the sitting-room, with her eyes full of tears and her heart, at least, full of a little package,—it did not quite fill her hands.
"Pretty child!" she said, "I'm so thankful!"—and she went straight off to the kitchen, and the little package lay in Faith's lap. The thick brown paper and wax and twine said it had come a long way. The rest the address told. It was a little square box, the opening of which revealed at first only soft cotton; except, in one corner, there was an indication of Faith's infallible blue ribband. Fastened to that, was a gold locket. Quite plain, alike on both sides, the tiny hinge at one edge spoke of a corresponding spring. That touched, Faith found Mr. Linden. Admirably well done and like, even to the expression, which had probably struck the artist's fancy; for he had contrived to represent well both the pleasure and the pain Mr. Linden had felt in sitting for this picture, for such a reason. The dress was that of the German students—such as he was then wearing.
Faith had never guessed—till her wondering fingers had persuaded the locket to open—she had never guessed what she should find there; at the utmost she looked to find a lock of hair; and the joy was almost as overwhelming as a little while ago pain had been. Faith could hardly see the picture for a long time; she called herself foolish, but she cried and laughed the harder for joy; she reproached herself for past ungratefulness and motions of discontent, which made her not deserve this treasure; and the joy and the tears were but enhanced that way. Faith could hardly believe her eyes, when they were clear enough to see; it seemed,—what they looked at,—too good to be true; too precious to be hers. But at last she was fain to believe it; and with blushes that nobody saw, and a tiny smile that it was a pity somebody didn't see, she put the blue ribband round her neck and hid the locket where she knew it was expected to find its place. But Faith forgot her work, and her mother found her sitting there doing nothing, looking with dreamy happy thoughtfulness into distance, or into herself; all Miss Bezac's silks and stuffs neglected around her.
And work, diligent, happy, contented, continued, was the order of the day, and of many days and weeks after. Miss Bezac giving out that she would take as much work as was offered her, she and Faith soon had both their hands completely full. The taste and skill of the little dressmaker were so well acknowledged that even from Pequot there was now many an application for her services; and many a lady from there and from Pattaquasset, came driven in a wagon or a sleigh to Miss Bezac's cottage door.