CHAPTER XLI
Friday passed all too swiftly. Not in much work, so far as Faith was concerned—unless so far as Mr. Linden gave her work. Apparently she had been out of his sight long enough—he was not in the mood to let her be so any more. Saturday followed close in Friday's steps until after dinner, then came a move. For Pet and Reuben were to come in the afternoon train; and Mr. Linden going with Jerry to the station to meet them, summoned Faith to give "her sweet company."
So far as the station, Faith gave it; but there she drew back into the furthest corner of the wagon, and waited, while Mr. Linden walked up and down between the wagon and the front platform. Waited, and watched, furtively, everything; him and the people that spoke to him; with those strange eyes that saw everything new. Then came the whistle! the rush and roar of the train—the moment's lull; and then Faith saw the three she looked for coming towards her. Reuben a little in advance with Miss Linden's travelling bag, she with one hand on her brother's shoulder and her eyes on his face, coming rather slowly after,—talking, asking questions, some of which Faith could almost guess from the look and smile with which they were answered. It was a pretty picture; she felt as if she knew them both better for seeing it. Before they had quite reached the wagon, Pet received an answer which made her quit Mr. Linden with a little spring and leave him to follow with Reuben. And Faith had opened the wagon door.
"Faith! you dear child!" said Miss Linden, "what have you been doing with yourself—or what has anybody done with you, to stow you away here like a forgotten parcel?" She had entered the wagon no further than to rest one knee there holding both Faith's hands and looking at her with full, bright, loving eyes. "How came Endecott to leave you here, alone?"
"Two people must be alone—if they are not together," said Mr. Linden."Pet, shall I put you in or out?"
She laughed, jumping into the wagon then and twining one arm aboutFaith's waist, much like a spray of woodbine.
"What do you think I have asked him?" she whispered,—"and what do you think he has told me?"
"I don't know," said Faith;—"but I guess."
A significant clasp of the woodbine answered that—then the hand rested in a quiet embrace.
"How well he looks!" she said, her eyes taking glad note of one figure on the seat before them. "Faith, how are you?"
"I am well."—Nothing could be quieter in its kind. "Did he tell you what he is going to do to-morrow, Pet?"
"No—" she said looking her quick inquiry. Faith's face might have told her before she spoke; such a joy sat gravely on her brow and in the depth of her eyes.
"If you go to church to-morrow, you will know."
A sudden flush, both of cheeks and eyes, bore witness to the interest of this news. The look met Faith's for a moment—then rested on Mr. Linden, and then with that little tide of feeling deepening its sweet flow, the eyes fell, the unbent lips wavered and trembled. Faith ventured only a silent act of free-masonry; a fast clasp of her fingers round Miss Linden's hand that rested on her waist; but maybe never yet in their short friendship had they felt their hearts beat so close together. With one, there was perhaps some old recollection or association—some memory of the time when such a day had been first talked of, that made self-command a hard matter; for though the lips presently grew still, and the eyes quiet, the gravity that remained was easily stirred, and the voice spoke doubtfully.
There was more discussion of various things that evening than Faith cared for, but it could not be helped. Sunday brought a lull of discussions. But the gravity which sat on Faith's face that morning was not the less but the more. If a guardian angel had shewn himself bodily, his face might have worn such a pure distance from low and trifling things and like kindred with the blue sky and the truth it emblematizes. That day was the first of her new life to Faith. Not such to Mr. Linden; but it was the first of her seeing him publicly take the office to which his life was to be given, and in which hers was to be by his side. She was a very grave "sunbeam" when she set out to walk to church—and as clear!
There were sunbeams in plenty of the literal kind abroad; it was a perfect day; and everybody was glad of that, though some people remarked it would have made no difference if it had rained cannon-balls. Never did Pattaquasset see such a coming to church! never in the remembrance of Mr. Somers. They came from all over; the country was gleaned; and many a fire was raked up on the hearthstone that day which most Sundays got leave to burn and somebody to watch it. The fishermen came from Quapaw, and the labourers from the farms all over the country; those who did not directly know Mr. Linden, knew of him; and knew such things of him that they would not have missed this opportunity of hearing him speak, for a week's wages. The fathers and mothers of the boys he had taught, they knew him; and they came in mass, with all their uncles, aunts and cousins to the remotest degree, provided they were not geographically too remote. The upper society of Pattaquasset lost not a man nor a woman; they were all there, some with great love, others with great curiosity. The Stoutenburghs had plumed themselves. Mr. Simlins was as upright as his new beaver. Miss Essie De Staff with magnified black eyes; Judge Harrison with benevolent anticipation. Mr. Stephens the fisherman had driven his little lame child down to the Pattaquasset church, "for once;" Jonathan Ling was there with his wife, having left the eldest child to keep house, and both being in great smartness and expectation. Jonathan Fax was there and his new wife; the one with a very grave head, the other with a very light one, and faces accordingly. Mrs. Derrick and Pet had long ago been quietly seated; when through that full house, after her Sunday school duties were over, Faith came in. Her colour was very bright, and she trembled; but it was not because many saw in her an object of curiosity; though Faith remembered it, at that minute she did not care. She felt the stillness of expectation that filled the house, with which the little murmur of sound now and then chimed so well; the patter of childish feet that followed her up the aisle spoke so keenly to her wrought up feeling of the other one of her class, who used to follow him with such delight, that Faith felt as if the happy little spirit long since received in at the golden gates, was even there in the church, to hear once more his beloved teacher. Who else?—what other angel wings stirred in the soft breeze that floated through from door to door?—what other unseen, immortal senses waited on those dear mortal lips?—Faith's step grew lighter, her breath more hushed; eyes might look at her—she looked not at them.
And eyes did look, from all sorts of motives; perhaps in the whole church there was not a person who did not try to see her, except the one who next to herself was the most interested—Pet never moved. Her head was bent, her hand half supporting half concealing in its position, like any statue she sat there, nor even stirred when the stir of every one else told who had come in. If she held her breath to bear every one of her brother's steps as he passed by, she did not look at him; did not raise her head till his first prayer was ended; then her rapt gaze was as unwavering.
The service which followed could not be measured by the ordinary line and rule of pulpit eloquence and power,—could not be described by most of the words which buzz down the aisles after a popular sermon. There was not the "newness of hand" of a young preacher—for almost from boyhood Mr. Linden had been about his Master's work. To him it was as simple a thing to deliver his message to many as to one,—many, many of those before him had known his private ministrations, and not a few had through them first known the truth; and now to all these assembled faces he was just what each had seen him alone; as humble, as earnest, as affectionate, as simply speaking not his own words,—for "Who hath made man's mouth—have not I, the Lord?" No one who heard the ambassador that day, doubted from what court he had received his credentials. "In trust with the gospel!" Yes, it was that; but that with a warm love for the truth and the people that almost outran the trust. As the traveller in the fountain shade of the desert calls to the caravan that passes by through the sand,—as one of the twelve of old, when Christ "blessed and brake and gave to his disciples, and the disciples to the multitude"; so did he speak from the words—
"Eat, O friends!—drink, yea drink abundantly, O beloved!"
There were some there who would never forget that day. There were many to whom it seemed, that not the warm summer breeze that floated in was gentler or sweeter than the feeling that filled the place. The little lame girl, and her older and rougher father and mother, listened alike to their dear friend with moveless eyes; and drank such a draught of those sweet waters as it was long, long since either of them had tasted in a church. It was a white day for all the fishing population; and nothing would have kept them from coming in the afternoon. Miss Essie's black eyes lost all their fire. Farmer Simlins, unknown to himself, sat and smiled. And the one who listened most tenderly and joyfully, listened indeed quietly to the last word, or till her face had leave to bow itself from sight; quietly then no longer, only that such tears come from no broken-up fountains of unrest. They came freely, as Faith recalled and applied the whole of her quoted sentence of Paul to the Thessalonians—
"For as we were allowed of God to be put in trust with the gospel, SO WE SPEAK."
She was very quiet when the benediction was spoken, but she drew her veil closely as they left the church.
It was a lingering getting out, even for them, because others would linger. Some turned to look, some stopped to speak; and if Mr. Linden had had twenty hands they would all have found employment. Part of this the two veiled figures saw as they made their way to the door, and there Miss Linden paused and looked back. The broad stream of sunlight that lay across the church, the shadowy background figures,—in that very spot of light, Mr. Linden,—made a never-to-be-forgotten picture. Reuben Taylor stood close behind him, a step back, looking down; little Ency Stephens perched up on the pew cushions had one hand; Robbie Waters—far down below the other. Phil Davids and his father, Squire Stoutenburgh, and some of the Quapaw fishermen made up the group. Pet gave one look, and then she went swiftly down the steps and on.
Slowly the people scattered away, up and down the road; not with the brisk steps and busy voices that give token the church service has but interrupted—not suspended—the current of everyday thought and behaviour. It was a fair picture of a Sunday in a New England village; the absolute repose of nature copied and followed by hands that other days let nothing stand still. Before Faith and Pet got home the road was almost empty. Mr. Linden had overtaken them, but all his greeting was to put Faith's hand on his arm—then he walked as silent as they. It was a little thing, and yet it touched the very feeling she had had all day—the beginning of her new way of life, with him.
The afternoon was like the morning. Not a creature was missing of all who from far and near had filled the house in the former part of the day! and doubtless it was well that Mr. Somers could not hear the spoken and unspoken wishes that would have unseated him and caused him to relinquish for ever his charge in Pattaquasset.
The afternoon air was enticing, the afternoon walk home very lingering; then standing in the hall to look and taste it still, the sweet peace of everything seemed to enter every heart. Even Pet, who all day had been unheard and almost unseen, stood with clasped hands looking out; and only the heavy eyes spoke of the oppression that had been. But as she looked the tears came back again, and then she turned to Mr. Linden—wrapping her arms round his neck.
"Endy, Endy!—do you remember the first time we talked of this day?"
Mr. Linden gave back her caresses without a word, but with a look of pain that Faith had rarely seen on his face. It was some minutes before he spoke. "Dear Pet—she knows it now!"
Miss Linden looked up then, mastering her tears, and with a broken "Forgive me, Endy—" she kissed him and went away up stairs. But Mr. Linden did not look out any more. He went into the sitting-room, and resting his face on his hand sat there alone and still, until Faith came to call him to tea.
CHAPTER XLII
"Now my two pets," said Mr. Linden as they left the table Monday morning, "what are you going to do?"
"I am going to work," said his sister. "Mrs. Derrick and I have business on hand. You can have Faith."
"There is an impression of that sort on my own mind."
"But I mean to-day. Except for about five minutes every half hour."
"It would be needless for me to say what I am going to do," observedFaith quietly.
"If that is a little piece of self assertion," said Mr. Linden, "allow me respectfully to remark that my 'impression' had no reference to the present time. Do you feel mollified?"
"No," said Faith laughing. "You are wide of the mark."
"Then will you please to state your intentions?—So far from being needless, it will be what Mr. Somers would call 'gratifying.'"
"I don't know," said Faith merrily. "I understand that if I tell you, you will say I have no time for them!"—
"For them!—enigmatical. Who told you what I would say?—Ask me." ButFaith laughed.
"I am going to make Pet and you some waffles for tea."
"Do they require more time than shortcakes?"
Faith stood before him quietly as if she had a great deal to say. "I am going to make bread, for mother and all of us."
"What else?"
"Sponge cake, I think."
"And after that?"
"Crust for pot-pie."
"De plus?"
"Curds,"—said Faith, looking down now.
"Pourquoi, Mademoiselle?"
"To eat," said Faith demurely. "You like them."
"Mademoiselle, I prefer you."
"Each in its way,"—replied Faith admirably well, but with a glance, nevertheless.
"There is only one in my way," said Mr. Linden. "Well does that complete the circuit?—I suppose nothing need go between cheese and bread but waffles?"
"I shall wish—and I suppose you would wish that I should, look over strawberries."
"Where do you commonly do all these things?"
"The sponge cake and the strawberries in the other room—other things in the kitchen."
"We may as well begin as we are to go on!" said Mr. Linden. "If you will not come and keep me company I must do that for you. Faith, I think Miss Essie's statement of facts was much like the artistic representation of lions and men, in the fable!"
Faith did not at all dislike this compounding of matters; and so the strawberries were looked over, and the sponge cake beaten in the dining-room; with various social enlivenings. For besides Mr. Linden's calls upon her attention, and the subjects by him presented to be looked over along with the strawberries, Faith made now and then a run into the kitchen to see Mrs. Derrick or Cindy there; and if the runs up stairs were less frequent, they took more time. For Miss Bezac had arrived, and she and Miss Linden were deep in the white folds of Faith's muslin dress. There too was Mrs. Derrick, for the touch and the making of that dress stirred her very heart. Faith was often in demand,—not to use her needle, but her taste—or to be fitted, or 'tried on,' as Miss Bezac said.
Coming back from one of these "trying" visits to the three workers, Faith found Mr. Linden by the sitting-room table; before him a package, in his hands a letter.
"Faith," he said, "come and look at this." Faith ran in from the strawberries.
"Rosy fingers are not needed," said Mr. Linden, "but as eyes are first called for they may pass. Sit down here by me, Mignonette, and take off this wrapping paper."
Which very curiously and amusedly, and now with a little suspicious tinge in her cheeks, Faith did; remarking that she could not help her fingers being rosy.
"Keep the roses to their chosen location," said Mr. Linden gravely, as the first paper parted right and left and shewed a second, which bore this inscription.—"For Mrs. Endecott Linden—with the warmest regards and respects of W. and L. Olyphant." Faith suddenly jumped up, pushed back her chair and whisked back to the strawberries, where she was found diligently putting the hulls into a dish by themselves.
"Mignonette, your fingers will be more rosy than ever." Mr. Linden spoke from the doorway where he stood watching her. Then coming forward he laid a key on the table. "That belongs to you."
"Wouldn't you be so good as to take care of it? You see I am busy."
"No my dear, I will not be so good. You shall have that pleasure—as a reward for running away. Would you like to hear this letter?"
"If you please—" Faith said with a little hesitation.
"You shall read it to yourself if you like better—" but he read it to her, after all. It was a pretty letter, shewing so well Mr. Linden's place in the writer's affection that Faith could not but enjoy it. Neither could she dislike the messages to herself though they did cost her a few roses. As to the contents of the package the letter gave no hint.
"What is that the key of, Endy?" she said, glancing up after the letter was finished.
"I don't know!"—Faith went on with her strawberries.
Through the open hall door came little uneven steps, tracking on through other open doors even to the dining-room,—there the steps and Charles twelfth came to a pause.
"Ma said," he began,—then fixed his eyes and mind on Mr. Linden with a concentration that was marvellous. The general attire and appearance of the little potentate were as usual, but both hands were in use to support a heavy mass of red coral, hugged up to his blue apron in the most affectionate manner. With a sigh of relief Charles twelfth withdrew his attention from Mr. Linden long enough to set the coral on the floor, then gazed anew, with his hands behind him.
"Charley!" said Faith laughing,—"what are you doing!—and what have you done?"
"Ma said—" began the child, stopping short as before.
"Charles twelfth," said Mr. Linden holding out his hand "do you never use anything but your eyes? Come here and speak to me. Who is prime minister now?"
"You,"—was the very prompt reply. "Ma said so yesterday."
The laugh in Mr. Linden's eyes as he looked at Faith, was a thing to see. "Faith," he said, "the conversation is in your hands!"
Faith was in doubtful readiness to speak. "Charley!"—she said as soon as she could,—"come here. Was that all your ma said?"
"No," said the boy, "she said a heap more."
"Well what did you come here for to-day?"
"I came to fetch that—" said Charles twelfth with another sigh.
"Poor child!—What did you bring it for, Charley?"
"Why for you," said Charley. "Ma said she didn't know when it oughter come—and she guessed you'd like it, 'cause it used to live off in the place where you said they eat up babies and people!" and Charles twelfth's eyes grew large and round with the announcement. "And ma said she's sorry 'twarnt more. I ain't."
Faith's eyes went to Mr. Linden with a flash and a burst of the uncontrollable little laugh; but after that they were suspiciously downcast, and Faith busied herself in providing little Charles twelfth with the refreshment of a good saucer of sugared strawberries, with which he sat down in a corner much consoled. And when he was setting off again, Faith gave him a whispered message to ask his mother to come and see her Thursday. Just what Mr. Linden saw in the piece of red coral he did not declare, but when Faith came back to the table he was looking at it very fixedly.
"Faith," he said, "that is not the worst token, nor the worst envoy—that might be. What a shy child you were that first time I took you down there! And you have not changed any too much," he added, carrying her off to the other room. "I am not sure that you ought to be indulged—suppose you open this box."
"You do it, please, Endecott!"—she said with a crimson rush to her cheeks.
"I do not believe there is any explosive material under such an address,—however, if there is I prefer that my hands should fire the train. Stand back, Faith!"—and with cautious and laughing deliberation the key was turned and the lid raised. It was a very plain lid, by the way—mere white pine.
"There is nothing here (that appears) but silk paper and cotton,—not gun cotton, probably," said Mr. Linden. "Faith, do you wish me to risk my safety any further?"
"Yes."—
"My dear, you must have more courage. If I am to open all your boxes I shall have my hands full, and—ne vous en déplaise—I would rather see the work in yours." And she was seated before the portentous pine box, Mr. Linden keeping his stand at her side. Faith blushed and didn't like it; but applied her fingers with a sort of fearful delicacy to the silk paper and cotton, removing one after the other.
The box had interior divisions, by way of help to the silk paper, its different contents being thus more securely separated. Faith's fingers exploring among the papers brought out first a silver chocolate pot, then the dainty china cups for the same, then the spoons, in size and shape just suiting the cups. Spoons and chocolatière were marked with the right initials; the cups—chocolate colour themselves, that no drop of the dark beverage might hurt their beauty—had each a delicate gilt F. L. twining about the handle.
If the givers could have seen the gift uncovered and inspected!—the rosy delight in Faith's cheeks, the pleasure in her eye! They would have considered themselves rewarded. She looked and bent over the pretty things, her attitude and blush half veiling her admiration and satisfaction, but there was no veiling them when she looked up at Mr. Linden. "I am so glad you like chocolate!"—she said naively. But it was worth a hundred remarks of aesthetic criticism.
"I am so glad I do!" he said, stooping to kiss her. "Faith, one would almost imagine some bird of the air had told them our chocolate associations."
"Now won't you put these back for me?" said Faith,—"because, if that sponge cake is to get done to-day I haven't two minutes to lose!"
The pretty chocolatière was but the beginning, as Faith soon found. Found to her most utter and unbounded astonishment—though to that of no one else.
Tuesday arrived a packet from Madame Danforth, accompanied by a note of affection and congratulation. The present was peculiar. A satin sachet, embroidered after the little Frenchwoman's desire, and to do it justice very exquisitely scented, was the first thing. A set of window curtains and toilet cover, of a curious and elaborate pattern of netting, made of very fine thread,—a manufacture in which Madame Danforth delighted and on which she prided herself,—was the second thing. The third was a pretty breakfast service of French china.
Faith enjoyed them all, with some amusement and some pleasure of possession, and not a little affectionate remembrance. Even the sachet, in this view, was particularly precious; that was the only use Faith saw in it. But the next arrival gave her a great start.
It was again this time a deal box, but immensely heavy; and it was a strong box that Faith did not attempt to open; marked only 'Grover & Baker', which told her nothing. There was no occasion indeed. A note was delivered with the box, and a small covered basket. The note conveyed the assurance of Sophy Harrison's love and a request that Faith would let her shew it on the present occasion. It went on.—
"Papa has sent you, dear Faith, an odd thing for a present—for such a present—but I haven't been able to put it out of his head. He insists it is what you ought to have, and that he shall have the pleasure of giving it to you To save you the trouble of opening the box before you want it, I will state that it contains a sewing machine. Papa has taken great pains to satisfy himself—and it is certainly the best or one of the best. My offering, dear Faith, is in the basket, and may be looked at with less difficulty."
Miss Sophy's offering was a kindly one. She had sent a little invoice of silver spoons and forks. Faith was pleased; and yet she looked grave, and very grave, over these things. She made no remark whatever to say why.
If no one else knew there was to be a wedding, at least the express man did!—and probably in his mind joined these new packages with those he had so often brought before, very comfortably. The next arrival was a delicate pair of silver salt-cellars and spoons from Mr. Alcott,—then a little framed sketch from the Captain of the Vulcan, portraying the meeting of two steamers at sea, with these words underneath—'The despatch post'. At which Mr. Linden looked with much amusement. Faith was delighted.
First on Wednesday morning came Miss Bezac,—bringing the well assorted tokens of an elaborate needlebook and a simple bread trencher and knife; and staying only long enough to say, "You see, Faith, what made me think of this, was that the first time I heard of that, was when you came in for bread and milk. And now you'll have to think of me, whether you sew or eat!"—with which triumphant sentiment Miss Bezac departed.
They say ill news flies fast,—in this case so did the good: certainly people are quick to hear and understand what pleases them. The friends who had heard from Pet or Mrs. Iredell what was to be, had spread the information: and in the same sort of way, from two or three old family dependants another class of Mr. Linden's friends had heard it. Perhaps among all her presents the little tokens from these people touched her most. They came queerly done up and directed, sometimes the more formal 'Mrs. Linden' changed into an ill-spelled 'For Mr. Endecott's wife'—or 'For the young lady, in care of Mr. Linden'. She knew the names thereto appended as little as they knew hers,—could only guess the vocations,—the tokens were various. A pair of elaborately carved brackets,—a delicate rustic footstool, trimmed with acorns and cones,—a wooden screw pincushion, with a flaming red velvet top,—a case of scissors, pretty enough to have come from anybody, declared the trade of the sender by the black finger marks on the brown wrapper, and a most mysteriously compiled address. One of the old sailors who had crossed with Mr. Linden long ago, sent by Pet's hands a stuffed tropical bird of gorgeous colours; a woman who had once been upper servant in his mother's house, sent by the same messenger a white toilet cushion, made exactly after one that had belonged to her mistress and which she had been allowed to keep. It was worth while to see Mr. Linden examine these things,—every name was familiar to him, every one called up some story or recollection. Alternating with these, came richer presents,—books and vases and silver; then from the poor people in and about Pattaquasset, a couple of corn husk mats, a nest of osier baskets. The children brought wild flowers and wild strawberries, the fishermen brought fish, till Mrs. Derrick said, "Child, we might as well begin to lay down for winter!"
Ency Stephens, having got Reuben to bring her two fine long razor shells, had transformed them into a pincushion. This she sent, with a kiss, by Mr. Linden.
"I half promised her that she might come before the rest of the world to-morrow, Faith," he said. "She never saw any one married, and has the greatest desire to see you—and I said if you were willing, Reuben should bring her here at one o'clock." Faith was just then exploring the contents of a new package—or rather two: one of as many spools of white thread as she had scholars in her little class, (presented by Robbie Waters,) the other a wee far-sent carved box of curled maple. She looked up with wet eyes.
"Oh let her come, Endecott—I should like to have her here."
Faith had been living in a strange atmosphere this week. The first presents that came simply pleased and amused her to a great degree; Judge Harrison's and his daughter's she saw with a strong admixture of painful feeling. But as tokens from rich and poor began to throng in—not of respect for her wedding-day so much as of respect and love for Mr. Linden,—Faith's mood grew very tender and touched. Never perhaps, since the world stood, did anybody receive wedding presents from friends known and unknown with a more gentle and humble heart-return to the senders. There was no least thing of them all that Faith did not dearly value; it told her of something so much better than the gifts, and it signified of a link that bound her with that. How beautiful to her eyes the meanest of all those trifles did seem! and for the rest, she was as quick to be delighted with what was really beautiful and glad of what would be really useful, as any sensible child could have been. So the amusement with which the week began changed into a grave, loving, and somewhat timid appreciation of each new arrival.
Meanwhile, on Faith's table stood a little silver saucepan sent by Mrs. Somers with the sage remark that she would want it for others if not for herself; and near by, a beautiful butter cup and knife from Mrs. Stoutenburgh. With the butter cup trotted down a little mountain pony, with the daintiest saddle and bridle that the Squire could find for money.
Miss Linden's love had chosen for itself sundry channels; from the silver knives—of all sorts—which made their appearance now, to various comforts, great and small, which were to await her brother and sister in their new home. In those Mrs. Iredell too had a share; her present token was a silver tea-service, whereon the chasing developed itself in sprays of mignonette. A mark of attention which Mr. Linden at least appreciated.