"I feel so composed about you," Mr. Linden went on, drawing his white bows—Faith did think the eyes flashed under the shading lashes—"so sure that you will never over-estimate me, much less speak of it. But then you know, Mignonette, I never did profess to follow Reason."
He was amused to see the little stir his words called up in Faith. He could see it in the changing colour and rest less eye, and in one look of great beauty which Faith favoured him with. Apparently the shy principle prevailed, or Faith's wit got the better of her simplicity; for she rose up gravely and laying her hand on the bunch of flowers asked if she should put them on.
"Unless you prefer my services."
She sat down again immediately, with a face that very plainly preferred them. Half smiling, with fingers that were in no haste about their work, Mr. Linden adjusted the carnations; glancing from them to her, trying them in different positions, playing over his dainty task as if he liked it. The flowers in place, his full smiling look met hers, and she was carried off to the glass "to see his wife." Hardly seen, after all, but by himself.
"She looks ready for dinner," said Faith.
"Your eyes are only to look at," said Mr. Linden with a laughing endorsement of his thoughts, and putting her back in the dormeuse. "Suppose you sit there, and tell me what efforts they have made in the way of seeing, to-day."
"Efforts to see all before them, which was more than they could," saidFaith.
"What did they see? not me, nor I them, that I know."
"That was another sort of effort they made," said Faith smiling—"efforts to see what was not before them. I watched, whenever I thought there was a chance, but I couldn't see anything that looked like you. We must have gone half over the city, Endecott; Mrs. Pulteney took me all the morning, and her daughters and Mr. Pulteney all the afternoon."
"Know, O little Mignonette," said Mr. Linden, "that in New York it is 'morning' till those people who dine at six have had their dinner.
"Like the swell of some sweet tune
Morning rises into noon,—
was written of country hours."
"I guess that is true of most of the other good things that ever were written," said Faith.
Mr. Linden looked amused. "What do you think of this?—
And when the hours of rest
Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine,
Hushing its billowy breast—
The quiet of that moment too is thine;
It breathes of Him who keeps
The vast and helpless city while it sleeps."
"I never saw the city when it was asleep," said Faith, smiling. "It didn't look to-day as if it could sleep. But, Endecott, I am sure all the pretty part of those words comes from where we have been."
"The images, yes. But connect any spot of earth with heaven, by any tie, and it must have a certain sort of grandeur. You have been working in brick and mortar to-day, Mignonette, to-morrow I must give you a bird's-eye view."
Faith was silent a minute; and then said, "It don't look a happy place to me, Endecott."
"No, it is too human. You want an elm tree or a patch of dandelions between every two houses."
"That wouldn't do," said Faith, "unless the people could be less ragged, and dirty, and uneasy; and their houses too. There's nothing like it in Pattaquasset."
"I have great confidence in the comforting and civilizing power of elm trees and green grass," said Mr. Linden. "But Carlyle says 'Man is not what you can call a happy animal, his appetite for sweet victual is so enormous;' and perhaps New York suffers as much from the fact that everybody wants more, as that some have too little and others too much."
"Do these people want more?" said Faith softly.
"Without doubt! So does everybody in New York but me."
"But why must people do that in New York, when they don't do it inPattaquasset?" said Faith, who was very like mignonette at the moment.
"The appetite grows with indulgence, or the possibility of it. Besides, little bird, in Pattaquasset you take all this breeze of humanity winnowed through elm branches. There, you know, 'My soul into the boughs does glide.'"
"No," said Faith; "it is not that. When my soul glides nowhere, and there are no branches, either; in the Roscoms' house, Endecott—and poor Mrs. Dow's, and Sally Lowndes',—people don't look as they look here. I don't mean here, in Madison Square—though yes I do, too; there was that raspberry girl; and others, worse, I have seen even here. But I have been in other places—Mr. Pulteney and his sisters took me all the way to the great stone church, Endecott."
"Well, Sunbeam, it has been a bright day for every raspberry girl that has come in your way. What else did you see there."—"I saw the church."
"Not the invisible" said Mr. Linden, smiling, "remember that."
"Invisible! no," said Faith. "There was a great deal of this visible."
"What thoughts did it put in your head?"—"It was very—wonderfully beautiful," said Faith, thoughtfully.
"What else?"—"I cannot tell. You would laugh at me if I could. Endecott, it didn't seem so much like a church to me as the little white church at home."
"I agree with you there—the less show of the instrument the sweeter the music, to me. But the street in front of the church, so specially filled with beggars and cripples, I never go by there, Faith, without a feeling of joy; remembering the blind man who sat at the Beautiful gate of the temple; knowing well that there is as 'safe, expeditious, and easy a way' to heaven from that dusty side-walk, as from any other spot of earth. The triumph of grace!—how glorious it is! I cannot speak to all of them together, nor even one by one, but grace is free! 'Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, saith the Lord of Hosts.' Faith, I have been thinking of that all day!"
She could see it in his face—in the flush on the cheek and the flash in the eye as he came and stood before her. She could see what had been all day before his eyes and mind; and how pain and sympathy and longing desire had laid hold of the promise and rested there—"Ask and ye shall receive." Unconsciously Faith folded her hands, and the least touch of a smile in the corners of her mouth was in no wise contradictory of her eyes' sweet gravity.
"I saw them too," she said, in a low tone. "Endecott, I would rather speak to them out there, under the open sky, if it wasn't a crowd—than in the church?"
"I should forget where I was, after I began to speak," said Mr. Linden; "though I do love 'that dome—most catholic and solemn,' better than all others."
"Mr. Pulteney asked me how I liked the church," said Faith.
"He did not understand your answer," said Mr. Linden smiling, "I know that beforehand. What was it?"—"I think he didn't like it," said Faith. "I told him it seemed to me a great temple that men had built for their own glory and pleasure, not for the glory and pleasure of God."
"Since when, you have been to Mr. Tom Pulteney like a fable in ancient Greek to one who has learned the modern language at school and forgotten it."
"He did not understand me," said Faith, laughing and blushing a little. "And I was worse off; for I asked him several questions he could not answer me. I wanted to go to the top, but he was certain I would be too tired if I did. But I heard the chime, Endecott! that was beautiful. Beautiful! I am very glad I was there."
"I'll take you to the top" said Mr. Linden, "it will not tire me. Faith, I have brought you another wedding present—talking of 'ancient' things."
"What is that, Endecott?" she said, with a bright amused face.—"Only a fern leaf. One that waved a few thousand years before the deluge, and was safely bedded in stone when the children of Israel passed through the Red Sea. I went to see an old antiquarian friend this morning, and out of his precious things he chose one for mine." And Mr. Linden laid in her hand the little rough stone; rough on one side, but on the other where the hammer had split it through, the brown face was smooth, and the black leaf lay marked out in all its delicate tracery.
"Endecott, what is this?" Faith exclaimed, in her low tones of delight.—"A fossil leaf."
"Of a fern? How beautiful! Where did it come from?" She had risen in her delight, and stood by Mr. Linden at the dressing-table.—"This one from Bohemia. Do you see the perfection of every leafet?"
"How wonderful! how beautiful!" Faith repeated, studying the fossil. "It brings up those words, Endecott:—'A thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past; or as a watch in the night.'"
"Yes, and these—'The counsel of the Lord, that shall stand.' Compare this fern leaf with the mighty palaces of Babylon and Nineveh. Through untold ages this has kept its wavy fragile outline, they are marked only by 'the line of confusion and the stones of emptiness.'"
Faith looked up, with such an eye of intelligence and interest as again would have puzzled Mr. Pulteney.
"Did your old antiquary send this to me, Endecott?" she said looking down at it again.—"To you, darling."
"I have seen nothing so good to-day, Endy. I am very glad of it."
"Do you remember, Sunbeam, the time when I told you I liked stones? and you looked at me. I remember the look now!" So did Faith, by the conscious light and colour that came into her face, different from those of three minutes ago, and the grateful recognition her eyes gave to Mr. Linden.
"I don't know much more now," she said, in very lowliness, "about stones, but you can teach me, Endecott."
"Yes, I will leave no stone unturned for your amusement," he said, laughing. "Faith, if I were not so much afraid of you I should tell you what you are like. What else have you seen?"
"Tell me what I am like, Endecott."
"What sort of consistency is that—to coax me when I don't tell you, and scold me when I do?"
"It's curiosity, I suppose," said Faith. "But it's no matter. I saw all that strange place, Broadway, Endecott; we drove through the whole length of it."
"Well?" said Mr. Linden, throwing himself down in the arm-chair and looking gravely up at her. But then the lips parted, not only to smile but to sing a wild Scotch tune.
"O wat ye wha that lo'es me,
And has my heart in keeping?
O sweet is she that lo'es me,
As dews o' summer weeping,
In tears the rosebuds steeping;
O that's the lassie o' my heart,
My lassie ever dearer;
O that's the queen o' womankind,
And ne'er a ane to peer her!"
"If thou hast heard her talking,
And thy attention's plighted,
That ilka body talking
But her by thee is slighted,
And thou art all delighted.
O that's the lassie o' my heart,
My lassie ever dearer;
O that's the queen o' womankind,
And ne'er a ane to peer her!"
"Did you see anybody like that in Broadway, Faith?"
Blushing how she blushed! but she would not say a word nor stir, to interrupt the singing; so she stood there, casting a shy look at him now and then till he had stopped, and then coming round behind him, she laid her head down upon his shoulder. Mr. Linden laughed, caressing the pretty head in various ways.
"My dear little bird!" he said. Then presently—"Mignonette, I have been looking at fur cloaks."
"Don't do such a thing again, Endy."
"I shouldn't, if I could have quite suited myself to-day."
"I don't want it. I can bear the cold as well as you."
"Let it make up for something which you do want and haven't got, then; you must bear the cold Polar fashion. But at present, there is the dinner-bell."
They went down; but with the fossil and the fur, Faith was almost taken out of New York; and astonished Mr. Pulteney once or twice more in the course of the evening, to Mr. Linden's amusement.
CHAPTER XLVI
The Hudson river railway, on a summer Saturday afternoon. Does everybody know it? If not, let me tell the people who have not tried it, or those more unfortunate ones who are tried by it, and driven into the depths of newspapers and brown literature by the steam pressure of mountains, clouds, and river, that it is glorious. Not on a dusty afternoon, but when there has been or is a shower. Not the locomotive, or the tender, or the cars, though the long chain has a sort of grandeur, as its links wind into the bays and round the promontories, express. But get a river-side seat, and keep your patience up the lumbered length of Tenth Avenue, and restrain your impatience as the train goes at half-stroke along that first bit of road where people are fond of getting on the track; watch the other shore, meantime, or the instructive market gardens on this; then feel the quickened speed, as the engine gets her "head;" then use your eyes. Open your windows boldly; people don't get cold from our North river air; never mind the sun; hold up a veil or a fan; only look. See how the shore rises into the Palisades, up which the March of Improvement finds such uncertain footing: how the rising points of hill are rounded with shadow and sunlight, and green from river to crown. See how the clouds roll softly up on the further side, giving showers here and there—how the white-winged vessels sail and careen and float. Look up the river from Peekskill, and see how the hills lock in and part. Think of the train of circumstances that rushed down Arnold's point that long ago morning, where a so different train now passes. Mark the rounding outlines of the green Highlands, and as you near Garrisons' let your eye follow the sunbeam that darts down the little mill creek just opposite the tunnel. Then on through those beloved hills, till they fall off right and left, and you are out upon Newburgh bay in the full glory of the sunset. After this (if you are tired looking) you may talk for a while, till the blue heads of the Catskill catch your eye and hold it.
The blue range was a dim outline—hardly that—when Faith reached her journey's end that night. She could hear the dash of the river, and see the brilliant stars, but all details waited for morning; and the morning was Sunday. Balmy, cloudless, the very air put Faith almost in Elysium; and between dreamy enjoyment, and a timid sense of her own new name and position, she would have liked for herself an oriole's nest on one of the high branches. Failing that, she seemed—as her hostess and again an old friend of Mr. Linden's told him—"like a very rosebud; as sweet, and as much shut up to herself."
Truth to tell, she kept something of the same manner and seeming next day. The house was very full, and of a very gay set of people; of whom Faith's friend, Mr. Motley, was one. Faith met their advances pleasantly, but she was daintily shy. And besides, the scene and the time were full of temptations to dream over the out-of-door beauty. The people amused her, but often she would rather have lost them in the hills or the sunset; and was for various reasons willing that others should talk while she looked.
So passed the first two days, and the third brought an excursion, which kept the whole party out till lunch-time. But towards the end of the day Mr. Linden was witness to a little drama which let him know something more of Faith than he had just seen before.
It was near the time of dressing for dinner. Mr. Linden was already dressed and had come to the library, where, in a deep recess on one side of the window, he was busy with a piece of study. The window was very large, and opened upon a green terrace; and on the terrace, in a garden chair, just outside the open window, sat Faith; quietly and intensely, he knew, enjoying the broad river and the mountain range that lay blue in the sunlight a few miles beyond; all in the soft still air of the summer day. She distracted Mr. Linden's thoughts from his study. He could see her perfectly, though he was quite out of her view. She was in one of the dainty little morning dresses he had sent her from the place of pretty things; nothing could be more simple, and it suited her; and she looked about as soft and still as the day. Meanwhile some gentlemen had entered the library, and drew near the window. Faith was just out of their range, and Mr. Linden was completely hid in his recess, or doubtless their remarks would have had a different bearing The remarks turned upon Faith, who was here as well as in New York an object of curiosity to those who had known Mr. Linden; and one of the speakers expressed himself as surprised that "Linden" should have married her.
"Wouldn't have thought it,—would you?" said Mr. Motley. "To be sure; he's able to do all the talking."
"She does very well for the outside," said another. "Might satisfy anybody. Uncommon eyes."
"Eyes!" said Mr. Motley. "Yes, she has eyes!—and a mouth. I suppose Linden gets some good of it—if nobody else does. And after all, to find a woman that is all eyes and no tongue, is, as you remark, uncommon."
"She's not quite stylish enough for him," said a third. "I thoughtLinden would have married a brilliant woman."
"He'll be a brilliant man, if you tell him that," said Mr. Motley. "Corruscations, and so forth. I never thought I should see him bewitched—even by a rose leaf monopoly."
The conversation was interrupted. It had not been one which Mr. Linden could very well break; all he could do was to watch Faith. He could see her slightly-bent head and still face, and the colour which grew very bright upon the cheek nearest him. She was motionless till the last words were broken off; then, with a shy movement of one hand to her cheek, covering it, she sprang away, as lightly as any bird she was ever named after.
Mr. Linden was detained in the library, where, as the dinner-hour drew near, other members of the family began to gather. A group of these were round the table, discussing an engraving; when Mr. Linden saw Faith come in. He was no longer in the dangerous recess; but Faith did not come near him; she joined the party at the table. Mr. Linden watched her. Faith's dressing was always a quiet affair; to-day somehow the effect was very lovely. She wore a soft muslin which flowed about her in full draperies; with a breast-knot of roses on its white folds. Faith rarely put on flowers that Mr. Linden had not given her. To-day was an exception; and her white robe with no setting off but those roses and her rich hair, was faultless. Not merely that; the effect was too striking to be absolutely quiet; all eyes were drawn to her.
The gentlemen whom she had heard speak were among the party; and no eyes were more approving. Mr. Linden watched, as he might, without being seen to watch. Faith joined not only the party, but the conversation; taking her place in it frankly; showing no unwillingness to give opinions or to discuss them, and no desire to avoid any subject that came up. She was taking a new stand among these strangers. Mr. Linden saw it, and he could guess the secret reason; no one else could guess that there was anything to give a reason for, so coolly, so naturally, it was done. But the stand was taken. Faith had not stepped in the least out of her own bounds; she had abated not a whit of her extreme modesty. She was never more herself, only it was as if she had laid down a self-indulgent shyness which she had permitted herself before, and allowed Mr. Linden's friends to become acquainted with Mr. Linden's wife. But with herself! Her manner to-day was exceedingly like her dress; the plainest simplicity, the purest quality, and the roses blushing over all. It fascinated the gentlemen, every one of them. They found that the little demure piece of gravity could talk; and talk with a truth and freshness of thought too, which was like the rest of her, uncommon and interesting, soft and free, at once. Faith went off to dinner on the arm of one of her maligners, and was very busy with company all the evening after, having little to do with Mr. Linden.
She had escaped to her room earlier than he, however; and when he came in she was sitting thoughtfully before the open window. She rose up directly, and came to him, with the usual smile, and with a little hidden triumph dancing in her eyes, and an odd wistful look besides of affection and humility. She only came close to him for a caress, without speaking. Mr. Linden took her face in both hands and looked at it—a beautiful smile mingling with the somewhat moved look of his own.
"What a child you are!"
The colour rushed all over Faith's cheeks.
"Why?—" she whispered. The answer to which, cheeks and brow, and lips, might spell out as best they could.
"Do you know why I did not come with your flowers,Mignonette?"—"Before dinner?—no. I got some for myself."
"I was on my way for them, and was entrapped and held fast. My little Mignonette! I never thought to have you put your hand to your cheek in that way again!"
"Again, Endecott! Who told you?" said Faith, as usual jumping to conclusions.
"Who told me what, my beauty?"
Faith's eye fell in doubt, then looked up searchingly.
"I believe you know everything; but you don't look displeased. How did you know, Endecott?"—"I saw and heard. And have seen and heard since," he added, smiling.
A question or two found out exactly how it had been; and then Faith put the inquiry, simple to quaintness, "Did I do better to-day?"—"If you are so anxious for me—" he said, stroking back her hair. "They did not deserve to have one of my wife's words, but her words were admirable."
It was worth while to see Faith's cheeks.
"Will you trust me to ride with Mr. Middleton to-morrow?" she asked presently, smiling.
"No. Yes—I will trust you but not him."
"Does that mean that you will trust me to go?"—"Not with him."
"But what shall I do?" said Faith, flushing after a different fashion—half laughing too—"I told him I would go, or that I thought I would go."
"Tell him that you think you will not."
Faith looked a little troubled: she foresaw a charge of questions she did not like to meet.
"Are you afraid of the horse, Endy?" she said, after a pause, a little timidly. "No, darling."
Faith was pretty just now, as she stood with her eyes cast down: like a generous tempered horse first feeling the bit; you can see that the creature will be as docile as possible, yet he is a little shy of your curb. Anything like control was absolutely new to her; and though her face was never more sweet, there was with that a touch of embarrassment which made an inexpressibly pretty mixture. Mr. Linden might well be amused and touched, and charmed too, all in one.
"Mr. Motley asked me to ride too," she said after a minute, blushing a little deeper, and speaking as if it were a supplement to her former words. "He wanted to show me the Belle Spring. I had better give them both the same answer."
"Has nobody else preferred his request? they are just the two people with whom I do not want you to ride," said Mr. Linden, smiling. "I shall have to ask you myself, or claim you. Mrs. Linden, may I have the honour?"—Faith gave him a very bright answer of a smile, but with a little secret wish in her heart that the other people had not asked her.
Her denial, however, was perfectly well taken by Mr. Motley; not indeed without a little bantering talk and raillery upon the excessive care Mr. Linden bestowed on her. But Mr. Middleton, she saw, was not pleased that she disappointed him. Within two or three days Faith had become unmistakeably the centre of attraction to all the gentlemen of the neighbourhood. To walk with her, to talk to her, to attend upon her, were not a coveted honour merely, but a coveted pleasure. It was found wonderfully refreshing to talk to Faith: her eyes were something pleasant to look at, for more than George Alcott; and the truth of her enjoyment and gratitude made it a captivating thing to be the means of exciting them.
Mr. Middleton was one of those men who think very much indeed of the value of their approbation, and never bestow it but where they are sure the honour of their taste and judgment is like to be the gainer—one of those men who in ordinary keep their admiration for themselves, and bestow in that quarter a very large amount. Faith's refusal to ride with him touched him very disagreeably. It was impossible to be offended with her, but perhaps all the more he was offended with somebody; and it happened unluckily that some reported light words of Mr. Motley about Mr. Linden's care of his wife, and especial distrust of the gentlemen who had asked her to ride, reached Mr. Middleton's ear in a very exaggerated and opprobrious form. Mr. Middleton did not know Mr. Linden, nor know much of him; his bottled-up wrath resolved that Mr. Linden should not continue long in his reciprocal ignorance. And so it fell out, that as this week began with showing Mr. Linden something of Faith that he had not seen before, it did not end without giving her a new view of him.
It was a captivating summer morning when the cavalcade set forth from Rye House, on a picnic to Alderney, one of the show places in the neighbourhood. It seemed fairyland to Faith. The beautiful country over which they travelled, in summer's luxuriance of grass and grain; the river rolling below at a little distance, sometimes hidden only to burst upon the view again; and towering above all, unchanged beyond the changing lights and shades of the nearer landscape, the long mountain range. The air was perfection; the sounds of voice and laughter and horses' brisk feet helped the exhilaration, and the lively colours and fashion of caps and habits and feathers made pretty work for the eye. Faith's ears and eyes were charmed. At a cross road the party was joined by Mr. Middleton; whose good humour, at present in a loose-jointed state, was nowise improved at the sight of Faith. She rode then, at any rate; and she sat well and rode fearlessly, that he could see; and his eye keen for such things, noted too the neat appointments of her dress, and saw that they were all right, and fitted her, and she fitted them; and that her figure altogether was what no man might dislike to have beside him, even a man so careful of his appearance as Mr. Middleton. Not near Faith did he come; but having noted all these things with gathering ire, he sheered off to another part of the troop.
It was a pretty day to Faith, the whole first part of it. The ride, and the viewing the grounds they went to see. These were indeed naturally very noble; and to Faith's eyes every new form of natural beauty, of which her range had hitherto been so very small, was like a fresh draught of water to thirsty lips. It was a great draught she had this morning, and enjoyed almost to the forgetfulness of everything else. Then came the lunch. And that was picturesque, too, certainly; on such a bank, under such trees, with such a river and mountains in front; and Faith enjoyed it and them so far. But it was splendid too, and noisy; and her thoughts went at one time away very far, to Kildeer river, and remembered a better meal taken under the trees, with better talk, and only Bob Tuck to look at them. She stole a glance at Mr. Linden. He was doing his part, and making somebody very comfortable indeed—Faith half smiled to see it.
Mr. Middleton at another part of the assembled company, had been getting his temper up with wine and his ill humour with the various suggestions and remarks of some careless gossipers at his side. Finding that he winced under the mention of Mrs. Linden and the ride, they gave him that subject with as many variations as the Katydid polka,—the simple "She did"—(or rather "She didn't")—skilfully diversified and touched up,—which brought Mr. Middleton's heavy piece of displeasure, already primed, loaded, and at full cock, to the very point where his temper struck fire. He left the table and drew towards Mr. Linden, who was talking in the midst of a group of ladies and gentlemen. Middleton knew which was he that was all.
"You, sir!" he said, like a surly bull-dog, which term describes both his mental and physical features, "my name's Middleton; I want you to take back what you've said about me."
Mr. Linden at the moment was in the full tide of German talk with one of his old fellow students from abroad; his excellent poise and play of conversation and manner setting off the gesticulations of the foreigner. With a look of more surprise than anything else he brought eyes and attention to bear upon Mr. Middleton.
"What, sir?" he said.
"Will you take back what you've said about me?" The dogged wrath of the man was beyond the use of many words, to which indeed he was never given.
"I have not said anything, sir, which requires that." And with a bend of the head, cool and courteous as his words, Mr. Linden dismissed the subject; and placing himself on the grass with his friend and some others, fell back into the German. Middleton followed fuming.
"I've come to speak to you!" he said, beginning with an execration, "and you must get up and answer me. Will you take back what you said?" Stooping down, he had thrown these words into Mr. Linden's ear in a way to leave no doubt whom they were meant for.
"I have answered you, sir."
"That is to tell you what I think of it!" said Middleton, dashing in his face the remains of a glass of wine which he had brought with him from the board on purpose.
He was on his feet then! with what a spring! as in the fairy tale the beautiful princess of a sudden became a sword. Just such eyes of fire Mr. Middleton had never been privileged to see. But Faith saw the hands drop and grasp each other, she saw the eyes fall, and the colour go and come and go again, with a rush and swiftness that was startling to see. Absolutely motionless, the very breath kept down, so he stood. And even his assailant gazed, in a sort of spell-bound wonder. The twittering birds overhead, how they carolled; how softly the leaves rustled, and the river sent up its little waves: and the sunshine and shadow crept on, measuring off the seconds. The pure peace and beauty of everything, the hush of human voices, were but the setting of the deep human struggle. The victory came.
With a face from which at last the colour had taken its permanent departure, Mr. Linden looked up and spoke; and something made the very low tones ring in the air.
"I have said nothing about you which needed apology, Mr. Middleton. You have been misinformed, sir." And with that same bend of dismissal Mr. Linden drew himself up and walked away, bareheaded as he was. The trees hid him in a moment.