Say and Seal, Volume II

I am a fool, I believe; but I am not yet such a fool as not to know that there is but one man in the world to whom I could write such a confession. Nothing better prompts it than pure selfishness, I am aware—but with me that is strong. I have that notion of you that you would not care to keep what you held only by priority of claim. I may be wrong in the supposition upon which I am going—yet it is my chance for life and I cannot yield it up. That were the lady free—in conscience as well as in fact—she might be induced to look favourably on me. I ought to add, that I believe such a consciousness has never shaped itself to her mind—the innocence with which she may at first have entered into some sort of obligation, would not lessen or alter its truth or stringency to her pure mind. The game is in your own hands, Linden—so is

Your unworthy friend

JULIUS HARRISON.

P.S.—One thing further I ought to add—that a somewhat delicate state of nerves and health, over which I have been for some time watching, would make any rash broaching of this subject very inexpedient and unsafe. I need not enforce this hint."

CHAPTER XXVI

The spring opened from day to day, and the apple blossoms were bursting. Mr. Linden might soon be looked for, and one warm May afternoon Faith went in to make his room ready. It was the first day she had been fit for it, and she was yet so little strong that she must take care of her movements. With slow and unable fingers she did her pleasant work, and then very tired, sat down in her old reading window-seat and went into a long dream-meditation. It was pleasant for a while, in harmony with the summer air and the robins in the maple; it got round at last into the train of the last weeks. A fruitless reverie ended in Faith's getting very weary; and she went back to her own room to put herself on the couch cushions and go to sleep.

Sleep held on its way after a peaceful fashion, yet not so but that Faith's face shewed traces of her thoughts. Mrs. Derrick came softly and watched her, and the spring air blew back the curtains and fanned her, and brushed her hair with its perfumed wings; and one or two honey bees buzzed in and sought honey from the doctor's flowers, and forsook them again for the fields.

Up there at last, following Mrs. Derrick, came Mr. Linden. With few reasons asked or told of his sudden appearance; with little said even of Faith's illness but the mere fact, he went up to the sunlit room and there staid. Not restingly in Faith's easy-chair, but standing by the low fire-place, just where he could have the fullest view of her. Mrs. Derrick came and went,—he never stirred. The sunbeams came and went—wrapped Faith in their bright folds and lay at his feet, then began to withdraw altogether. They had shewed him the unwontedly pale and worn face, and lit up the weary lines in which the lips lay asleep; and just when the sunbeams had left it all, Mr. Linden became aware that two dark eyes had softly opened and were gazing at him as if he were a figure in a dream. So perhaps for a minute he seemed, touched with the light as he was, which made a glorification in the brown locks of his hair and gleamed about "pleasant outlines" standing as fixed and still as a statue. But they were not statue eyes which looked into hers, and Faith's dreamlike gaze was only for a moment. Then every line of her face changed with joy—and she sprang up to hide it in Mr. Linden's arms. He stood still, holding her as one holds some rescued thing. For Faith was too weak to be just herself, and weariness and gladness had found their own very unusual expression in an outflow of nervous tears.

Something seemed to have taken away Mr. Linden's power of words. He did place her among the cushions again, but if every one of her tears had been balm to him he could not have let them flow more unchecked. Perhaps the recollection that they were tears came suddenly; for with very sudden sweet peremptoriness he said,

"Faith, hush!—Are you so glad to see me?"

She was instantly still. No answer.

"What then?" The intonation was most tender,—so, rather than by any playfulness, cancelling his own question. She raised her head, she had dismissed her tears, yet the smile with which her glance favoured him was a sort of rainbow smile, born of clouds.

"That is a very struggling and misty sunbeam!" said Mr. Linden. "Is that why I was kept out of its range so long?"

Faith's head drooped. Her forehead lay lightly against him; he could not see what sort of a smile she wore.

"Whereupon it goes into seclusion altogether. Mignonette, look up and kiss me—how much longer do you suppose I can wait for that?"

He had no longer to wait at that time, and the touch of her lips was with a tremulous gladness which was tale-telling. And then the position of the lowered head and the hand which kept its place on his shoulder shewed him that she was clinging, though with shy eagerness, like a bird that with tired wing has found her nest. With one of those quick impulses which to-day seemed to have taken the place of his usual steadiness, Mr. Linden bent down and blessed her; in words such as she never remembered from other lips. Not many indeed, but deep and strong,—as the very depth and strength of his own human and religious nature; words that stilled Faith's heart as with the shadowing of peace; so that for the time she could not wonder, but only rest. They made her tremble a moment; then she rested as if the words had been a spell. But the rest wrought action. Faith drew back presently and looked up at Mr. Linden to see how he looked. And then she could not tell. Her puzzled eyes found nothing to remark upon.

"Endy—I thought you would not be here for two or three days yet."

"It was nearly impossible. My child, when did you get sick?"

"O—a good while ago."

"'A good while,'"—Mr. Linden repeated with grave emphasis. "Well do you think it would have lengthened the time to have me come and see you?"

Faith's heart was too full, and her answer, looking down, was a tremulous, quiet and tender,

"I don't think it would."

"Then wherefore was I not permitted?"

"I didn't want you to come then."

"And again, wherefore?"

"Why you know, Endy. I couldn't want you till you were ready to come."

"I should have been most emphatically ready! What sort of medical attendance have you had?"

"Good, you know. I had Dr. Harrison."

"And he did his duty faithfully?"

"I guess he always does—his medical duty," said Faith somewhat quietly.

"Duty is a sort of whole-souled thing, to my mind," said Mr. Linden."Do you think all his ministrations did you good?"

There was pain and wonder, and even some fear in Faith's eyes as she looked at Mr. Linden.

"They ought not to have done me any harm"—she said meekly.

"Did they, Faith? I thought—" Very softly and thoughtfully his fingers came about her hair, his eyes looking at her, Faith could hardly tell how. The pain of those weeks stung her again—the sorrow and the shame and the needlessness. Faith's head sunk again upon Mr. Linden's breast, for the tears came bitterly; though he could not know that. He only knew that they came. Holding her with a strong arm—as if against some one else; soothing her with grave kisses, not with words, Mr. Linden waited for her to speak.

"Child," he said at last, "you will do yourself harm. Has he brought on this state of the nerves that he talks about? And in what possible way?"

"Don't talk about it, Endy!—" said Faith struggling for self-command—"I am foolish—and wrong—and weak. I'll tell you another time."—But Faith's head kept its position.

"Do you think I can wait, to know what has made my coming home such a tearful affair?"

"Yes. Because it's all over now."

"What is over?"

"All—that you wouldn't like."

"Faith, you talk in perfect riddles!—It is well that what I can see of this very pale little face is less puzzling. Did you tell Dr. Harrison of your claim upon me?"

"What?—" she said looking up.

"Well.—You know what that claim is. Did you tell him, Faith?"

Her eyes fell again. "Yes—at least—I shewed him my ring."

"In answer to his suit, Faith?"

"No.—He was talking as I did not like, one day."—Faith's cheeks were growing beautifully rosy.

"Was it to protect yourself, or me?" said Mr. Linden watching her.Faith's glance up and down, was inexpressibly pretty.

"Myself, I think."

"You have a strange power of exciting and keeping down my temper, at one and the same time!" said Mr. Linden. "What did he dare say to you?"

"Nothing about me. It was something—about you—which I did not choose to have him say."

Mr. Linden smiled, and called her a little crusader, but the grave look came back. Dr. Harrison had known, then, just what ties he was trying to break,—had felt sure—must have felt sure—that they were bonds of very deep love and confidence; and thereupon, had coolly set himself to sow mistrust! Mr. Linden was very silent,—the keen words of indignation that rose to his lips ever driven back and turned aside by Faith's face, which told so plainly that she could bear no excitement. He spoke at last with great deliberation.

"You may as well shew it to all Pattaquasset, Mignonette!—for allPattaquasset shall know before I have been here much longer."

"What?—why?" she said startling.

"For what you will, love. I think you need the protection of my name."

Faith could not deny it; howsoever she looked quaintly grave upon the proposition.

"Do you know how you will have to scour the country now, and make yourself as much as possible like cowslips and buttercups and primroses and mouse-ear?" said Mr. Linden smiling. "One day you may be a Spring beauty, and the next Meadow-sweet, and when I see you a wild pink I shall feel comparatively happy."

Faith with a very little laugh remarked that she did not feel as if she ever should be anything wild.

"What is your definition of wild?"

"Not tame."

"Does that meek adjective express the kind of pink you intend to be?"

"I didn't say what I should be—I only spoke of what I am."

"Shall I tell you the future tense of this very indicative mood?" he said touching her cheeks.

"If you know it!"

"If I know it!—You will be (some months later) a Linden flower!—whether wild or tame remains to be been."

Unless Linden flowers can be sometimes found a good deal deeper-coloured than pinks, there was at least very little present resemblance. The only notice Faith took of this prophecy was an involuntary one. The door softly opened at this point, and Mrs. Derrick came in to announce tea. She stood still a moment surveying them both.

"How do you think she looks, Mr. Linden?"

His eyes went back to Faith, giving a quick reply which he did not mean they should. "She looks like a dear child—as she is, Mrs. Derrick. I cannot say much more for her. But I shall take her down to tea."

Mrs. Derrick went joyfully off for shawls and wrappers. Mr. Linden was silent; his eyes had not stirred. But he amused himself with taking some of the violets from the table near by and fastening them in her belt and hair; the very touch of his fingers telling some things he did not.

"Sunbeam, do you feel as if you could bear transportation?"

"Not as a sunbeam. I could walk down, I think," said Faith. Mr. Linden remarked that the truth of that proposition would never be known; and then she was muffled in a large soft shawl, and carried down stairs and laid on the sofa in the sitting-room. The windows were open for the May wind, but there was a dainty little fire still—everything looked strangely familiar; even Mr. Linden; though his face wore not just its most wonted expression. He had laid her down among the cushions and loosened her wrapping shawl, and paid a little attention to the fire; and now stood in Dr. Harrison's favourite place, looking at her,—perhaps trying to see whether she looked more like herself down stairs than she had done above. He could not find that she did. Faith felt as if a great cloud had rolled over and rolled off from her; yet in her very happiness she had a great desire to cry; her weakness of body helped that. Her head lay still upon the cushions with fingers pressed upon her brow. She hardly dared look at Mr. Linden; her eye wandered over less dangerous things; yet it saw him not the less. How sweetly the wind blew.

Mr. Linden went off to the window and picked three or four of the May roses that grew there, and then coming to sit down by Faith's sofa softly pushed one of the buds in between her fingers, and made the rest into a breast knot which he laid on the white folds of her dress. He put other roses in her cheeks then, but it was all done with a curious quietness that covered less quiet things. Faith took the flowers and played with them, venturing scarce a look of answer. With the wasted cheek, the delicate flush on it, and all the stirred fountain of feeling which she was not so able as usual to control, Faith was very lovely; to which effect the roses and violets scattered over her lent a help of their own. Mr. Linden looked at her,—giving now and then a little arranging touch to flowers or hair—with an unbending face, which ended at last in a very full bright smile; though just why it rouged her cheeks so instantly Faith did not feel quite sure. She felt the rouge.

"I am glad you feel like yourself again," she remarked.

"How do you know that I do?"

"I think you look so."

"Quite a mistake. I am only bewitched. That is somewhat like myself, I must own."

Faith's face made a remonstrance, not at all calculated to be successful.

"Please don't bewitch me then!" said Mr. Linden answering the look. "You know I cannot help it—and on the whole you don't wish I could. What do you think of her now, Mrs. Derrick?" he added, getting up to roll the tea-table close to the sofa. The folding of Mrs. Derrick's hands was significant.

"Yes, but you must not look at her so," said Mr. Linden demurely arranging the table and sofa angles in harmonious relation. "You should look with cool unconcern—as I do."

"You!" said Mrs. Derrick. "Well I should like to see that for once."

Faith laughed again, and was ready for her supper after a new fashion from what she had known for many a day past. There is no doubt but cresses and broiled pigeon were good that night!

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?"