Say and Seal, Volume II

"No—" said Faith—"I think not,—but that is not the thing. Why do you, Endecott?"

It was a very gently put question, but put with eyes and lips as well as the sweet voice, dainty in its half timidity mixed with the sweetness. Mr. Linden looked down at her till the question was finished, but then he looked off at the dancing water; the smile which had been dawning upon his lips breaking out into very full sunshine. It was a strange smile—very enjoying and yet a little moved.

"Mignonette," he said looking down at her again, "do you know what a dear little child you are?"

Her eyes wavered, then faced him again with a sort of smiling gravity, as not relinquishing their answer.

"You will be dreadfully shocked if I tell you."

"Shall I?"—she said, not believing him.

"Yes. But what do you suppose I am doing?—what has put all this into your head?"

"I heard it," said Faith.

"From whom?"

"I don't know. But somebody that wondered what you were doing it for."

"Most enigmatical information! What 'it' did somebody say I was doing?"

"Working hard—giving lessons," said Faith dropping her voice.

"Well—what else was I doing when I was here? That should not shock you, dear child."

"You were not doing anything else when you were here—that is the very thing, Endecott."

"Mignonette—I have done nothing to hurt myself, as you may see. I am very strong to work."

She gave a little grave glance at him, grave with a background of regretfulness, and placed herself back in her former position; pushing her questions no further. But Mr. Linden did not look grave.

"I am quite willing to tell you all about my work," he said,—"that I did not long ago was for two or three reasons which you will understand. I told you once, dear Faith—upon a night which I shall never forget—that I had means enough to carry me through my studies; but two things made me take measures to earn a good deal more. One was, that I would always rather work than not to have what I want to spend in various good and pleasant ways."

"Yes—?" she said a little eagerly. He looked at her with that same smile coming over his face.

"It will shock you," he said,—"however—The other reason was this. We agreed how I should choose between two gardens wherein to place my Mignonette. But it may chance that for even the offer of one I shall have to wait—and for Mignonette I cannot. Voyez-vous, Mademoiselle?"

Yes, plainly enough; as he could tell by the bright flush which mounted up to her forehead and made her a Rhodora again. And doubtless Faith would have said several things, only—she could not! and so sat like the stillest of scared mice; with no more words at command. Mr. Linden laughed telling her he thought there was no hope of benefitting her cheeks any further that day, and that to judge by her eyelids sleep would be the next thing; and so turned the little carriage round and Jerry's head towards home.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Dinner was ready when they reached home, so that Faith was taken at once to the table; and when dinner was over, up stairs to go to sleep. And sleep held her well nigh all the afternoon. The sunbeams were long, the light of day was growing gentle, when Faith at last awoke and arose, with a tinge in her cheeks and a face getting to be itself again. She put her hair and her dress in fresh order, and went softly about doing the same office for several things in the room; thinking all the while what Mr. Linden had been working for, and how shut her mouth was from saying anything about it.

"Where is Mr. Linden, mother?"

"Down stairs."

"I am going down too. I am quite well enough without being carried.Come, mother."

"He won't like it, child,—you'd better let me call him."

"No indeed," said Faith. "I'll just take your arm, mother. It will do me good."

So softly and with a little wilful pleasure on Faith's part, the stairs were descended; and not content with that, Faith went into the tea-room and began as of old to give a delicate hand to the tea-table arrangements. Then when all was done, slowly made her entrance into the other room. But there, to Faith's dismay, were two gentlemen instead of one, standing in the middle of the floor in earnest conversation. Both turned the minute she opened the door, and Squire Stoutenburgh came towards her, exclaiming, "Why Miss Faith!—nobody gave me any hope of seeing you. My dear, are you as well as you look?"

Faith's instant extreme desire was to quit the field she had so rashly ventured upon. Her answer to Mr. Stoutenburgh, if made, was too unintelligible to be understood or remembered; and meanwhile she was as the Squire had hinted, looking very well, and a picture of dainty confusion. It might not help the confusion, though it did put her face more out of sight, to be rescued from the Squire's hands and placed in the easy-chair.

"No, she is not as well as she looks, Mr. Stoutenburgh, and therefore you must not keep her standing."

"I won't keep her—nor you neither—long," said the Squire. "Miss Faith, I hope you'll keep him—standing or kneeling or something—all summer. How long are you going to stay, sure enough?"

"Till I must go." Faith heard the smile with which it was spoken.

"Then I shall go home a happy man!" said Mr. Stoutenburgh, with a sort of earnest heartiness which became him very well. "My dear, I'm as glad as if you were my own daughter—and you'll let me say that, because your father and I were such friends." With which original and sincere expression of feeling the Squire went off.

"You naughty child," Mr. Linden said, coming back to Faith's chair, "who gave you leave to come down stairs? I shouldn't be at all surprised if you had been after cream."

"No I haven't, Endy,"—said Faith lifting up her face which was in a sort of overwhelmed state.

"What is the matter?" he said smiling.

"Don't mind me," said Faith passing her hands over her face. "I am half ashamed of myself—I shall be better in a day or two."

"How do you feel, after your ride and your sleep?"

"O well!—nicely,"—she said in happy accents.

"What made you try to walk down stairs?"

"I thought I could do it."

"And knew I would not let you. Will you be in a talking mood after tea?"

"I am now. I have been wanting to talk to you, Endecott, ever since you got home."

"What about?"

"About these weeks."

The summons to tea came then, however; but when tea was disposed of, and Faith had come back to her sofa in the sitting-room, Mr. Linden took his place at her side.

"Now I am ready for 'these weeks,'" he said.

Faith was less ready than he, though she had wished for the talk. Her face darkened to something of the weary look with which he had found her.

"Endecott, I have wanted to see you dreadfully!" He looked pained—not merely, she knew, because of that: but the thought had no further expression.

"What has been the matter, my dear child?"

Faith's hand and head went down on his shoulder, as on a rest they had long coveted. "I am afraid you will be ashamed of me, Endecott,—but I will tell you. You know since I have been sick I have seen a great deal of Dr. Harrison—every day, and twice a day. I couldn't help it."

"No."

"And Endy,—he used to talk to me."

"Yes,"—the word was short and grave.

"I don't know why he did it; and I did not like it, and I could not help it. He would talk to me about Bible things."

"Well?—He used to do that long ago."

"And long ago you told me not to let him talk to me of his doubts and false opinions. Endecott, I didn't forget that—I remembered it all the while,—and yet he did talk to me of those things, and I could not tell how to hinder it. And then, Endecott—the things were in my head—and I could not get them out!"—The manner of Faith's slow words told of a great deal of heart-work.

Mr. Linden did not start—but Faith felt the thrill which passed over him, even to the fingers that held hers. Clearly this was not what he expected.

"Faith,"—he said,—"has he touched your faith?"

Faith's head drew nearer to his, with a manner half caressing, half shrinking, but the answer was a low, "No—never."

"Child!" he said with a sort of deep terror in his voice,—"I think I could not have borne that. I would rather he had won away your heart from me!"

Faith did not move, and seemed to herself scarce to breathe, such a spasm of various feelings was upon her heart. "It did not, Endy,"—she whispered.

He stooped to kiss her, as if that was the only answer he could give just then; merely saying, "Tell me all about it."

"I don't know how he did it"—Faith went on hesitatingly, as if the words were not easy to her;—"and always before I knew it was coming, it was said,—something that troubled me; almost every time he came. I don't know whether it troubled him too, or whether—But no matter what it was said for! He would tell me of some question that had occurred to him, or some difficulty that he could not understand; or else it was a contrary fact that somebody else had stated, or a cunning explanation that somebody had found out, or a discovery that was against the truth, or some train of consequences and inferences that would undermine it. And these things were always so curiously put, that though I knew they were false, Endy—I never doubted that—I knew they were not the truth;—yet I could not shew him that they were not; and that hurt me. It pained me by day and by night;—but that was not all." Faith hesitated. "These things never did touch my faith, Endecott—but it seems to me now as if they had shut it up in a fortress and besieged it. I hadn't a bit of comfort of it except by snatches—only I knew it was there—for ever so long. When I tried to read the Bible, often I could think of nothing but these thoughts would push themselves in between—like a swarm of gnats humming in my ears;—and often I had no good of prayer,"—she added in a yet lower voice.

"Have you now?" Mr. Linden said. "Has that passed away?"

She hesitated again, perhaps struggling with some emotion which she would not let get the better of her. Her words were quiet. "It is passing. Earth and sky are all cleared since you came—as I knew they would be."

Mr. Linden was silent and motionless,—looking down at her, curbing as he best might the grief and indignation which were by turns as much as he could manage. He did not speak for some time.

"I think, Endy," said Faith, "I shouldn't have felt so if I had been well and strong. I am almost sure it was partly that. I wasn't strong in mind or body—and how I wanted you!"

"And where was my place in the world if not here!"

"I didn't want you till you came," she said in a very sweet low tone.

"Ah, child! you do not know what you are talking of,—nor what a snare was spread for you."

"Do you think that, Endy?" she said in a scared way.

"What else?"

"But he always seemed—I always hoped, he was really interested in those things himself."

"No man carries truth in one hand and falsehood in the other," said Mr.Linden sternly.

Faith was sitting upright, looking very thoughtful and very grieved. "But you do not think, Endecott,—you do not think—there was no truth in it?"

His face caught her grieved look,—he answered slowly, "Child, you must leave all that. I only know that he tried to get rid of every barrier in his way."

"And how in this, Endecott?—What?"

"He doubtless thought your belief stood between him and your favour."

"And that if he could change that!"—Faith's head sank with a low word of pain. Mr. Linden was silent. She looked up again, with a face of yearning sorrow which it was a pity perhaps Dr. Harrison could not see. "And now," she said, "we never can do anything more for him!"

But Mr. Linden was not ready for the wish,—the sternness of his face did not relax this time even under the power of hers. Until as he looked, with the sight of all her loveliness and the thought of all the wrong done her, came the keen realization of why it had been done;—then his look changed and saddened.

"Endecott," she said after a while, humbly, "do you think any one who loves Christ could be brought to disbelieve him?"

"No—not really and permanently. The promise says, 'Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him.'"

"Then what did you fear so much for me, Endy?"

She had cause for the question; he had spoken and looked and listened with that intentness of sense which shews some hidden anxiety,—measuring jealously every look and word of hers by some old well-remembered standard.

"You remember, dear Faith," he said, "that when the thieves set upon one of the pilgrims, though he made out to keep his jewels yet they took from him all his spending money; and in the want of that he went to the end of his life."

But the smile that answered him was an answering smile. Though there was sorrow in it, and humbleness, and even fear, its fullest burdens were the free guaranty that she was not hurt, and an untold wealth of affection, that almost breathed out of the moving and parted lips. "Endy,—it was only a cloud—I knew at the time it would scatter away just as soon as you came. I knew it was a cloud, but I wasn't well."

Mr. Linden lifted her face, gazing at it intently. "My little Mignonette," he said, "are you sure that you 'hold fast the beginning of your confidence?' Are you sure he has not dimmed the light that used to shine so bright in your heart?—that he has not made heaven seem less real, nor the promises of less effect? Are you sure, Faith?—If he has, find it out now!"

She had never seen him look so—never heard him speak with such earnestness. The words seemed to come from the very depths of his heart; freighted not only with their own moment, but with the pain which the raising such questions had stirred in him. Faith knew little of even the pictures of angels—if she had she might have thought of one then. Her child nature would have thrown itself into his arms to give the answer; as it was, the woman drew a little back and spoke with veiled eyes.

"If he has, I don't know it, Endecott. It was a cloud that hindered all enjoyment from me,—I knew at the time it was no more. It is gone, or almost. It was wrong to be on me at all—but I was weak and not well." Her speech was very humble, and the innocent trembling of the lips was as one might answer an angel.

His eyes changed as she spoke, watching her still, but less clearly; and bringing her where she had not dared to place herself, Mr. Linden kissed her again and again—as one rejoices over what has been lost or in deadly peril. Not many words—and those low and half uttered, of deep thanksgiving, of untold tenderness. But Faith hid her face in her hands, and though she did not shed any tears, shook and trembled.

"This will not do, for you nor for me," said Mr. Linden. "Mignonette—have my words grieved you? they need not—there was not a breath in them harsher than a summer wind."

"I didn't think it, Endy."

"What are you thinking of, my child?"

"Nothing—Never mind me,—" she said deprecatingly.

"Tell me, Faith," he repeated.

But she did not. The quivering emotion passed away or was overcome; and then her answer was a very grave and sweet look and smile; still such a one as might without any force have been given to an angel.

"Faith, what will make you speak?—this?—Tell me what you were trembling about—I shall begin to think you have grown afraid of me."

"I don't think I have,—" she said very quietly.

"You are a sort of willowbranch,—so very pliant that you glide out of reach on the very breath that comes after you. Now I think the very profound confidence I reposed in you this morning, deserves some return. I'm afraid I cannot ask for it with such persuasive eyes."

"It's no confidence—" said Faith. "I didn't know I had been in such danger; and"—she spoke with some difficulty—"I didn't know what it would be to offend you."

"Did you think you could?"

"If I did wrong—?"

"Faith," he said, "do you know what I should expect 'if I did wrong,' as you say?—that you would break your heart, perhaps, but never that you would be offended. I should expect to find you more than ever my sweet ministering spirit."

A look of intense grave earnestness followed and echoed his thought with one or two of her own; then her gravity broke in a radiant little smile. "I am not exactly like you, Endecott," she said.

"What is the precise bearing of that remark?"

"You might be offended—where I should have no right,—" she said with slow utterance and consideration of her words.

"But why—little Arabic poem?"

The colour started into Faith's cheeks, but she answered. "You are better than I,—and besides,—you know, Endy!—it would be right for you to do what it wouldn't be right for me to do." Her colour deepened to brightness and her eyes were very cast down. Mr. Linden looked at her—smiling a grave sweet smile.

"Faith," he said, "I have heard—or imagined—that a man might have an angel for his wife, but I never heard yet of a woman who had an angel for her husband—did you?"

Faith endeavoured to shield her eyes and cheek with a very insufficient hand. "You put me in the witness-box,—what can I do?" she said.

"You can do one thing as well as anybody I ever saw," Mr. Linden said, taking her hand down. "Faith, where did you get such pink cheeks?"

"What is an Arabic poem?" said Faith gravely.

"A pretty thing that requires translating. Faith, I have a great desire to take you all about Pattaquasset and tell everybody what you are to be."

"Endecott!"—said Faith with a startled glance.

"What?" he answered laughing.

"Why do you say so?"

"Just imagine the delight of all Quapaw, and the full satisfaction of the Roscoms. Shouldn't you like to see it?"

Faith looked at him in a sort of frightened mood of mind, discerning some earnest in the play. Mr. Linden's face did not reassure her, though he carried the play at that time no further.

CHAPTER XXIX

If the fears of the night before had not quite been slept off, if the alarming ideas had not all been left in dreamland, still it was hard for anything but peace and pleasure to shew its head that morning. In at Faith's window came the sunbeams, the tiny panes of glass shewed each a patch of the bluest sky, and through some unseen open sash the morning air swept in full sweetness. When Faith opened her own window, the twitter and song of all manner of birds was something to hear, and their quick motions were something to see. From the sweetbriar on the house to the trees in the orchard,—from the mud nest under the eaves to the hole in the barn wall,—what darting and skimming and fluttering! Off in the orchard the apple trees were softly putting on their nonpareil dress of blossoms, feeding the air with nectar till it was half intoxicated; and down in the garden a little bevy of bells stood prim and soft and sweet, ringing their noiseless spring chimes under Faith's window.

Under her window too, that is within close sight of it, stood Reuben Taylor and Mr. Linden. Not watching for her just then as it appeared, but intent upon their own concerns. Or rather, Reuben—in his usual dark, neat dress and straw hat, with hands neither busy nor at rest, but waiting and ready—was intent upon Mr. Linden—and Mr. Linden upon his work. His hat was off, on the grass beside him, and he himself—half sitting half leaning upon an old crooked apple tree, had his hands full of cowslips—though what he was doing with them Faith could not tell. Only from a fluttering end of blue ribband that appeared, she could guess their destination. The two friends were talking busily and merrily, with little cowslip interludes, and the yellow blossoms sprinkled the grass all about the tree, some having dropped down, others been tossed off as not worthy a place in the ball. For that was the work in Mr. Linden's hands—something which Faith had never seen.

It was so very pretty a picture that Faith sat down to look at it, and thoughtless of being found out, looked on in a dream. Mr. Linden's threats of yesterday did come back to her shrinkingly, but she threw them off; the time was too happy to bear the shadow of anything weightier than apple blossoms. Faith looked out through them admiringly, marvelling anew how Mr. Linden had ever come to like her; and while her soft eyes were studying him, her heart made many a vow before the time. She only felt the birds fly past; her mind was taking strange glimpses into the future.

Stepping jauntily out from the house, Sam Stoutenburgh came next upon the scene, the springtime of his man's attire suiting well enough with his years but not so well with his surroundings; too desperately smart for the cowslips, bright and shining as they were there in the sun, too new for the tulips—though they had been out of the ground but a few days. For

   In a little bit of garden groundWhere many a lovely plant was found,Stood a tulip in gay attire!His pantaloons green as ever were seen,His cap was as red as fire.

But the tulip was at least used to his cap—which was more than could be said of Sam and his hat.

"Mrs. Derrick told me to come out here and find you, sir," he said."But what are you doing, Mr. Linden?"

"I am making a ball."

"A ball!"

"Yes," said Mr. Linden,—"gratifying one of my youthful tastes. Sam,I'll lend you my hat."

"Why! what for, sir?" said Sam, a little confused and a good deal puzzled, while Reuben smiled.

"Just to save you from the headache while you stand there in the sun," said Mr. Linden, tying the ends of his ribband together. "It's a man's hat, Sam—you need not be afraid of it. That's a good lesson in whistling!" he said, looking up into the tree over his head, where a robin had just come to exercise his powers. But as Mr. Linden's eyes came back from the robin they caught sight of Faith at her window, and instantly he was on his feet and made her a most graceful and low reverence. Instinctively the two boys turned and followed suit—the one with his straw hat the other with his beaver.

Faith's contemplative quiet was broken up, and her face grew shy and flushed as she gave her tiny grave signs of recognition; but a soft "good morning" floated down to them, followed—nobody knows why—by a more particular "Good morning, Sam."

"Miss Faith!" said Sam affectingly, "are you always going to stay up stairs?"

"No—I am coming down presently. You are early to-day, Sam."

"Not earlier than I've been some other days, Miss Faith."

Faith nodded at him and left the window; threw round her the light shawl which she was expected to wear because she had been sick, rather than because the May air called for it, and prepared to go down. But in the second of time which all this took, she heard her name called from the orchard—not very loud but very distinct.

"Faith!"

She knew who called, and it was with a little startled thrill that she presented herself at the window to answer the summons. Mr. Linden stood close beneath it.

"Can you catch this?" he said, looking up at her with laughing eyes. And the soft cowslip ball came whirling up to bury its golden head in her hands. If Faith saw anything else, it was the very evident astonishment of one of the standers-by. But nevertheless she bravely put her bright blushing face out again.

"Thank you, Mr. Linden," she said. "It's too pretty to be thrown more than once."

"Are you ready to come yourself?"

"Yes, I'm coming."

He bowed and turned away, passing on into the house with so quick a step that he was at the head of the stairs as soon as she was.

"You are not going to carry me down to-day!"—said Faith starting back. "I can walk down as well as you can—or at least I can as well walk down."

"There is no one in the parlour, Mignonette."

"Then I'll not go there," said Faith smiling.

"I'll take you to the garden, if you prefer it. Is the supposed fact of your being able to walk down stairs any reason why you should not bid me good morning?"

There was neither that nor any other existing reason, to judge by the quiet grace with which Faith drew near to give the required good morning, or rather to permit Mr. Linden to take it; and then placed her hand in his, as willing to have so much aid from him as that could give. He held it fast, and her too, for a minute, while his other hand busied itself with fastening in her belt a dewy, sweet, sonsie looking little sprig of May roses.