Faith was very near the unwonted demonstration of tears. She stood still, looking down, till she could look up safely.
"I will not do so again, Endy.—About important things, I mean,"
"You know, Faith, I am speaking less of this one case, than of the daily course of future action. Is not perfect frankness, as well as perfect truth, best? And if I call for your sympathy in all manner of small and great things, will you let mine lie idle?"
"I might like it,"—said Faith honestly. "But in great things I will not again, Endecott."
"Take care you get the right measure for things," said Mr. Linden smiling. "Frankness makes a deliciously plain way for one's feet."
Faith looked sober again, at the idea that she should have failed in frankness. Then put her hand in his and looked smiling up at him.
"There is one thing I will not keep from you any longer,"—she said.
"What is that?—the seal of this little compact of plain speaking?"
"Strawberries!"—
"Only another style of nomenclature,"—said Mr. Linden.
"You must take the trouble to go into the other room for them."
And light-heartedly Faith preceded him into the other room, where the dinner was ready. A very simple dinner, but Mrs. Derrick would not have had anything less than a roast chicken for Mr. Linden, and the lettuce and potatoes did very well for a summer day; and Faith's waiting on table made it only more pleasant. Talk flowed all the while; of a thousand and one things; for Mrs. Derrick's sympathies had a wider range since Mr. Linden had been in Germany. Indeed the talk was principally between those two. It was a remarkably long dinner, without multiplication of courses—there was so much to say! Many were the pleasant things swallowed with the strawberries. It is said hunger is the best sauce; it's not true; happiness is a better.
And then—what came then? Truly, the same over again—looking and talking, without the strawberries. Which were not wanted; especially when Faith was dressed out with roses, as she was presently after dinner. As she would wash the tumblers and spoons in the dining-room, spite of all Mrs. Derrick could say, so Mr. Linden would stay there too; not indeed to do anything but look on, and bestow the roses as aforesaid. Talking to her sometimes in English, sometimes in French, with preliminary instructions in German.
"Mignonette," he said, "I have three letters for you to read."
"Letters, Endecott!—Who has written to me?"
"Through me—three regions of country."
"What do you mean?"
Just as she spoke the words, Faith paused and set down the tumbler she was wiping. Her ears had caught the sound of a modest knock at the front door. She looked at Mr. Linden.
"Stay here, Endy—please!" she said as she threw down her towel and ran off. But Faith's hope of a chance was disappointed. She ushered somebody into the sitting-room and came back gravely and flushed to Mr. Linden.
"It's Mr. Somers—and he wants to see you, Endecott!"
Faith went at her tumblers, and simultaneously, greatly to the dismay of one party as to the surprise of the other, in walked Mr. Somers after her.
"Miss Derrick told me you were in this room, sir," said the clergyman shaking Mr. Linden's hand,—"so I came in. Ha! I am glad to be one of the first to welcome you back. How do you do, Mr. Linden? You've been a great while from Pattaquasset!—and you've been missed, I don't doubt."
Apparently not by Mr. Somers! But Mr. Linden met all the advances as he should, merely stating his belief in the general proposition that "there is always somebody to miss everybody."
"Will you take a seat here, sir?" he said—"or may I go with you to the next room?"
"I—have no choice," said Mr. Somers looking benignantly around;—"it is very pleasant here, very!—cool;—perhaps Miss Derrick will have no objection to our taking our seats here?"
Faith did not say, but as Mr. Somers had taken her leave for granted, and his seat consequently, she was saved that trouble. How she reddened at the thought of the roses with which she was dressed! And there she stood in full view, washing her spoons! But Mr. Somers looked the other way.
"I—I am very happy to see you again, Mr. Linden—very happy indeed, sir! I heard from Squire Stoutenburgh that you were expected, and I lost no time. How have you enjoyed your health, sir, this year? A year's a long time! isn't it?"
Mr. Linden, taking his seat as in duty bound, looked abstractedly at Faith and the spoons and the roses, and answered according to the evidence.
"Yes, Mr. Somers,—and yet it depends very much upon how far the two ends of the year are apart in other respects. The 'Voyage autour de ma chambre' could never seem very long, whatever time it took."
"Ha!"—said Mr. Somers blandly,—he hadn't the remotest idea what this speech might mean,—"no. Did you have a good passage coming over? We had every sign of it."
"Very good,"—said Mr. Linden smiling,—"and very stormy."
"Ah?"—said Mr. Somers,—"very good and very stormy? Well I shouldn't have thought that. But I suppose you have got to be such a traveller that you don't mind which way the wind blows, if it blows you on, ha?—like Dr. Harrison. He never minds the weather. Dr. Harrison's a great loss to Pattaquasset too," said Mr. Somers looking at Faith and smiling a little more openly;—"all our—ha!—our pleasantest members of society seem to be running away from us! That's what Mrs. Somers says."
"One more spoon—and put them up,"—thought Faith,—"and then I'll be away!"—
"But I've come to see if I can't get you to do me a favour, Mr.Linden," said Mr. Somers withdrawing his eyes and mind from her."I—should be very much obliged to you indeed! I'm almost afraid toask, for fear I sha'n't get it."
Faith wiped her spoon slowly.
"I like to do favours," said Mr. Linden,—"at least I think I should.But I cannot imagine how you can give me a chance, Mr. Somers."
"Don't you think it would be a great gratification to all your old friends in Pattaquasset, if you would consent to fill my pulpit next Sunday? They—I believe they'd come from all over the country!—and it would be—a—it would be a very great gratification indeed to me. Can't I prevail with you?"
Faith had ceased her work and was standing quite still, with bended head, and cheeks which had gathered their colour into two vivid spots. On those carnations Mr. Linden's eyes rested for a moment, with a strange feeling of pleasure, of emotion. The sort of touched smile upon his lips when he spoke, did not, it may be said, belong to Mr. Somers. His answer was very simple and straightforward.
"I should like to see and speak to all my old friends again, sir, more than I can tell you—and I think they would be glad to see me. I could do it so well in no other way. Thank you, Mr. Somers!—it is you who confer the favour."
"Then you'll do it?" said Mr. Somers, delighted. "I am very happy—very fortunate indeed! It will be quite a relief. And a pleasure—a very great pleasure—a—I assure you, sir. It's profitable for—a—people to have a change—they listen—ha!—they hear the same things said in a different way; and it is often striking. And it is certainly profitable to the pastor. Well, Mr. Linden, I shall make a great many people happy,—and Mrs. Somers, she'll set off on her side to tell the news. How long are you going—a—to remain in Pattaquasset?—But I don't know," added he laughing,—"as I ought to ask!"
Faith had carried her spoons summarily to the cup-board, and was sitting at an open window near it, looking out.
"And I cannot answer," said Mr. Linden. "I have hardly got past my arrival yet, sir."
"No—certainly. I was—a—premature. You must excuse me. And I have no right to take up any more of your time,—as you have so kindly—a—consented to give me Sunday. What is the state of religion now, abroad, sir?"
The answer to which comprehensive enquiry drew on into a talk of some length, although Mr. Somers had declared he must go and had no right to stay. For a little while Faith sat still by her window, but then she vanished and appeared at Mrs. Derrick's side in the kitchen. The dishes were all done there too, and Mrs. Derrick was "ticing" about,—talking to Faith and wishing Mr. Somers would go, some time before he went. Faith heard the closing door, and the light returning step,—then a clear—not loud-spoken—"Mignonette—where are you?"
Faith sprang back through the passage, and stood in the eating-room again. With a very sweet sort of gravity. All her mind and her face full of the thought that he was going to preach for Mr. Somers.
"What are you about, little Sunbeam?—are you busy?"
"No."
"Then first I want a talk with you, and then a walk with you,—do you want the same with me?—or are you tired?"
"No—yes;—I'm not tired a bit."
"Are you nervous?" he said, drawing her off into the next room.
"No!" she said laughing a little,—"did you ever think I was,Endecott?"—But Faith's heart beat somewhat strangely.
"I am going to try you—" he said as he sat down by her; "so if you are, shut up your eyes."
There was no sign of shutting up in Faith's eyes. She looked at him, not indeed assuredly, but steadily, and with a wee smile. Eye and smile were met and held, until he had taken her left hand and held that too; but then looking down at it, Mr. Linden gravely took out a little gold ring and proceeded to try how well its dimensions agreed with those of the finger for which it was destined.
Nothing moved of Faith but her eyes, which followed his, and the fluttering colour—which fluttered indeed! went and came like the lights on a wreath of vapour.
Silently the hand, with both rings on, was looked at for a few moments—then held to his lips, with special greeting of those two fingers; and then, as he took off the second ring, Mr. Linden looked up at her.
"Mignonette, when may I put it on again?"
There seemed to be difficulty in Faith's answering. Probably she was making up her mind to speak, but he had to wait for her words to be ready. He waited quietly, as if he expected it; looking down at the hand he held, and saying nothing unless by the clasp of its little fingers.
"Do you know where you are going yet Endy?"—she said in a very low voice.
"No, darling—not certainly."
"Then—do you want to know this yet?"
"Very much."
Faith had expected no less; she had had fair warning; and besides in her heart could not but confess that Mr. Linden had reason. Little as she might care to disturb the existing state of things, which to her mind was pleasant enough, it was clear that his mind on the subject was different; and she could not find fault with that. There was a pause again, of quiet waiting on one side and great difficulty of utterance on the other, and the words when they came were in the lowest possible key.
"What do you wish?"
"What I have been waiting for all these years."
"But as to time?"
"As little as possible."
"I know,—but what is that, Endy?"—she said with very timid intonation.
"'As little as possible'?" he said, raising his eyes with a laughing look to her face,—"the words hardly need explanation—I might have stayed Mr. Somers this afternoon. It cannot be too soon for me, Mignonette—but I do not know what is possible for you."
What was possible for her! It almost took Faith's breath away. Because she acknowledged Mr. Linden's right to his wish. She was in great confusion, besides.
"I will do what you please!" she said at length. "You may arrange it with mother."
"No, with you," said Mr. Linden,—"what do you please? Am I to repeat the passage of Quapaw creek?"
She looked up and looked at him, and said yes. It was a look any man would have liked to have given him. Not without a little fear of what he might say, those eyes put such a pure faith in him and were so ready to answer his pleasure. She waited for his answer, though her eyes did not.
"You know, dear Faith, I sent you word to be ready for me,—is that done?"
"Yes nearly."
"'Nearly' is soon despatched," said Mr. Linden,—"and this is the month when, 'if ever, come perfect days'—Shall we say a week from to-day?"
She looked very startled, soft though the glance was that again met his face. And for a moment the roses fairly fled away. "As soon as possible" this was, sure enough. They came back however, first stealthily and then swiftly, till Faith's face was bowed and her right hand with futile intent of concealment was interposed between it and Mr. Linden. But whether Faith meant to speak or meant not to speak, certain it is that words were none.
"I cannot have this!" said Mr. Linden, as he took the shielding hand into his own possession,—"Faith, you shall not look pale about it. This is the second time I have banished the colour in the first twenty-four hours I have been home. And these roses I see now, seem to me to come from the same tree as the white ones. If you would look more boldly at the subject it would appear much less terrific—and the same might be said of me. What sort of a face have I down there in the carpet?"
There was a little clasp of his hand which answered that; but though he could see Faith's lips give way he did not hear them speak.
"Mignonette, the treaty waits your signature."
"Yes, Endy,"—she said quaintly enough. Mr. Linden brought her face round within sight, saying—much as he had done at Quapaw creek—"Are you afraid, dear child?"
"No—" she said timidly, and yet "no" it was.
"Then it only needs my seal.—In one of the northern countries of Europe, Mignonette, the bride and bridegroom are expected to stand at the open window for an hour or two, in full dress,—so you see things are not so bad as they might be. Now my little beauty—are you ready for your walk?"
CHAPTER XL
It was the pretty time of a summer afternoon. The sun, in the last quarter of almost his longest journey of the year, but high yet, sent warm rays to rest in the meadows and dally with the tree tops and sparkle on the Mong and its salt outlet. The slight rustle of leaves now and then was as often caused by a butterfly or a kildeer as by the breeze; sometimes by a heavy damask rose that suddenly sent down its rosy shower upon the ground. It was the very pastime of birds and insects and roses,—with that slight extra stir which told the time of day and that the afternoon siesta was at an end.
Gathering roses as he went along, fastening them in her belt or her bonnet, Mr. Linden led Faith down the farm road by which he had driven her to the shore that first day after her illness. There was small danger of meeting any one,—it was not the time for loads of hay and grain, and little else passed that way: the labourers in the fields were seen and heard only at a distance Mr. Linden himself was in as gay and gladsome a mood as the day,—more lively indeed, and active—taking the "dolce far" without the "niente;" witnessing what "the year of exile" had been, by his joy in being at home, with June and Mignonette. The afternoon's talk had added something even to both their perfections—he could not forget it though he talked of other things. Neither did Faith forget it. Yet she laughed at Mr. Linden and with him; though as far as conversation was concerned she took a secondary part. She started no subject whatever, of the least moment.
Subjects started of themselves—in numbers somewhat like the little butterflies that roused out of the clover as the intruding feet came by,—about as airy, about as flitting, not quite so purposeless. And thus in a way more summery than summary, Mr. Linden and Faith arrived at the shore. He found a shady seat for her, and with no "by your leave," except in manner, transferred her bonnet to an airy situation on a wild thorn.
"Mignonette, do you know what I mean to do with you after Thursday?"
"No, Endecott."—
"I shall put you before me on the wooden horse spoken of in the fairy tale, turn the pin under his right ear, and be off."
"What's that story!"—said Faith, looking round at him (he was standing behind her) with the prettiest of bright flushed faces.
"An authentic account of how a prince carried off a princess."
"How did he?"
"Got her consent first—(couldn't get anybody's else, but that did not matter)—ordered some one to bring the wooden horse to the front of the palace, placed her and himself as aforesaid, turned the pin, and disappeared from the curious eyes of the whole court. The story goes on to state that they both enjoyed the ride."
"Was that what you meant when you asked me if I liked travelling in cars?—" said Faith, a very little laugh speaking her sense of the application.
"Quick witted little princess!" said Mr. Linden. "The horse that refuses to carry double for your service, shall be dismissed from mine."
"But I don't see much, yet," said Faith. "I don't understand the story nor you. I think you have taken me a great many rides on that horse."
"Not en princesse," said Mr. Linden smiling. "The story is very simple, my dear. After shewing his wife various places of interest, and letting his friends see her, the prince arrives at home. It is said that he then finds his fortune—but I think that part of the story is fabulous, so don't set your heart upon it."
"That's the story—but what do you mean, Endy?"
"To give you such a ride. I mean that I am the prince, and that you (will be) the princess, who shall do all these things."
Faith jumped up. "Do you!"—
"Truly I do, dear Mignonette."
Faith's face was changing. The undoubted joy in her eye had yet a check somewhere.
"But Endecott—"
"Qu'est-ce que c'est, Mademoiselle?"
"You haven't a wooden horse!"—she said with a delicious and most delicate mixture of frankness and timidity.
"Are you sure of the fact?—and after all, Mademoiselle, what then?"
The same look almost answered him without words. "I am not sure—" she said. "I thought so."
"What is the point of the remark?"
She hesitated between the two feelings. But frankness, or duty, carried it. "Because, Endy—if that were so,—I don't want to go!"
"How did your royal pride get turned about?—that you will look at none but a wooden horse?"
She smiled at him, a little puzzled as of old, and not choosing to venture any further.
"I suppose I know what you mean, my dear one," Mr. Linden said, taking both her hands in his, and smiling too; "but as I do not intend to be John Gilpin, you need not be his wife,—not yet. Besides, the horse—of whatever sort—will require less than you suppose; and for the prince and princess, they,
Being in the air,
Will not care
How they fare!"—
Which words had an overcoming effect not only upon Faith's nascent scruples, but upon Faith herself; and a perfect series of little laughs of the most musical description rolled along a very limited extent of the shore, kept company by flushing colours as fair as the lights which were just then playing in the clouds overhead. Mr. Linden holding her hands still, watched his princess with the most perfect satisfaction.
"Is your mind at rest?" he said. "You know I threatened to keep you all to myself for six months—though I'm afraid four will be as near as I can come to it."
"But where are you going, Endy?"
"That waits partly on your choice. In general, to hills, cities, and rivers,—the Falls, the White Mountains, Washington, and the pictured rocks of Lake Superior. Then to some shore where you can see real surf—and to delight the eyes of some of my old friends by the way."
Faith's eye went gravely over to the sunny Long Island shore, but her mind had made a perfect leap. The only outward token of which was the unconsciously playing line of her lips. Such a journey!—with him! The breeze from the White Mountains seemed to blow in her face already, and the capital of the country rose before her in a most luminous cloud-view. With Mr. Linden to guide her and to tell her everything!—She did not see the eyes that were watching her, but when she suddenly noticed the silence and turned towards Mr. Linden, the smile was on his lips too.
"I thought I should go right to work," she said,—"to study—to make up for lost time. Can't I do that too?"
"As much as you like! But don't you know there is a lost holiday to be made up, as well?"
"It is made up,"—she said gently, after a minute's hesitation.
"How that grieved me when I went away!" said Mr. Linden,—"to take from you what I might never be able to replace. But sit down, dear child—I want to consult you about various things."
Faith sat down and looked—like a grave child indeed. Her journey for the present forgotten, and all her mind bent on something more weighty and worthy.
"I told you I had three letters for you to read," said Mr. Linden. "One reached me in Germany, two I found waiting for me here. They are all about the same subject, Mignonette: where you and I shall establish ourselves."
A flush rose, but she looked steadily.
"You told me once," Mr. Linden went on, "that in such a case I should choose the place where I was most needed—where there was most work for me to do. Now you shall judge. The pastor of a large manufacturing town in Pennsylvania (I may say of the town—it is so in effect) has accepted a call to Baltimore. I knew him formerly, and I suppose it is through his influence that the people have applied to me." Faith thought it very likely.
"How large is the town, Endy?"
"Ten or fifteen thousand—I do not know precisely."
"And no other churches?"
"Yes, but this is so much the leading one that the others hardly hold their ground; and by the way, I think I would rather have a call from one of them. Apparently the churchgoers are in the minority."
Faith thought there must be work enough to do in that place; but she only listened more gravely.
"An old friend of my father's writes the second letter. He lives at Newport, and has pleased himself with building a new church in a part of the island not much adorned with spires. Climate and society are good, scenery picturesque, and he is quite sure if I will only bring—Mrs. Linden!—to his house, she will decide in favour of Newport at once."
Faith's eyes went down, and rouge of the richest and frankest coloured her cheeks.
"Do you think she will?" said Mr. Linden demurely.
"What is the other, Endy?—You said three."
"The other, love, is from those very White Mountains you are going to see. Another friend writes the letter,—one who has built himself a nest there for summer migrations. It is a strange place, Faith, by all accounts—I have never been to that part of the mountains. A scattered population, sprinkled about on the hills like their own dewberries, and to be found in much the same manner. Neither church nor chapel, but only an unused schoolhouse—of which Mr. Olyphant prays I will come and take possession. Snow and frost, the valleys and the everlasting hills—that would be your society."
Faith's eyes were raised now and met Mr. Linden's. Grave, as one who felt the weight of the question to be settled; but with a brow unshadowed, and eyes unfearing. A child's look still!
"Mr. Olyphant says there could not be better air for my bird to sing in," he went on with a smile,—"there was one great objection to the place in Pennsylvania. How does this seem to you, dear Faith?—it is rather on a spur of the mountains—not absolutely shut in. Then I am not sure how much society you would have but mine,—what do you think of it, in comparison with Newport?"
She answered at first with a rare little smile, so happy in its grave trust, and which withal a little significantly deferred the question.
"I know you will go where you think you ought to go. Endy—I don't know about places."
"I doubt whether I shall grant more than half of Mr. Alcott's request," said Mr. Linden. "I suppose if George has not got home I may venture to grant that. Faith, it is a very singular fact that everybody falls in love with you."
To judge by Faith's blush, it was a somewhat painful "fact." "Whom are you talking of?" she said doubtfully.
"The present occasion of my remark is George Alcott—said to be absent on a crusade of search after a pair of eyes he saw in Pattaquasset."
"I don't know him," said Faith laughing a little; but instantly recurring to business she asked very earnestly, "Then, Endy, you think you will go to that place in the mountains?—or haven't you made up your mind?"
"I am inclined to that one, of the three—I cannot say my mind is absolutely made up. It has had so much else to do since I came home! Faith, do you mean to have any bridesmaids?"
Faith jumped up off her rock. "Endy, I want to run down and look at these little fish. And it's growing late, besides!"—
"Yes, but, you must answer me first," said Mr. Linden laughing and holding her fast. "It is needful I should know beforehand, because they will want supporters, if I do not."
"I don't want any, Endy," said Faith with cheeks like two pink roses, but standing very still now.
"Then come and shew me the fish. Don't you think it would be gladsome work to seek out those untaught and uncared for people up in the mountains?"
They had come down to the rocks between and among which at low tide the shell fish played in an inch or two of water; and sitting on one of the mossy stones Faith was watching the mimic play of evil passions which was going on among that tribe of Mollusca below her; but her mind was on something else.
"I read the other day," she said, "those words of Paul, where he says to the Thessalonians 'we were allowed of God to be put in trust with the gospel'.—They made me very happy—they make me happy now. What I thought of in connexion with them, I mean."
"And what was that?"
"That they are your words too,"—she said after looking up as if she thought her meaning must be known.—"And that even I—have something to do," she added lower.
Mr. Linden stood by her, looking off at the rippling waves, then down at his fair little helper. "Yes, Faith—it is a glorious thing to have any part of that work in trust,—and the part which makes least show may be no less in reality. 'In trust'!" he repeated, looking off again. "Such beautiful words!—such terrible."
"No!"—she said with a smile,—"I don't think so."
"Nor I, dear, from your point of view. But in the world, Faith, where you have been so little, I have seen the words of the trust to be boundless—the faithfulness of the trustees within very narrow limits. And to be always ready to 'sow beside all waters'—who is? 'Freely ye have received, freely give,' is the command—but what Christian sees with half perception what he has received!"
Faith paused and looked thoughtful, and then smiled again. "I always think of the words you read to me one day,—'Only be thou strong and very courageous,—for the Lord, thy God is with thee, whithersoever thou goest.'"—
The answering look told that if Mr. Linden's words had not been said for the purpose of drawing her out, they had at least served that purpose.
"You are a dear little Sunbeam!" he said. "Acting out your name, as I told you long ago. There is nothing needful to get you ready for the White Mountains but a fur cloak. Now come—it is growing late, as you say."
It was a late tea-time when they got home. They sat down to tea and Faith had not told her mother yet! which she remembered with a somewhat uneasy mind. There was nothing uneasy about the third member of the family!—the poise and balance of the white strawberries upon each other was not more complete than the resting adjustment of all his thoughts.
"Mrs. Derrick," he said as she handed him his cup of tea, "what do you consider the prettiest time of day?"
"The prettiest time of day?" Mrs. Derrick repeated,—"do you mean when the day looks best—or the people? I'm sure I don't know, Mr. Linden,—I never watch anybody from morning to night but Faith."
"I am talking of Faith—or what concerns her."
"O well all times of day are alike to her," said her mother fondly,—"she's just as pretty one time as another,—and one day as another. Only the days when she used to get letters."
"Mignonette," said Mr. Linden, "when should I have heard such a piece of news from you?"
"I never knew it before," said Faith.
"How many hours does she need for a morning toilette?" said he, pursuing his researches.
"Hours!" said Mrs. Derrick—"you'd better say minutes. It's less than an hour, commonly."
"But I mean uncommonly."
Mrs. Derrick looked thoroughly puzzled. But Faith had got the key, and hopeless of stopping Mr. Linden she thought the next best thing was to expedite matters.
"When I take longest, mother,"—she suggested in a low voice.
"How long would she need to arrange orange flowers to her satisfaction—" said Mr. Linden,—"or white muslin?"
"O!—" said Mrs. Derrick setting down the teapot with her cup half filled. "I didn't know what you were talking about."
"I am talking about next Thursday," said Mr. Linden, with a gay gentleness of manner. "Because we have decided—or I have—that Thursday is to be the prettiest day of the week, and now we want to choose the prettiest time of day."
A little flush came into Mrs. Derrick's quiet face,—she said not a word.
"You are willing it should be then?" Mr. Linden said.
The mother's "yes" was very firm and clear, and yet not in just her usual tone. That came back a minute after with the relief which a thought of business always brings.
"That dress isn't made!" she said. Mr. Linden's "Faith!—" was expressive.
"I knew that it could be done in a day at any time, Endecott,"—saidFaith, very grave and flushed. "It is up stairs in my drawer, mother."
"Kept there by what piece of superstition?" he said smiling. "Did you think if you made it up that I would never come back?"