Wednesday morning was cold and raw, and the sun presently put on a
thick grey cloak. There were suspicions abroad that it was one made in
the regions of perpetual snow, for whatever effect it might have had
upon the sun, it made the earth very cold. Now and then a little
frozen-up snowflake came silently down, and the wind swept fitfully
round the corners of houses, and wandered up and down the chimneys.
People who were out subsided into a little trot to keep themselves
warm, all except the younger part of creation, who made the trot a run;
and those who could, staid at home.
All of Mrs. Derrick's little family were of this latter class, after
the very early morning; for as some of them were to brave the weather
at night, there seemed no reason why they should also brave it by day.
As speedily as might be, Mr. Linden despatched his various matters of
outdoor business, of which there were always more or less on his hands,
and then came back and went into the sitting-room to look for his
scholar. In two minutes she came in from the other door, with the stir
of business and the cold morning fresh in her cheeks. But no one would
guess--no one could ever guess, from Faith's brown dress and white
rufffles, that she had just been flying about in the kitchen--to use
Cindy's elegant illustration--"like shelled peas"; not quite so
aimlessly, however. And her smiling glance at her teacher spoke of
readiness for all sorts of other business.
The first thing she was set about was her French exercise, during the
first few lines of which Mr. Linden stood by her and looked on. But
then he suddenly turned away and went up stairs--returning however,
presently, to take his usual seat by her side. He watched her progress
silently, except for business words and instructions, till the exercise
was finished and Faith had turned to him for further directions; then
taking her hand he put upon its forefinger one of the prettiest things
she had ever seen. It was an old-fashioned diamond ring; the stones all
of a size, and of great clearness and lustre, set close upon each other
all the way round; with just enough goldsmith's work to bind them
together, and to form a dainty frill of filagree work above and
below--looking almost like a gold line of shadow by that flashing line
of light.
"It was my mother's, Faith," he said, "and she gave it to me in trust
for whatever lady I should love as I love you."
Faith looked down at it with very, very grave eyes. Her head bent
lower, and then suddenly laying her hands together on the table she hid
her face in them; and the diamonds glittered against her temple and in
contrast with the neighbouring soft hair.
One or two mute questions came there, before Mr. Linden said softly,
"Faith!" She looked up with flushed face, and all of tears in her eyes
_but_ the tears; and her lip had its very unbent line. She looked first
at him and then at the ring again. Anything more humble or more grave
than her look cannot be imagined. His face was grave too, with a sort
of moved gravity, that touched both the present and the past, but he
did not mean hers should be.
"Now what will you do, dear child?" he said. "For I must forewarn you
that there is a language of rings which is well established in the
world."
"What--do you mean?" she said, looking alternately at the ring and him.
"You know what plain gold on this finger means?" he said, touching the
one he spoke of. She looked at first doubtfully, then coloured and said
"yes."
"Well diamonds on _this_ finger are understood to be the avant-couriers
of that."
Faith had never seen diamonds; but that was not what she was thinking
of, nor what brought such a deep spot of colour on her cheeks. It was
pretty to see, it was so bright and so different from the flush which
had been there a few minutes before. Her eyes considered the diamonds
attentively.
"What shall I do?" she said after a little.
"I don't know--you must try your powers of contrivance."
"I cannot contrive. I could keep ray glove on to-night; but I could not
every day. Shall I give it back to you to keep for me?"--she said
looking at it lovingly. "Perhaps that will be best!--What would you
like me to do?"
"Anything _but_ that," he said smiling,--"I should say that would be
worst. You may wear a glove, or glove-finger--what you will; but there
it must stay, and keep possession for me, till the other one comes to
bear it company. In fact I suppose I _could_ endure to have it seen!"
Her eyes went down to it again. Clearly the ring had a charm for Faith.
And so it had, something beyond the glitter of brilliants. Of
jewellers' value she knew little; the marketable worth of the thing was
an enigma to her. But as a treasure of another kind it was beyond
price. His mother's ring, on _her_ finger--to Faith's fancy it bound
and pledged her to a round of life as perfect, as bright, and as pure,
as its own circlet of light-giving gems. That she might fill to him--as
far as was possible--all the place that the once owner of the diamonds
would have looked for and desired; and be all that _he_ would look for
in the person to whom the ring, so derived, had come. Faith considered
it lovingly, with intent brow, and at last lifted her eyes to Mr.
Linden by way of answer; without saying anything, yet with half her
thoughts in her face. His face was very grave--Faith could see a little
what the flashing of that ring was to him; but her look was met and
answered with a fulness of warmth and tenderness which said that he had
read her thoughts, and that to his mind they were already accomplished.
Then he took up one of her books and opened it at the place where she
was to read.
The morning, and the afternoon, went off all too fast, and the sun went
down sullenly. As if to be in keeping with the expected change of work
and company, the evening brought worse weather,--a keener
wind--beginning to bestir itself in earnest, a thicker sky; though the
ground was too snow-covered already to allow it to be very dark. With
anybody but Mr. Linden, Mrs. Derrick would hardly have let Faith go
out; and even as it was, she several times hoped the weather would
moderate before they came home. Faith was so well wrapped up however,
both in the house and in the sleigh, that the weather gave her no
discomfort; it was rather exhilarating to be so warm in spite of it;
and they flew along at a good rate, having the road pretty much to
themselves.
"Faith," Mr. Linden said as they approached Judge Harrison's, "I cannot
spend all the evening here with you--that is, I ought not. I had a
message sent me this afternoon--too late to attend to then, which I
cannot leave till morning. But if I see you safe by the fire, I hope
Miss Harrison will take good care of you till I get back."
"Well," said Faith,--"I wouldn't meddle with your 'oughts,'--if I
could. I hope you'll take care of Jerry!"--
"What shall I do with him?"
"Don't you know?" said Faith demurely.
"I suppose I ought to drive him so fast that he'll keep warm," said Mr.
Linden. "What else?"
Faith's little laugh made a contrast with the rough night. "You had
better let me get out to the fire," she said joy fully,--"or _I_
sha'n't keep warm."
"You sha'n't?" he said bending down by her, as they reached the
door,--"your face has no idea of being cold!--I'll take care of Jerry,
child--if I don't forget him in my own pleasant thoughts."
Faith threw off her cloak and furs on the hall table where some others
lay, and pulled off one glove.
"Keep them both on!" Mr. Linden said softly and smiling,--"enact Portia
for once. Then if you are much urged, you can gracefully yield your own
prejudices so far as to take off one."
She looked at him, then amusedly pulled on her glove again; and the
door was opened for them into a region of warmth and brightness; where
there were all sorts of rejoicings over them and against the cold
night. Mr. Linden was by force persuaded to wait till after coffee
before braving it again; and the Judge and his daughter fairly involved
Faith in the meshes of their kindness. A very mouse Faith was to-night,
as ever wore gloves; and with a little of a mouse's watchfulness about
her, fancying cat's ears at every corner. A brown mouse too; she had
worn only her finest and best stuff dress. But upon the breast of that,
a bunch of snowy Laurustinus, nestling among green leaves, put forth a
secret claim in a way that was very beautifying. The Judge and Miss
Sophy put her in a great soft velvet chair and hovered round her, both
of them conscious of her being a little more dainty than usual. Sophy
thought perhaps it was the Laurustinus; her father believed it
intrinsic.
The coffee came, and the doctor.
"I have something better for you than Portia to-night"--he said as he
dealt out sugar,--"though not something better than muffins."
"Faith, my dear child," said Miss Sophy,--"you needn't be so
ceremonious--none of us are wearing gloves."
Faith laughed and blushed and pulled off one glove.
"You are enacting Portia, are you?" said Dr. Harrison. "Even she would
not have handled wigs with them. I see I have done mischief! But the
harm I did you last night I will undo this evening. Ladies and
Gentlemen!--I will give you, presently, the pleasure of hearing some
lines written expressive of my wishes toward the unknown--but
supposed--mistress of my life and affections. Any suggestions toward
the bettering of them--I will hear."
"The bettering of what?" said Mrs. Somers,--"your life and affections?"
"I am aware, my dear aunt Ellen, you think the one impossible--the
other improbable. I speak of bettering the wishes."
"'Unknown but supposed'"--said Mr. Linden. "'Item--She hath many
nameless virtues'."
"That is not my wish," said the doctor gravely looking at him, "I think
nameless virtues--deserve their obscurity!"
"What do you call your ideal?"
"Psyche,--" said the doctor, after a minute's sober consideration
apparently divided between Mr. Linden's face and the subject.
"That is not so uncommon a name as Campaspe," said Mr. Linden, with a
queer little gesture of brow and lips.
"Who is Campaspe?" said the doctor; while Faith looked, and Miss
Essie's black eyes sparkled and danced, and everybody else held his
coffee cup in abeyance.
"Did you never hear of my Campaspe?" said Mr. Linden, glancing up from
under his brows.
"We will exchange civilities," said the doctor. "I should be very happy
to hear of her."
Laughing a little, his own cup sending its persuasive steam unheeded,
his own face on the sparkling order--though the eyes looked demurely
down,--Mr. Linden went on to answer.
"'Cupid and my Campaspe played
At cards for kisses; Cupid payed;
He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows,
His mother's doves, and teame of sparrows;
Loses them too; then down he throws
The coral of his lippe, the rose
Growing on's cheek, (but none knows how)
With these, the crystal of his browe,
And then the dimple of his chinne;
All these did my Campaspe winne.
At last he set her both his eyes,--
She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
O Love! has she done this to thee?
What shall, alas! become of me!'"
There was a general little breeze of laughter and applause. The doctor
had glanced at Faith;--her colour was certainly raised; but then the
old Judge had just bent down to ask her "if she had ever heard of
Campaspe before?" The doctor did not hear but he guessed at the
whisper, and saw Faith's laugh and shake of the head.
"Is that a true bill, Linden?"
"Very true,--" said Mr. Linden, trying his coffee. "But it is not yet
known what will become of me."
"What has become of Campaspe?"
"She is using her eyes."
"Are they _those_ eyes, Mr. Linden?" said Miss Essie coming nearer and
using her own.
"What was the colour of Cupid's?"
"Blue, certainly!"
"Miss Derrick!"--said the doctor,--"let us have your opinion."
Faith gave him at least a frank view of her own, all blushing and
laughing as she was, and answered readily,--"As to the colour of
Cupid's eyes?--I have never seen him, sir."
The doctor was obliged to laugh himself, and the chorus became general,
at something in the combination of Faith and her words. But Faith's
confusion thereupon mastered her so completely, that perhaps to shield
her the doctor requested silence and attention and began to read; of a
lady who, he said he was certain, had borrowed of nobody--not even of
Cupid.--
"'Whoe'er she be,
That not impossible she,
That shall command my heart and me.'"
"I believe she _is_ impossible, to begin with," said Miss Essie. "You
will never let any woman command you, Dr. Harrison."
"You don't know me, Miss Essie," said the doctor, with a curiously
grave face, for him.
"He means--
'Who shall command my heart--_not_ me.'"
said Mr. Linden.
"If she can command my heart--what of me is left to rebel?" said the
doctor.
"Sophy," said Mrs. Somers, "how long has Julius been all heart?"
"Ever since my aunt Ellen has been _all_ eyes and ears. Mr. Somers,
which portion of your mental nature owns the supremacy of your wife?
may I inquire, in the course of this investigation?"
"Ha!" said Mr. Somers blandly, thus called upon--"I own her supremacy,
sir--ha--in all proper things!"
"Ha! Very proper!" said the doctor.
"That is all any good woman wants," said the old Judge benignly. "I
take it, that is all she wants."
"Then you must say which are the proper things, father!" said Miss
Sophy laughing.
"You'll have to ask every man separately, Sophy," said Mrs.
Somers,--"they all have their own ideas about proper things. Mr. Somers
thinks milk porridge is the limit."
"Mr. Stoutenburgh," said the doctor, "haven't you owned yourself
commanded, ever since your heart gave up its lock and key?"
"Yes indeed," said the Squire earnestly,--"I am so bound up in slavery
that I have even forgotten the wish to be free! All my wife's things
are proper!"
"O hush!" his wife said laughing, but with a little quick bright
witness in her eyes, that was pretty to see. Dr. Harrison smiled.
"You see, Miss Derrick!" he said with a little bow to her,--"there is
witness on all sides;--and now I will go on with my _not impossible_
she."--
He got through several verses, not without several interruptions, till
he came to the exquisite words following;--
"'I wish her beauty,
That owes not all his duty
To gaudy tire or glistring shoetye.
'Something more than
Taffeta or tissue can,
Or rampant feather, or rich fan.
'More than the spoil
Of shop, or silk-worm's toil,
Or a bought blush, or a set smile.'"
While Miss Essie exclaimed, Miss Harrison stole a look at Faith; who
was looking up at the doctor, listening, with a very simple face of
amusement. Her thoughts were indeed better ballasted than to sway to
such a breeze if she had felt it. But the real extreme beauty of the
image and of the delineation was what she felt; she made no application
of them. The doctor came to this verse.
"'A well-tamed heart,
For whose more noble smart
Love may be long choosing a dart.'--
What does that mean, Linden?--isn't that an error in the description?"
"Poetical license," said Mr. Linden smiling. "Psyche will give you
trouble enough, wings and all,--there is no fear you will find her
'tamed'."
"How is Campaspe in that respect?"
"She has never given me much trouble yet," said Mr. Linden.
"What I object to is the 'long choosing'," said the doctor. "Miss de
Staff--do you think a good heart should be very hard to win?"
"Certainly!--the harder the better," replied the lady. "That's the only
way to bring down your pride. The harder she is, the more likely you
are to think she's a diamond."
"Mrs. Stoutenburgh!"--
"What has been the texture of yours all these years, doctor?"
"He thinks that when he has dined the rest of the world should follow
suit--like the Khan of Tartary," said Mrs. Somers.
"Miss Derrick!" said the doctor--"I hope for some gentleness from you.
Do you think such a heart as we have been talking of, should be very
difficult to move?"
Faith's blush was exquisite. Real speech was hard to command. She knew
all eyes were waiting upon her; and she could not reason out and
comfort herself with the truth--that to them her blush might mean
several things as well as one. The answer came in that delicate voice
of hers which timidity had shaken.
"I think--it depends on what there is to move it."
"What do you call sufficient force?" said Mrs. Somers.
"I?"--said Faith.--
"Yes, you," replied the parson's wife with a look not unkindly amused.
"What sort and degree of power should move 'such a heart'?--to quote
Julius."
Faith's blush was painful again, and it was only the sheer necessity of
the case that enabled her to rally. But her answer was clear.
"Something better than itself, Mrs. Somers."
"I should like to know what that is!" said Mrs. Somers.
Mr. Linden's involuntary "And so should I"--was in a different tone,
but rather drew eyes upon himself than Faith.
"It's of no consequence to you!" said the doctor, with a funny, mock
serious tone of admonition.
Mr. Linden bowed, acquiescingly.--"Psychology is an interesting
study"--he added, in qualification. "But let me return your warning,
doctor--you have a formidable rival."
"Qui donc?"
"Cupid carried off Psyche some time ago--do you suppose you can get her
back?" And with a laughing sign of adieu, Mr. Linden went away.
Luckily for Faith, she was not acquainted with the heathen mythology;
and was also guiltless of any thought of connexion between herself and
the doctor's ideal. So her very free, unsuspicious face and laughter
quite reassured him.
"Mr. Linden is an odd sort of person," said Miss Essie philosophically.
"I have studied him a good deal, and I can't quite make him out. He's a
very interesting man! But I think he is deeper than he seems."
"He's deeper than the salt mines of Salzburg then!" said the doctor.
"Why?" said Miss Essie curiously.
The doctor answered gravely that "there were beautiful things
there";--and went on with his reading. And Faith listened now with
unwavering attention, till he came to--
"'Sydnean showers
Of soft discourse, whose powers
Can crown old winter's head with flowers.'"
Faith's mind took a leap. And it hardly came back again. The reading
was followed by a very lively round game of talk; but it was not _such_
talk; and Faith's thoughts wandered away and watched round that circlet
of brightness that was covered by her glove; scattered rays from which
led them variously,--home, to her Sunday school, to Pequot,--and to
heaven; coming back again and again to the diamonds and to the image
that was in the centre of them. No wonder her grave sweet face was
remarked as being even graver and sweeter than usual; and the doctor at
last devoted himself to breaking up its quiet. He took her into the
library to finish the Rhododendrons--ostensibly--but in reality to get
rid of the stiff circle in the other room. The circle followed; but no
longer stiff; under the influence of the cold weather and the big fires
and good prompting, their spirits got up at last to the pitch of acting
charades. Miss Harrison brought down her stores of old and new finery;
and with much zeal and success charades and tableaux went on for some
length of time; to the extreme amusement of Faith, who had never seen
any before. They did not divert her from watching for the sound of Mr.
Linden's return; but it came not, and Miss Essie expected and hoped
aloud in vain. The hour did come, and passed, at which such gatherings
in Pattaquasset were wont to break up. That was not very late to be
sure. The Stoutenburghs, and the De Staffs, and finally Mr. and Mrs.
Somers, went off in turn; and Faith was left alone to wait; for she had
refused all offers of being set down by her various friends.
It happened that Mr. Linden had been, by no harmful accident but simply
by the untowardness of things, delayed beyond his time; and then having
a good distance to drive, it was some while after the last visiters had
departed when he once more reined up Jerry at the door. No servant came
to take him, and Mr. Linden applied himself to the bell-handle. But
there seemed a spell upon the house--or else the inmates were
asleep--for ring as he would, no one came.
To fasten Jerry and let himself in were the next steps--neither of
which took long. But in the drawing-room, to which he had been ushered
in the beginning of the evening, there was now no one. The lights and
the fires and the empty chairs were there; that was all. Mr. Linden
knew the house well enough to know where next to look; he crossed the
hall to a room at the other side, which was the one most commonly used
by the family, and from which a passage led to the library. No one was
here, and the room was in a strange state of confusion. Before he had
well time to remark upon it, Faith came in from the passage bearing a
heavy marble bust in her arms. The colour sprang to her cheeks; she set
down Prince Talleyrand quickly and came towards Mr. Linden, saying,
"There's fire in the library."
"My dear child!" he said softly, "what is the matter? What are you
about?"
"Why there is fire in the library--it's all on fire, or soon will be,"
she said hurriedly, "and we are bringing the things out. The fire can't
get in here--its a fireproof building only the inside will all burn up.
The servants are carrying water to the roof of the house, lest that
should catch. I am so glad to see you!"--
And Miss Sophy and the doctor came in, carrying one a picture, the
other an armful of books. Faith ran back through the passage. But
before she could set her foot inside the library, Mr. Linden's hand was
on her shoulder, and he stepped before her and took the survey of the
room in one glance.
Its condition was sufficiently unpromising. The fire had kindled in a
heap of combustible trumpery brought there for the tableaux. It had got
far beyond management before any one discovered it; and now was making
fast work in that corner of the room and creeping with no slow progress
along the cornices of the bookshelves. Short time evidently there was
for the family to remove their treasures from its destructive sweep.
One corner of the room was in a light blaze; one or two lamps mockingly
joined their light to the glare; the smoke was curling in grey wreaths
and clouds over and around almost everything. Here an exquisite bust of
Proserpine looked forlornly through it; and there a noble painting of
Alston's shewed in richer lights than ever before, its harmony of
colouring. The servants were, as Faith had said, engaged in
endeavouring to keep the roof of the house from catching; only one old
black retainer of the family, too infirm for that service, was helping
them in the labour of rescuing books and treasures of art from the
tire, which must take its way within the library. The wall it could not
pass, that being, as Faith had also said, proof against it.
"Stay where you are," Mr. Linden said, "and I will hand things to
you"--adding under his breath, "if you love me, Faith!" And passing
into the room he snatched Proserpine from her smoky berth and gave her
to the old servant, handing Faith a light picture.
"Don't let your sister come in here, Harrison," he said, springing up
the steps to the upper shelves of the bookcase nearest the fire--"and
don't let everybody do everything,--keep half in the passage and half
here."
"Yes, Sophy," said the doctor, "that is much better--don't you come in
here, nor Miss Faith. And don't work too hard," he said gently to the
latter as she came back after bestowing the picture. "I won't ask you
not to work at all, for I know it would be of no use."
"Just work like monkeys," Mr. Linden said from his high post, which was
a rather invisible one. "Reuben!--I am glad of your help."
"Reuben!" exclaimed Faith joyously. "How good that is. Give me those
books, Reuben."--
And after that the work went on steadily, with few words. It was too
smoky an atmosphere to speak much in; and the utmost exertions on the
part of every one of the workers left no strength nor time for it.
"Like monkeys" they worked--the gentlemen handing things out of the
smoke to the willing fingers and light feet that made quick disposition
of them. Quick it had need to be, for the fire was not waiting for
them. And in an incredibly short time--incredible save to those who
have seen the experiment tried,--books and engravings were emptied from
shelf after shelf--compartment after compartment--and lodged within the
house. Not a spare inch of space--not a spare second of time, it
seemed, was gone over; and the treasures of the library were in quick
process of shifting from one place to another. It was rather a weary
part Faith had to play, to stop short at the doorway and see the
struggle with smoke and fire that was going on inside; and an anxious
eye and trembling heart followed the movements of one of the workers
there whenever she returned to her post of waiting. She would rather
have been amid the smoke and the fire too, than to stand off looking
on; but she did what she was desired--and more than she was desired;
for she said not a word, like a wise child. Only did her work with no
delay and came back again. Two excellent workers were the doctor and
Mr. Linden; Reuben was a capital seconder; and no better runners than
the two ladies need have been found; while the old Judge and his old
serving man did what they could. There was every appearance that their
efforts would be successful; the fire was to be sure, greatly increased
and fast spreading, but so also the precious things that it endangered
were already in great measure secured. Probably very little would have
been lost to be regretted, if the workers had not suffered a slight
interruption.
Mr. Linden was in the middle of the room unlocking the drawers of the
library table, which was too large to be removed. Old Nero, the black
man, had taken one of the lamps which yet remained burning, a large
heavy one, to carry away. He was just opposite the table, when a stone
bust of some weight, which had stood above the bookcases, detached by
the failure of its supports, came down along with some spars of the
burning wood and fell against a rich screen just on the other side of
Nero. The screen was thrown over on him; he struggled an instant to
right himself and it, holding his lamp off at an awful angle towards
Mr. Linden; then, nobody could tell how it was, Nero had saved himself
and struggled out from the falling screen and burning wood, and Faith
and the lamp lay under it, just at Mr. Linden's feet. Yet hardly under
it--so instantly was it thrown off. The lamp was not broken, which was
a wonder; but Faith was stunned, and the burning wood had touched her
brow and singed a lock of hair.
In such a time of confusion all sorts of things come and go, unseen but
by the immediate actors. Dr. Harrison and Reuben were intent upon a
heavy picture; the Judge and his daughter were in the other room. And
Faith was lifted up and borne swiftly along to the drawing-room sofa,
and there was cold water already on her brow, before the others reached
her. She was only a little stunned and had opened her eyes when they
came up. They came round her, all the gang of workers, like a swarm of
bees, and with as many questions and inquiries. Faith smiled at them
all, and begged they would go back and finish what they were doing.
"I'll stay here a little while," she said; "my fall didn't hurt me a
bit, to speak of. Do go! don't anybody wait for me."
There seemed nothing else to be done; she would own to wanting nothing;
and her urgency at length prevailed with them, however reluctantly, to
leave her and go back to the library. But Mr. Linden stood still as the
others moved off.
"Where are you hurt?" he said in a low voice.
"I suppose the fall bruised me a little bit. It didn't do me any real
harm. Don't wait here for me."
"Where?" Mr. Linden said.
"Where it bruised me? A little on my head--and elbow--and side;
altogether nothing!"
He sat down by her, passing his hand softly over the scorched hair;
then said, "Let me see your arm."
"Oh no!--that's not necessary. I said I was bruised, but it isn't much."
"Faith, you have not told me the whole."
Her eye shrank from his instantly, and her colour flitted from red to
pale.
"There is nothing more I need tell you. They will all be back here--or
some of them--if you stay. I'll tell you anything you please to
morrow," she added with a smile. But he only repeated, "Tell me now--I
have a right to know."
Her lip took its childish look, but her eye met him now. "Don't look
so!"--she said, "as if there was any reason for it. I think some of the
fluid from that lamp ran down on my arm--and it smarts. Don't stay here
to look grave about me!--it isn't necessary."
He bent his head and gave her one answer to all that--then sprang up
and went for Dr. Harrison. Faith tried to hinder him, in vain.
There was little now to detain anybody in the library, he found, and a
good deal to drive everybody out of it. The fire had seemed to take
advantage of its unwatched opportunity and had put it pretty well out
of any one's power to rescue much more from its rapacity. Reuben and
Dr. Harrison were carrying out the drawers of the table, which Mr.
Linden had been unlocking; and the doctor dropped the one he held the
instant he caught the sense of Mr. Linden's words. He went through the
other way, summoning his sister.
Faith was lying very quietly and smiled at them, but her colour went
and came with odd suddenness. She would not after all let the doctor
touch her; but rising from the sofa said she would go up stairs and let
Sophy see what was wanting. The three went up, and Mr. Linden was left
alone.
He stood still for a moment where they left him, resting his face upon
his hand, but then he went back to the burning room; and stationing
himself at the doorway, bade all the rest keep back, and those that
could to bring him water. Reuben sprang to this work as he had done to
the other; some of the servants had come down by this time; and Mr.
Linden stood there, dashing the water about the doorway and into the
room, upon the floor, the great table, and such of the bookcases as he
could come near. The effect was soon evident. The blazing bits of
carved moulding as they fell to the floor, went out instead of getting
help to burn; and the heavier shelves and wainscot which being of hard
wood burned slowly, began to give out steam as well as smoke. The door
and doorway were now perfectly safe--the fire hardly could spread into
the passage, a danger which had been imminent when Mr. Linden came, but
which the family seemed to have forgotten; secure in their fireproof
walls, they forgot the un-fireproof floor, nor seemed to remember how
far along the passage the cinders might drift. When there was really
nothing more for him to do, and he had given the servants very special
instructions as to the watch they should keep, then and not till then
did Mr. Linden return to the parlour; the glow of his severe exercise
fading away.
He found the Judge there, who engaged him in not too welcome
conversation; but there was no help for it. He must hear and answer the
old gentleman's thanks for his great services that night--praises of
his conduct and of Faith's conduct; speculations and questions
concerning the evening's disaster. After a time that seemed tedious,
though it was not really very long, Miss Harrison came down.
"She'll be better directly," she said. "Do sit down, Mr. Linden!--I
have ordered some refreshments--you must want them, I should think; and
you'll have to wait a little while, for Faith says she will go home
with you; though I am sure she ought not, and Julius says she must not
stir."
Mr. Linden bowed slightly--answering in the most commonplace way that
he was in no hurry and in no need of refreshments; and probably he felt
also in no need of rest--for he remained standing.
"How is she, dear? how is she?" said the Judge. "Is she much hurt?"
"Just _now_," said Miss Harrison, "she is in such pain that she cannot
move--but we have put something on that will take away the pain, Julius
says, in fifteen minutes; and she will be quite well this time
to-morrow, he says."
"But is she much hurt?" Judge Harrison repeated with a very concerned
face.
"She'll be well to-morrow, father; but she was dreadfully burned--her
arm and shoulder--I thought she would have fainted upstairs--but I
don't know whether people _can_ faint when they are in such pain. I
don't see how she can bear her dress to go home, but she says she will;
Mrs. Derrick would be frightened. Mr. Linden, they say every body does
what you tell them--I wish you'd persuade Faith to stay with me
to-night! She won't hear me."
"How soon can I see her?"--The voice made Miss Harrison look--but her
eyes said her ears had made a mistake.
"Why she said she would come down stairs presently--as soon as the pain
went off enough to let her do anything--and she wanted me to tell you
so; but I am sure it's very wrong. Do, Mr. Linden, take
something!"--(the servant had brought in a tray of meats and
wine)--"While you're waiting, you may as well rest yourself. How shall
we ever thank you for what you've done to-night!"
Miss Harrison spoke under some degree of agitation, but both she and
her father failed in no kind or grateful shew of feeling towards their
guest.
"How did it happen, Mr. Linden?" she said when she had done in this
kind all she could.
He said he had not seen the accident--only its results.
"I can't imagine how Faith got there," said Miss Harrison. "She saw the
screen coming over on Nero, I suppose, and thought she could save the
lamp--she made one spring from the doorway, he says, to where he stood.
And in putting up her hand to the lamp, I suppose that horrid fluid ran
down her arm and on her shoulder--when Nero put out the lamp he must
have loosened the fastening; it went all over her shoulder. But she'll
be well to-morrow night, Julius says."
"Who's with her now, my dear?" said the Judge.
"O Julius is with her--he said he'd stay with her till I came back--she
wanted Mr. Linden to know she would go home with him. Now, Mr. Linden,
won't you send her word back that you'll take care of Mrs. Derrick if
she'll stay?"
"I will go up and see her, Miss Harrison."
That was anticipated however, by the entrance of the doctor; who told
his sister Miss Derrick wanted her help, then came gravely to the
table, poured out a glass of wine and drank it. His father asked
questions, which he answered briefly. Miss Derrick felt better--she was
going to get up and come down stairs.
"But ought she to be suffered to go out to-night, Julius?--such a
night?"
"Certainly not!"
The Judge argued the objections to her going. The doctor made no
answer. He walked up and down the room, and Mr. Linden stood still. Ten
or fifteen minutes passed; and then the door opened softly and Faith,
all dressed, cloaked, and furred, came in with her hood, followed by
her friend. Miss Sophy looked very ill satisfied. Faith's face was pale
enough, but as serenely happy as release from pain can leave a face
that has no care behind. A white embodiment of purity and gentleness
she looked. The doctor was at her side instantly, asking questions. Mr.
Linden did not interrupt him,--he had met her almost before the doctor,
and taken her hand with a quietness through which Faith could perceive
the stir of feelings that might have swept those of all the others out
into the snow. But he held her hand silently until other people had
done their questions--then simply asked if she was quite sure she was
fit to ride home? Then, with that passing of the barrier, look and
voice did change a little.
"I mean to go,"--she said without looking at him,--"if you'll please to
take me."
"She ought not,--I am sure she ought not!" exclaimed Miss Harrison in
much vexation. "She is just able to stand."
"You know," Mr. Linden said,--not at all as if he was urging her, but
merely making a statement he thought best to make; "I could even bring
your mother here, in a very short time, if you wished it."
"O I don't wish it. I can go home very well now."
He gave her his arm without more words. Miss Harrison and the Judge
followed regretfully to the door; the doctor to the sleigh.
"Are you well wrapped up?" he asked.
"I have got all my own and all Sophy's furs," said Faith in a glad tone
of voice.
"Take care of yourself," he said;--"and Mr. Linden, you must take care
of her--which is more to the purpose. If I had it to do, this ride
would not be taken. Linden--I'll thank you another time."
They drove off. But as soon as they were a few steps from the house,
Mr. Linden put his arm about Faith and held her so that she could lean
against him and rest; giving her complete support, and muffling up the
furs about her lightly and effectually, till it was hardly possible for
the cold air to win through; and so drove her home. Not with many
words,--with only a whispered question now and then, whether she was
cold, or wanted any change of posture. The wind had lulled, and it was
much milder, and the snow was beginning to fall softly and fast; Faith
could feel the snow crystals on his face whenever it touched hers. Mr.
Linden would have perhaps chosen to drive gently, as being easier for
her, but the thick air made it needful. Once only he asked any other
question.--
"Faith--is my care of you in fault, that it lets you come home?"
"No, I think not," she said;--"you hold me just so nicely as it is
possible to be! and this snow-storm is beautiful." Which answer, though
she might not know it, testified to her need of precisely the care he
was giving her.
"Are you suffering much now, dear child?"
"Not at all. I am only enjoying. I like being out in such a storm as
this.--Only I am afraid mother is troubled."
"No--I sent Reuben down some time ago, to answer her questions if she
was up, and to have a good fire ready for you."
"O that's good!" she said. And then rested, in how luxurious a rest!
after exertion, and after anxiety, and after pain; so cared for and
guarded. She could almost have gone to sleep to the tinkle of Jerry's
bells; only that her spirit was too wide awake for that and the
pleasure of the time too good to be lost. She had not all the pleasure
to herself--Faith could feel that, every time Mr. Linden spoke or
touched her; but what a different atmosphere his mind was in, from her
quiet rest! Pain had quitted her, but not him, though the kinds were
different. Truly he would have borne any amount of physical pain
himself, to cancel that which she had suffered,--there were some
minutes of the ride when he would have borne it, only to lose the
thought of that. But Faith knew nothing of it all, except as she could
feel once or twice a deep breath that was checked and hushed, and
turned into some sweet low-spoken word to her; and her rest was very
deep. So deep, that the stopping of the sleigh at last, was an
interruption.
The moment Jerry's bells rang their little summons at the door, the
door itself opened, and from the glimmering light Reuben ran out to
take the reins.
"Is Mrs. Derrick up?" Mr. Linden asked, when the first inquiry about
Faith had been answered.
"I don't know, sir. I told her you wore afraid Miss Faith would take
cold without a fire in her room--and she let me take up wood and make
it; and then she said she wasn't sleepy, and she'd take care it didn't
go out. I haven't seen her since."
"Thank you, Reuben--now hold Jerry for me,--I shall keep you here
to-night," Mr. Linden said as he stepped out. And laying his hand upon
the furs and wrappers, he said softly,--"Little Esquimaux--do you think
you can walk to the house?"
"O yes!--certainly."
A little bit of a laugh answered her--the first she had heard since
Campaspe; and then she was softly lifted up, and borne into the house
over the new-fallen snow as lightly as if she had been a snowflake
herself. The snow might lay its white feathers upon her hood, but Faith
felt as if she were in a cradle instead of a snow-storm. She was placed
in the easy chair before the sitting-room fire, and her hood and furs
quickly taken off. "How do you feel?" Mr. Linden asked her.
She looked like one of the flakes of snow herself, for simplicity and
colour; but there was a smile in her eyes and lips that had come from a
climate where roses blow.
"I feel nicely.--Only a little bruised and battered feeling, which
isn't unpleasant."
"Will you have anything?--a cup of tea?--that might do you good."
Faith looked dubious at the cup of tea; but then rose up and said it
would disturb her mother, and she would just go and sleep.
"It won't disturb her a bit,"--Mr. Linden said, reseating her,--"sit
still--I'll send Reuben up to see."
He left her there a very few minutes, apparently attending to more than
one thing, for he came back through the eating-room door; bringing word
to Faith that her fire and room were in nice order, and her mother fast
asleep there in the rocking-chair to keep guard; and that she should
have a cup of tea in no time. And with a smile at her, he went back
into the eating-room, and brought thence her cup and plate, and
requested to be told just how the tea should be made to please her, and
whether he might invade the dairy for cream.
"If I could put this cloak over my shoulders, I would get some myself.
Will you put it on for me? please.--Is there fire in the kitchen? I'll
go and make the tea."
"Is there nothing else you would like to do?" he said standing before
her,--"you shall not stir! Do you think I don't know cream when I see
it?"--and he went off again, coming back this time in company with
Reuben and the tea-kettle, but the former did not stay. Then with
appeals to her for directions the tea was made and poured out, and
toast made and laid on her plate; but she was not allowed to raise a
finger, except now to handle her cup.
"It's very good!" said Faith,--"but--don't you remember you once told
me two cups of cocoa were better than one?"
It is to be noted in passing, that all Faith's _nameless_ addresses
were made with a certain gentle, modulated accent, which invariably
implied in its half timid respect the "Mr. Linden" which she rarely
forgot now she was not to say.
"Dear child! I do indeed," he said, as if the remembrance wore a bright
one. "But I remember too that my opinion was negatived. Faith, I used
to wish then that I could wait upon you--but I would rather have you
wait upon me, after all!"
Faith utterly disallowed the tone of these last words, and urged her
request in great earnest. He laughed at her a little--but brought the
cup and drank the tea,--certainly more to please her than himself;
watching her the while, to see if the refreshment were telling upon her
cheeks. She was very little satisfied with his performance.
"Now I'll go and wake up mother," she said at last rising. "Don't think
of this evening again but to be glad of everything that has happened. I
am."
"I fear, I fear," he said looking at her, "that your gladness and my
sorrow meet on common ground. Child, what shall I do with you?"--but
what he did with her then was to put her in that same cradle and carry
her softly upstairs, to the very door of her room.