The same soft snow-storm was coming down when Faith opened her eyes
next morning; the air looked like a white sheet; but in her room a
bright fire was blazing, reddening the white walls, and by her side sat
Mrs. Derrick watching her. Very gentle and tender were the hands that
helped her dress, and then Mrs. Derrick said she would go down and see
to breakfast for a little while.
"Wasn't it good your room was warm last night?" she said, stroking
Faith's hair.
Faith's eyes acknowledged that.
"And wasn't it good you were asleep!" she said laughing and kissing
Mrs. Derrick. "Mother!--I was so glad!"
"That's the funny part of it," said Mrs. Derrick. "Reuben's just about
as queer in his way as Mr. Linden. The only thing I thought from the
way he gave the message, was that somebody cared a good deal about his
new possession--which I suppose is true," she added smiling; "and so I
just went to sleep."
Mrs. Derrick went down; and Faith knelt on the rug before the fire and
bent her heart and head over her bible. In great happiness;--in great
endeavour that her happiness should stand well based on its true
foundations and not shift from them to any other. In sober endeavour to
lay hold, and feel that she had hold, of the happiness that cannot be
taken away; to make sure that her feet were on a rock, before she
stooped to take the sweetness of the flowers around her. And to judge
by her face, she had felt the rock and the flowers both, before she
left her room.
The moment she opened her door and went out into the hall, Mr. Linden
opened his,--or rather it was already open, and he came out, meeting
her at the head of the stairs. And after his first greeting, he held
her still and looked at her for a moment--a little anxiously and
intently. "My poor, pale little child!" he said--"you are nothing but a
snowdrop this morning!"
"Well that is a very good thing to be," said Faith brightly. But the
_colour_ resemblance he had destroyed.
She was lifted and carried down just as she had been carried up last
night, and into the sitting-room again; for breakfast was prepared
there this morning, and the sofa wheeled round to the side of the fire
all ready for her. How bright the room looked!--its red curtains within
and its white curtains without, and everything so noiseless and sweet
and in order. Even the coffeepot was there by this time, and Mrs.
Derrick arranged the cups and looked at Faith on the sofa, with eyes
that lost no gladness when they went from her to the person who stood
at her side. Faith's eyes fell, and for a moment she was very sober. It
was only for a moment.
"What a beautiful storm!" she said. "I am glad it snows. I am going to
do a great deal of work to-day."
Mr. Linden looked at her. "Wouldn't you just as lieve be talked to
sleep?"
She smiled. "You--couldn't--do that, Mr. Linden."
"Mr. Linden can do more than you think--and will," he said with a
little comic raising of the eyebrows.
For a while after breakfast Faith sat alone, except as her mother came
in and out to see that she wanted nothing,--alone in the soft snowy
stillness, till Mr. Linden came in from the postoffice and sat down by
her, laying against her cheek a soft little bunch of rosebuds and
violets.
"Faith," he said, "you have been looking sober--what is the reason?"
"I haven't been looking _too_ sober, have I? I didn't know I was
looking sober at all."
She was looking quaint, and lovely; in the plain wrapper she had put on
and the soft thoughtful air and mien, in contrast with which the
diamonds jumped and flashed with every motion of her hand. A study book
lay in her lap.
"How did all that happen last night?" said Mr. Linden abruptly.
"Why!"--said Faith colouring and looking down at her ring--"I was
standing in the doorway and Nero was coming out with that great lamp;
and when he got opposite the screen something fell on it, I believe,
from the burning bookcases, and it was thrown over against him--I
thought the lamp and he would all go over together--and I jumped;--and
in putting up my hand to the lamp I suppose, for I don't remember, the
fluid must have run down my arm and on my shoulder--I don't know how it
got on fire, but it must have been from some of the burning wood that
fell. The next I knew, you were carrying me to the drawing-room--I have
a recollection of that."
He listened with very grave eyes.
"Were you trying to take the lamp from Nero?"
"O no. I thought it was going to fall over."
"What harm would it have done the floor?"
The tinge of colour on Faith's cheek deepened considerably, and her
eyes lifted not themselves from the diamonds. She was not ready to
speak.
"I did not think of the floor"--
"Of what then?"
She waited again. "I was afraid some harm would be done,"--
"Did you prevent it?"
"I don't know"--she said rather faintly.
Gently her head was drawn down till it rested on his shoulder.
"Faith," he said in his own low sweet tones, "I stretched a little
silken thread across the doorway to keep you out--did you make of that
a clue to find your way in?"
She did not answer--nor stir.
There were no more questions asked--no more words said; Mr. Linden was
as silent as she and almost as still. Once or twice his lips touched
her forehead, not just as they had ever done it before, Faith thought;
but some little time had passed, when he suddenly took up the book
which lay in her lap and began the lesson at which it lay open; reading
and explaining in a very gentle, steady voice, a little moved from its
usual clearness. Still his arm did not release her. Faith listened,
with a semidivided mind, for some time; there was something in this
state of things that she wished to mend. It came at last, when there
was a pause in the lesson.
"I am glad of all that happened last night," she said, "except the pain
to you and mother. There is nothing to be sorry for. You shouldn't be
sorry."
"Why not, little naughty child?--and why are you glad?"
"Because--it was good for me,"--she said, not very readily nor
explicitly.
"In what way?"
"It was good for me,"--she repeated;--"it put me in mind of some
things."
"Of what, dear child?"
It was a question evidently Faith would rather not have answered. She
spoke with some difficulty.
"That there are such things in the world as pain--and trouble. It is
best not to forget it."
Mr. Linden understood and felt; but he only answered, "It will be the
business of my life to make you forget it. Now don't you think you
ought to put up this book, and rest or sleep?"
"I dare say _you_ ought," said Faith,--"and I wish you would. _I_ want
to work."
He gave her a laugh, by way of reply, and then gave her work as she
desired; watching carefully against her tiring herself in any way, and
making the lessons more of talk on his part and less of study on hers.
They were none the less good for that, nor any the less pleasant. Till
there came a knock at the front door; and then with a little sigh Faith
leaned back against the sofa, as if lessons were done.
"There is Dr. Harrison."
"And I shall have to be on my good behaviour," Mr. Linden said,
quitting the sofa. "But I suppose he will not stay all the rest of the
day." And as Cindy was slow in her movements, he went and opened the
door; Faith the while fitting on a glove finger.
"First in one element, and then in another--" Mr. Linden said, as the
doctor came in from a sort of simoon of snow.
"This one for me!" said Dr. Harrison shaking herself;--"but I should
say you must be out of your element to-day."
"Wherefore, if you please?" said Mr. Linden, as he endeavoured to get
the doctor out of his.
"Unless you live in a variety! I thought you were in your element last
night." And the doctor went forward into the sitting-room. The first
move was to take a seat by Faith and attend to her; and his address and
his inquiries, with the manner of them, were perfect in their kind.
Interested, concerned, tender, grateful, to the utmost limit of what
might have been in the circumstances testified by anybody, with equal
grace and skill they were limited there. Of special individual interest
he allowed no testimony to escape him--none at least that was
unequivocal. And Faith gave him answers to all he said, till he touched
her gloved finger and inquired if the fire had been at work there too.
Faith rather hastily drew it under cover and said no.
"What is the matter with it?"
"There is nothing bad the matter with it," said Faith, very imprudently
letting her cheeks get rosy. The doctor looked at her--told her he
could cure her finger if she would let him; and then rose up and
assumed his position before the fire, looking down at Mr. Linden.
"There isn't much of a midge about you, after all," he said.
"I suppose in the matter of wings we are about on a par. What is the
extent of the damage?"
"It is nothing worth speaking of--I think now," said the doctor. "But
we are under an extent of obligation to you, my dear fellow,--which
sits on me as lightly as obligation so generously imposed should;--and
yet I should be doubly grateful if you could shew me some way in which
I could--for a moment--reverse the terms on which we stand towards each
other."
"I don't think of any generous imposition just now," said Mr. Linden
smiling. "How are your father and sister?--I was afraid they would
suffer from the fright, if nothing else."
"Strong nerves!" said the doctor shrugging his shoulders. "We all eat
our breakfast this morning, and wanted the chops done as much as usual.
Sophy _did_ suffer, though; but it was because Miss Faith would do
nothing but get hurt in the house and wouldn't stay to be made well."
"I am sure I did something more than _that_," said Faith, to whom the
doctor had looked.
"You don't deserve any thanks!" he said sitting down again beside
her;--"but there is somebody else that does, and I wish you would give
me a hint how to pay them. That young fellow who says he is no friend
of yours--he helped us bravely last night. What can I do to please him?"
"Mr. Linden can tell best," said Faith looking to him. The doctor
turned in the same direction.
"Thank you!" Mr. Linden said, and the words were warmly spoken, yet not
immediately followed up. "Thank you very much, doctor!" he repeated
thoughtfully--"I am not sure that Reuben wants anything just now,--next
summer, perhaps, he may want books."
"I see _you_ are his friend?"
"Yes--if you give the word its full length and breadth."
"What is that?" said Dr. Harrison. "Don't go off to 'Nought and All.'"
"I suppose in this case I may say, a mutual bond of trust, affection,
and active good wishes."
"There's something in that fellow, I judge?"
"You judge right."
"A fisherman's son, I think you said. Well--I share the 'active good
wishes,' at least, if I can't assume the 'affection'--so think about my
question, Linden, and I'll promise to back your thoughts. What do you
do with yourself such a day? I was overcome with ennui--till I got out
into the elements."
"Ennui is not one of my friends," said Mr. Linden smiling--"not even an
acquaintance. In fact I never even set a chair for him, as the woman in
Elia set a chair for the poor relation, saying, 'perhaps he will step
in to-day.' I have been busy, doctor--what shall I do to amuse you?
will you have a foreign newspaper?"
The doctor looked dubious; then took the newspaper and turned it over,
but not as if he had got rid of his ennui.
"This smoke in the house will drive us out of Pattaquasset a little
sooner than we expected."
"Not this winter?"
"Yes. _That's_ nothing new--but we shall go a few days earlier than we
meant. I wish you were going too."
"When to return?" said Mr. Linden. "I mean you--not myself."
"I?--I am a wandering comet," said the doctor. "I have astonished
Pattaquasset so long, it is time for me to flare up in some other
place. I don't know, Linden. Somebody must be here occasionally, to
overlook the refitting of the inside of that library--perhaps that
agreeable duty will fall on me. But Linden,"--said the doctor dropping
the newspaper and turning half round on his chair, speaking gracefully
and comically,--"_you_ astonish Pattaquasset as much as I do; and to
tell you the truth you astonish me sometimes a little. This is no place
for you. Wouldn't you prefer a tutorship at Quilipeak, or a professor's
chair in one of the city colleges? You may step into either berth
presently, and at your pleasure,--I know. I do not speak without
knowledge."
There was a stir of feeling in Mr. Linden's face--there was even an
unwonted tinge of colour, but the firm-set lips gave no indication as
to whence it came; and he presently looked up, answering the doctor in
tones as graceful and more simple than his own.
"Thank you, doctor, once more! But I have full employment, and am--or
am not--ambitious,--whichever way you choose to render it. Not to speak
of the pleasure of astonishing Pattaquasset," he added, with a smile
breaking out,--"I could not hope to do that for Quilipeak."
"Please know," said the doctor, both frankly and with much respect in
his manner, "that I have been so presumptuous as to concern my mind
about this for some time--for which you will punish me as you think I
deserve. How to be so much further presumptuous as to speak to you
about it, was my trouble;--and I ventured at last," he said smiling,
"upon my own certain possession of certain points of that 'friend'
character which you were giving just now to Reuben Taylor--or to
yourself, in his regard."
"I am sure you have them!--But about Reuben,--though I know reward is
the last thing he thought of or would wish,--yet I, his friend, choose
to answer for him, that if you choose to give him any of the books that
he will need in college, they will be well bestowed."
"In college!" said the doctor. "Diable! Where is he going?"
"Probably to Quilipeak."
"You said, to college, man. I mean, what is college the road to, in the
youngster's mind?"
"I am not sure that I have a right to tell you," said Mr. Linden,--"it
is in his mind a road to greater usefulness--so much I may say."
"He'll never be more useful than he was last night. However, I'm
willing to help him try.--What is Mignonette going to do with herself
this afternoon?"--said the doctor throwing aside his newspaper and
standing before her.
"I don't know," said Faith. "Sit here and work, I suppose."
"I'll tell you what she ought to do," the doctor went on impressively.
"She ought to do what the flowers do when the sun goes down,--shut up
her sweetness to herself, see and be seen by nobody, and cease to be
conscious of her own existence."
Faith laughed, in a way that gave doubtful promise of following the
directions. The doctor stood looking down at her, took her hand and
gallantly kissed it, and finally took himself off.
"There is a good little trial of my patience!" Mr. Linden said. "I
don't know but it is well he is going away, for I might forget myself
some time, and bid him hands off."
At which Faith looked thoughtful.
"Faith," Mr. Linden said, gently raising her face, "would you like to
live at Quilipeak?"
The answer to that was a great rush of colour, and a casting down of
eyes and face too as soon as it was permitted.
"Well?" he said smiling--though she felt some other thread in the
voice. "What did you think of the words that passed between the doctor
and me? Would you like to have me agree to his proposal?"
"You would do what is best," she said with a good deal of effort. "I
couldn't wish anything else."--
He answered her mutely at first, with a deep mingling of gravity and
affection, as if she were very, very precious.
"My dear little child!" he said, "if anything on earth could make me do
it, it would be you!--and yet I cannot."
She looked up inquiringly; but except by that look, she asked nothing.
"You strengthen my hands more than you weaken them," he said. "I am so
sure that you would feel with me!--I know it so well! I have a long
story to tell you, dear Faith,--some time, not now," he added, with a
sort of shadow coming over his face. "Will you let me choose my own
time? I know it is asking a good deal."
"It would be asking a great deal more of me to choose any other," Faith
said with a sunny smile. "I like that time best."
He passed his hand softly once or twice across her forehead, giving her
a bright, grateful look, though a little bit of a sigh came with it
too,--then drew her arm within his and led her slowly up and down the
room.
But after dinner, and after one or two more lessons--under careful
guardianship, Faith was persuaded to lay herself on the sofa and rest,
and listen,--first to various bits of reading, then to talk about some
of her photographic pictures; the talk diverging right and left, into
all sorts of paths, fictional, historic, sacred and profane. Then the
light faded--the out-of-door light, still amid falling snow; and the
firelight shone brighter and brighter; and Mrs. Derrick stopped
listening, and went to the dining-room sofa for a nap. Then Mr. Linden,
who had been sitting at Faith's side, changed his place so as to face
her.
"How do you feel to-night?" he asked.
"Perfectly well--and as nicely as possible. Just enough remains of last
night to make it pleasant to lie still."
"You are a real little sunbeam! Do you know I want you to go off with
me on a shining expedition?"
"On _what_ sort of expedition?" said Faith laughing.
"A shining one--I want to carry your bright face into all the darkest
places I can find."
There was an alternation of amusement and a grave expression in her
face for a minute, one and the other flitting by turns; but then she
said quietly, "When, Mr. Linden?"
"What shall I do with you?" he said,--"shall I call you Miss Derrick?"
"No indeed!" she said colouring. "I don't often forget myself."
"No, I shall not do that, for it would punish myself too much, but I
shall do something else--which will not punish me at all, and may
perhaps make you remember. What do you suppose it will be?"
"I don't know"--she said flushing all over.
"Nothing worse than this"--he said, bending his face to hers. "Faith! I
did not mean to frighten you so! I'll tell you where I want to take
you.--You know Monday is the first of January, and I want to go with
you to those houses in the neighbourhood where the wheels of the new
year drag a little, and try to give them a pleasant start. Would you
like it?"
"O!"--she said, springing forward with a delighted exclamation.--"Tell
me, just what you mean. To which houses?"
"I mean that if you are well, we will have a long, long sleigh ride,
and leave as many little pieces of comfort and pleasure by the way as
we can. The houses, dear, will be more than you think--I must make out
a list."
Faith clapped her hands.
"O delicious! That is the best thing we could possibly do with Monday!
and there are two days yet this week--I shall have plenty of chance,
mother and I, to make everything. O what sorts of things shall we take?
and what are some of the houses? There is Mrs. Dow, where we went that
night,"--she said, her voice falling,--"and Sally Lowndes--what places
are you thinking off?"
"I think we might give Reuben at least a visit, if nothing else,--and
there are a good many such houses down about those points, and far on
along the shore. I was thinking most of them--though there are some
nearer by. But my Mignonette must not tire herself,--I did not mean to
bring anything but pleasure upon her hands."
"You can't! in this way," said Faith in delighted eagerness. "Who keeps
house in Reuben's home? he has no mother."
"No--I suppose I may say that he keeps house,--for his father is away a
great deal, and Reuben always seems to be doing what there is to do. As
to things--you will want some for well people, and some for sick,--at
some houses the mere necessary bread and meat, and at others any of
those little extras which people who spend all their money for bread
and meat can never get. But little child," Mr. Linden said smiling, "if
I let you prepare, you must let me send home."
"What?" said she. "I thought you said we would both take them together?"
He laughed--taking her hand and holding it in both his.
"And so we will!--I meant, send home here, to prepare."
"Oh!--Well," said Faith, "but we have a great deal now, you know; and I
can send Mr. Skip to get more. But one thing I know--we will take
Reuben a roast turkey!"
I wonder if she could tell, in the firelight, with what eyes he watched
her and listened to her! Probably not, for his back was towards the
fire, and the changing light and shade on his face was a little
concealed. But the light had the mastery.
"Faith," he said, "I shall send you home some sugar-plums--upon express
condition that you are not to eat them up; being quite sweet enough
already."
His face was so hid that probably Faith thought her own was hid too,
and did not know how clearly its moved timid changes were seen. She
leaned forward, and touching one hand lightly to his shoulder, said,
"What do you mean to make me,--Endecott?"
It was a thing to hear, the soft fall and hesitancy of Faith's voice at
the last word. Yet they hardly told of the struggle it had cost. How
the word thrilled him she did not know,--the persons living from whom
he ever had that name were now so few, that there was a strange
mingling with the exquisite pleasure of hearing it from her lips,--a
mingling of past grief and of present healing. He changed his place
instantly; and taking possession of her, gave her the most gentle,
tender, and silent thanks. Perhaps too much touched to speak--perhaps
feeling sure that if he spoke at all it would be in just such words as
she had so gently reproved. The answer at last was only a bright, "I
told you I could not promise--and I will not now!"
She pushed her head round a little so that she could give a quick
glance into his face, in which lay her answer. Her words, when she
spoke, made something of a transition, which however was proved by the
voice to be a transition in words only.
"Wouldn't a bag of potatoes be a good thing for us to take?"
"Certainly!--and we must take some books, and some orders for wood. And
you must have a basket of trifles to delight all the children we meet."
"That's easy! And books, will you take? that's delicious! that's better
than anything, for those who can enjoy them. Do you think any of them
want bibles?"
"We will take some, at a venture--I never like to go anywhere without
that supply. And then we shall both have to use our wits to find out
just what is wanted in a particular place,--the people that tell you
most have often the least to tell. And above all, Faith, we shall want
plenty of sympathy and kind words and patience,--they are more called
for than anything else. Do you think you can conjure up a sufficient
supply?"
"It is something I know so little about!" said Faith. "I have never had
very much chance. When I went to see Mrs. Custers I didn't in the least
know how to speak to her. But these people where we are going all know
_you_, I suppose?"--she said with another and not a little wistful look
up into his face.
"Most of them--more or less. What of it?"
"That makes it easy," she said quietly. "But I suppose it would be just
the same if you didn't know them! About the sick people,--Endecott--if
you can tell us _how_ they are sick, mother and I between us can make
out what things to prepare for them."
"Did you think I was in earnest, dear Faith, when I asked about your
sympathy?" Mr. Linden said, drawing her closer.
"No.--I think I have the sympathy, but I don't so well know how to shew
it. Then loaves of bread, I suppose, wouldn't come amiss?--And above
all, meat. Where else do you think a roast turkey ought to go?"
"To one particular far-off house on the shore that is brim full of
little children--and nothing else!"
"We'll take them a big one," said Faith smiling,--"and I suppose it is
no matter how many cakes! You'll have to make a very particular list,
with some notion of what would be best at each place; because in some
houses they wouldn't bear what in others they would be very glad of.
Wouldn't that be good? So that we might be sure to have the right thing
everywhere--_one_ right thing, at any rate. The other things might take
their chance."
"Yes, I will do that. But you know the first thing is, that you should
get well, and the next that you should _not_ get tired,--and these must
be secured, if nobody ever has anything."
Faith's laugh was joyous.
"To-morrow I mean to make cakes and pies," she said,--"and the next day
I will bake bread and roast turkeys and boil beef! And you have no idea
what a quantity of each will be wanted! I think I never saw anybody so
good at talking people to sleep!--that didn't want to go. Now what is
that?" For the knocker of the front door sounded loudly again.
"It is something to send people away--that don't want to go!" Mr.
Linden said, as he put her back in her old position on the cushions,
and moved his chair to a respectful distance therefrom. But nothing
worse came in this time than a note, well enveloped and sealed, which
was for Mr. Linden. It ran after this fashion.--
"_In the snow--yet and the chair
not only set for Ennui, but
ennui in the chair!_
"_This 28th Dec_. 18
"DEAR LINDEN,
You see my condition. I am desperate for want of something to do--_so_
I send you this. Enclosed you will please find--if you haven't dropped
it on the floor!--$25, for the bibliothecal and collegiate expenses of
'Miss Derrick's friend.' If you should hereafter know him to be in
further want of the same kind of material aid and comfort--please
convey intelligence of the same to myself or father. He---i. e-. said
'friend'--saved to _us_ last night far more than the value of this.
I am sorry I have no more to say! for your image--what else could it
be?--has for the moment frightened Ennui into the shadow--but he will
come back again as soon as I have sealed this. By which you will know
when you read the (then) present condition of
Your friend most truly
JULIUS HARRISON.
In Pattaquasset, is it?"
Mr. Linden read the note by firelight and standing--then came and sat
down by Faith and put it in her hands. By firelight Faith read it
hastily, and looked up with eyes of great delight. "Oh!" she
said,--"isn't that good!" Then she looked down at the note soberly
again.
"Well, little child? what?" he said smiling. "Yes, I am very glad. What
are you doubting about?"
"I am not doubting about anything," she said giving him the
note,--"only thinking of this strange man."
"Is he very strange?" Mr. Linden said. But he did not pursue the
subject, going back instead to the one they had been upon, to give her
the information she had asked for about the sick people they were
likely to meet in their rounds; passing gradually from that to other
matters, thence into silence. And Faith followed him, step by
step,--only when he was quite silent, she was--asleep!