The next two days were busy ones, all round; for though Faith was
carefully watched, by both her guardians, yet she was really well and
strong enough again to be allowed to do a good deal; especially with
those intervals of rest and study which Mr. Linden managed for her. His
work, between these intervals, took him often out of doors, and various
were the tokens of that work which came home--greatly to Faith's
interest and amusement. They were curiously indicative, too, both of
the varied wants of the poor people in the neighbourhood, and of his
knowledge on the subject. From a little pair of shoes which was to
accompany one roast turkey, to the particular sort of new fishing net
which was to go with the other, it really seemed as if every sort of
thing was wanted somewhere,--simple things, and easy to get, and not
costing much,--but priceless to people who had no money at all. Faith
was appointed receiver general, and her hands were full of amusement as
well as business. And those two things were the most of all that Mr.
Linden suffered to come upon them,--whatever his own means might be, it
was no part of his plan to trench upon Mrs. Derrick's; though she on
her part entered heart and hands into the work, with almost as much
delight as Faith herself, and would have given the two carte-blanche to
take anything she had in the house. Faith didn't ask _him_ what she
should take there, nor let him know much about it till Monday. By this
time, what with direct and indirect modes of getting at the knowledge,
Faith had become tolerably well acquainted with the class or classes of
wants that were to be ministered to. Many were the ovenfuls that were
baked that Friday and Saturday! great service did the great pot that
was used for boiling great joints! nice and comforting were the broths
and more delicate things provided, with infinite care, for some four or
five sick or infirm people. But Faith's delight was the things Mr.
Linden sent home; every fresh arrival of which sent her to the kitchen
with a new accession of zeal, sympathy, and exultation,--sympathy with
him and the poor people; exultation in the work--most of all in him!
Great was the marvelling of Cindy and Mr. Skip at these days'
proceedings.
So passed Friday and Saturday; and Sunday brought a lull. Faith thought
so, and felt so. Her roast turkeys and chickens were reposing in spicy
readiness; her boiled meats and bakeries were all accomplished and in
waiting; and dismissing all but a little joyful background thought of
them, Faith gave her whole heart and mind to the full Sabbath rest, to
the full Sabbath rising; and looked, in her deep happiness, as if she
were--what she was--enjoying the one and striving after the other. But
the ways by which we are to find the good we must seek, are by no means
always those of our own choosing.
It was a clear, cold, still, winter's day. Cold enough by the
thermometer; but so still that the walking to church was pleasant. They
had come home from the afternoon service--Faith had not taken off her
things--when she was called into the kitchen to receive a message. The
next minute she was in the sitting-room and stood by the side of Mr.
Linden's chair.
"Mrs. Custers is dying--and has sent for me."
"For you, dear child?--Well--Are you able to go?"
"Oh yes."
He looked at her in silence, as if he were making up his own mind on
the subject, then rose up and gently seating her on the sofa, told her
to rest there till he was ready; but before he came back again Mrs.
Derrick came to Faith's side with a smoking cup of chicken broth and a
biscuit.
"You've got to eat it, pretty child," she said fondly,--"we're both
agreed upon that point."
Which point mandate Faith did not try to dispute.
The town clock had struck four, all counted, when Jerry dashed off from
the door with the little sleigh behind him. No other sleigh-bells were
abroad, and his rang out noisily and alone over the great waste of
stillness as soon as they were quit of the village. The air happily was
very still and the cold had not increased; but low, low the sun was,
and sent his slant beams coolly over the snow-white fields, glinting
from fences and rocks and bare thickets with a gleam that threatened he
would not look at them long. The hour was one of extreme beauty,--fair
and still, with a steady strength in its stillness that made the beauty
somewhat imposing. There was none of the yielding character of summer
there; but a power that was doing its work and would do it straight
through. "He giveth forth his ice like morsels; who can stand before
his cold?"--thought Faith.
The sleighing was excellent; the roads in perfect condition.
"How long is it since you were here?" Mr. Linden said as the house came
in sight, shewn only by its twinkling panes of glass.
"Not since before I went to Pequot--not since a day or two after that
ride we took with Dr. Harrison, when you rode 'Stranger' the first
time."
"How was she then?"
"Not much different from what she had been before--she didn't say
much--she seemed to like to listen to me, or to see me, or both. That
was all I could be sure of."
"Try not to let her spend her strength in examining the past state of
her mind. Bid her lay hold of the promise now. A present hold will
answer all her questions--and is all the oldest Christian can rest in."
"I wish you could speak to her instead of me," said Faith. "Perhaps she
will let you."
"It is not you nor I, my child.--Fix your heart upon Christ, and let
him speak,--fix your eyes upon him, and let his light shine."
"I know it. O I do!--" she said, looking up at him with an humble,
moved face.
He lifted her out of the sleigh and led her up to the house, where they
were presently admitted; into an outer room first, where Faith could
lay off her furs.
"She's some brighter to-night," the woman in attendance said, in answer
to Mr. Linden's questions. "I guess she'll be real glad to see
you"--this was addressed to Faith.
Faith left Mr. Linden there, and went into the sick chamber alone;
where she was always received as if she had brought an olive branch, or
a palm branch, or both of them, in her hand. The spirit of both, no
doubt, was in her; the gentle face looked the promise of both peace and
victory, as only humility can look it.
Mrs. Custers on her part looked--as the other had said--glad; if so
bright a word could be applied to a face that had lost all its own
light, and where no reflected light as yet shone. Yet she was quieter
than when Faith had first seen her, whether from mental relief or
physical prostration, and was most eager for all Faith's
words,--listening for the most part in silence, but with eyes that
never said "enough." As some poor exhausted traveller takes the water
which he has at last reached in the desert, nor knows yet whether its
bright drops can avail to save his life, but lays him down by the
fountain--there to live or die. And Faith, feeling that her hand was
ministering those drops of life, lost every other thought,--except to
wish for a hand that could do it better. Once she ventured a
proposition.
"I have a friend here, Mrs. Custers, who can tell you about all these
things much better than I can. Will you let him? May I ask him to come
in and see you?"
"Better?" she said slowly--"I don't believe it. Who is he? your
brother?"
"No--I haven't any brother. But that don't matter. He's somebody that
is a great deal better than I am. May I let him come in? He's here,"
said Faith very quietly, along with her flushing cheek.
There was a poor little faint smile for a moment upon the sick woman's
lips while Faith spoke, but it passed and she answered in the same
tone--"I'll see him--to please you--before you go. I just want the
words now--and I like you best."
Faith troubled her no more with unnecessary suggestions, and gave her
"the words." Gave them with the fragrance of her own love about them,
which certainly is the surest human vehicle for the love above human
that is in them. As on that first occasion, Faith placed herself on the
side of the bed; and holding one of Mrs. Custers' hands in her own,
bending her soft quiet face towards the listening eyes and ears, she
gave her one by one, like crumbs of life-giving food, the words of
promise, of encouragement, of invitation, of example. No answer cheered
or helped her; no token of pleasure or even of assent met her; only
those fixed listening eyes bade her go on, and told that whether for
life and refreshment or no, the words were eagerly taken in, each after
the other, as she said them. There was something in the strong sympathy
of the speaker--in her own feeling and joy of the truths she told--that
might give them double power and life to the ears of another. Faith
reported the words of her Master with such triumphant prizing of them
and such leaning on their strength; she gave his invitations in such
tones of affection; she told over the instances of others' prevailing
faith with such an evident, clear, satisfying share in the same;--the
living words this time lost nothing of their power by a dead utterance.
Of her own words Faith ventured few; now and then the simplest addition
to some thing she had repeated, to make it more plain, or to carry it
further home; such words as she could not keep back; such words, very
much, as she would have spoken to Johnny Fax; not very unlike what
Johnny Fax might have spoken to her. But there was not a little
physical exhaustion about all this after a while, and Faith found she
must have some help to her memory. She went into the other room.
"I want a bible," she said looking round for it--"Is there one here?"
Yes there was one, but it was Mr. Linden's. That was quickly given her.
"I forgot it at the moment you went in," he said, "and then I did not
like to disturb you. My dear Faith!--" and he held her hand and looked
at her a little wistfully. She brought her other hand upon his, and
looked down and looked up wistfully too; like one with a heart full.
"Can I help you? can I take your place?"
"She won't let you," said Faith shaking her head. "She says she will
see you by and by--but she must take her own time for it."
And Faith went back to her ministrations. Of all bibles, she would have
had that one in her hand then! And yet its companionship bowed down her
heart with a sense of weakness;--but that was the very position for the
next move; a spring beyond weakness to the only real and sufficient
ground of strength.
The afternoon merged into the evening. A tallow candle had been brought
by the attendant into the room in which Mr. Linden was waiting; and its
dim smoky light would have made a dismal place of it if he had had no
other to go by. He could sometimes hear the low tones of a word or two
in the other room; more often the tones were so low that they failed to
reach him. When this state of things had lasted a long time--as it
seemed--there came an interruption in the form of quick steps on the
snow; then the door was pushed open, and Dr. Harrison appeared.
"You here!" was his astonished salutation. "What upon earth has brought
you?"
"I came to bring some one else."
"_She_ isn't here?" said the doctor. "You don't mean that?"
His emphatic pronouns were a little smile-provoking, in spite of the
grave thoughts upon which they intruded--or rather perhaps because of
them; but if Mr. Linden's face felt that temptation, it was only for a
moment,--he answered quietly,
"If you mean Miss Faith, she has been here a long time."
The doctor knew that! if she came when she was called. _He_ had stopped
to eat his dinner.
"I mean her, of course," he said with his tone a little subdued. "I
shouldn't think her mother would have let her come--such a night!--"
Which meant very plainly that Dr. Harrison would not have let her.--"Is
she in there with the woman now?"
"Yes."
The doctor went with grave aspect to the door of communication between
the two rooms and softly opened it and went in; so softly, that Faith,
engaged in her reading, did not hear anything; the sick woman's eyes
were the first that perceived him. Hers rested on him a moment--then
came back to Faith, and then again met the doctor's; but not just as
they had been wont. And her first words bore out his impression.
"You may come in," she said, slowly and distinctly,--"I'm not afraid of
you to-night."
He came forward, looked at her, touched her hand, kindly; and then
without a word turned to Faith.
Faith did not dare ask a question, but her eyes put it silently.
"She don't want anything," said he meaningly. "Not from me. She may
have anything she fancies to have."
Faith's eyes went back to the other face. That the doctor's words had
been understood there too, was evident from the little flitting colour,
and the sick woman lay still with closed eyes, clasping Faith's hand as
if she were holding herself back from drifting out on "that great and
unknown sea." But she roused herself and spoke hurriedly. "Won't
somebody pray for me?"
Faith bent over until her lips almost touched the sufferer's cheek and
her warm breath floated in the words, "I'll bring somebody--" then
loosing her hold, she sprang from the bed and out into the other room.
But when she had clasped Mr. Linden's hand, Faith bent down her head
upon it, unable to speak. The strength it could, his hand gave her--and
his voice.
"What, my dear child?"
Then Faith looked up. "She wants you to pray for her." And without
waiting for the unnecessary answer, she led Mr. Linden to the door of
the room, there dropped his hand and went in before him. Dr. Harrison
was standing by the bedpost, and looked wordlessly upon the two as they
entered.
Mrs. Custers scanned the stranger's face as he came to wards her, with
an anxious, eager look, as if she wanted to know whether he could do
anything for her; the look changing to one of satisfaction. But to his
low-spoken question as he took her hand, she gave an answer that was
almost startling in its slow earnestness.
"Pray that I may believe--and that _he_ may--and that God would bless
her forever!"
How was such a request to be met! then and there!--for a moment Mr.
Linden's eyes fell. But then he knelt by her side, and met it most
literally,--in tones very low and clear and distinct, in words that
might have been angels' plumage for their soft bearing upward of the
sufferer's thoughts. Faith could feel a slight trembling once or twice
of the hand that held hers, but the bitterness of its grasp had
relaxed. Dr. Harrison was behind her; whether he stood or knelt she did
not know; but _he_ knew that when the other two rose to their feet, one
of them was exceedingly pale; and his move, made on the instant, was to
get her a glass of water. Faith only tasted it and gave it him back,
and mounted to her former place on the bed. And for a little all was
still, until Mr. Linden spoke again in the same clear, guiding tones.
"'My God, within thy hand
My helpless soul I trust!
Thy love shall ever stand--
Thy promise must!--'"
Then Mrs. Custers opened her eyes; and her first look was at Dr.
Harrison. But whether the relaxed mental tension let the bodily
weakness appear, or whether the tide was at that point where it ebbs
most rapidly, her words were spoken with some trouble--yet spoken as if
both to make amends and give information.
"You meant to be very kind--" she said--"and you have--But _now_ I want
to believe--even if it isn't any use."
Her eyes passed from him--rested for a minute on Mr. Linden--then came
to Faith, and never wavered again. "Read"--was all she said.
With unnerved lip and quivering breath Faith began again her sweet
utterance of some of those sweetest things. For a moment she longed to
ask the other two listeners to go away and leave her alone; but
reasons, different and strong, kept her mouth from speaking the wish;
and then, once dismissed, it was forgotten. Her voice steadied and grew
clear presently; its low, distinct words were not interrupted by so
much as a breath in any part of the room. They steadied her; Faith
rested on them and clung to them as she went along, with a sense of
failing energy which needed a stay somewhere. But her words did not
shew it, except perhaps that they came more slowly and deliberately.
Mr. Linden had drawn back a little out of sight. Dr. Harrison kept his
stand by the bedpost, leaning against it; and whatever that reading was
to him, he was as motionless as that whereon he leaned.
Till some little length of time had passed in this way, and then he
came to Faith's side and laid his hand on her open book.
"She does not hear you," he said softly.
Faith looked at him startled, and then bent forward over the woman
whose face was turned a little from her.
"She is sleeping"--she said looking up again.
"She will not hear you any more," said the doctor.
"She breathes, regularly,--"
"Yes--so she will for perhaps some hours. But she will not waken
again,--probably."
"Are you sure?" Faith said with another look at the calm face before
her.
"Very sure!"--
Was it true? Faith looked still at the unconscious form,--then her
bible fell from her hands and her head wearily sunk into them. The
strain was over--broken short. She had done all she could,--and the
everlasting answer was sealed up from her. Those heavy eyelids would
not unclose again to give it; those parted lips through which the slow
breath went and came, would never tell her. It seemed to Faith that her
heart lay on the very ground with the burden of all that weight resting
upon it.
She was not suffered to sit so long.
"May I take you away?"--Mr. Linden said,--"you must not stay any
longer."
"Do you think it is no use?" said Faith looking up at him wearily.
"It is of no use," said Dr. Harrison. He had come near, and took her
hand, looking at her with a moved face in which there was something
very like tender reproach. But he only brought her hand gravely to his
lips again and turned away. Mr. Linden's words were very low-spoken. "I
think the doctor is right.--But let me take you home, and then I will
come back and stay till morning if you like--or till there comes a
change. _You_ must not stay."
"I don't like to go,"--said Faith without moving. "She may want me
again."
"There may be no change all night," said the doctor;--"and when it
comes it will not probably be a conscious change. If she awakes at all,
it will be to die. You could do nothing more."
Faith saw that Mr. Linden thought so, and she gave it up; with a
lingering unwillingness got off the bed and wrapped her furs round her.
Mr. Linden put her into the sleigh, keeping Jerry back to let the
doctor precede them; and when he was fairly in front, Faith was doubly
wrapped up--as she had been the night of the fire, and could take the
refreshment of the cool air, and rest. Very wearily, for a while, mind
and body both dropped. Faith was as still as if she had been asleep;
but her eyes were gazing out upon the snow, following the distant speck
of the doctor's sleigh, or looking up to the eternal changeless lights
that keep watch over this little world and mock its changes. Yet not
so! but that bear their quiet witness that there is something which is
not "passing away;"--yea, that there is something which "endureth
forever."
"He calleth them all by their names; for that he is strong in power,
not one faileth." That was in Faith's mind along with other words--"The
Lord knoweth them that are his." Her mind was in a passive state;
things floated in and floated out. It was some time before Mr. Linden
said anything--he let her be as silent and still as she would; but at
last he bent over her and spoke.
"My Mignonette"--and the thought was not sweeter than the words--"are
you asleep?"
"No--" she said in one of those etherial answering tones which
curiously say a great many things.
"Are you resting?"
"Yes. I am rested."
"You must try not to bear the burden of your work after it is done. Now
lay it off--and leave your poor friend in the hands where I trust she
has left herself. Her senses are not closed to his voice."
"I do"--she said with a grateful look. "I know it is not my work--nor
anybody's."
He drew the furs up about her silently, arranging and adjusting them so
as to keep off the wind which had risen a little.
"We are not very far from home now,--we have come fast."
And as Jerry did not relax his pace, the little distance was soon
travelled over. How fair the lights in their own windows looked
then!--with their speech of blessing and comfort.
They all came together round the fire first, and then round the
tea-table; Faith being specially watched over and waited on by both the
others. Mrs. Derrick's half developed fear at their long stay, had
given place to a sort of moved, untalkative mood when she heard the
explanation, but a mood which relieved itself by trying every possible
and impossible thing for Faith's refreshment. Every possible thing
except refreshing talk--and that Mr. Linden gave her. Talk which
without jarring in the least upon the evening's work, yet led her
thoughts a little off from the painful part of it. Talk of the
Christian's work--of the Christian's privilege,--of "Heaven and the way
thither,"--of the gilding of the cross, of the glory of the crown.
Faith heard and joined in it, but there was a point of pressure yet at
her heart; and when they left the table and went into the other room, a
slight thing gave indication where it lay. Faith took a little bench by
Mrs. Derrick's side, drew her mother's arms round her close, and laid
her head down on her lap.
How softly, how tenderly, did Mrs. Derrick answer the caress, as if she
read it perfectly!--touching Faith's hands and brow and cheeks with
fingers that were even trembling. And at last--whether her child's mute
pleading was too much for her,--whether the pain which had never left
her heart since the day of Faith's overturn had by degrees done its
work,--she bent down her lips to Faith's cheek and whispered--"Yes,
pretty child--I mean to try."
And so the door opened, and Cindy and Mr. Skip came in for prayers.
Faith hid her face, but otherwise did not stir.
How sweet the service was to them all that night!--yes, to them all;
there was not one who could help feeling its influence. And yet it was
very simple, and not very long,--Mr. Linden read first a few Bible
passages, and then Wesley's hymn of the New Year,--with its bugle note
of action,--and then to prayer, for which, by that time, every heart
was ready.
"Come let us anew our journey pursue,
Roll round with the year,
And never stand still till the Master appear.
His adorable will let us gladly fulfil,
And our talents improve,
By the patience of hope and the labours of love.
"Our life is a dream; our time, as a stream,
Glides swiftly away,
And the fugitive moment refuses to stay.
The arrow is flown--the moment is gone;
The millennial year
Rushes on to our view, and eternity's here.
"O that each, in the day of his coming, may say,
I have fought my way through;
I have finished the work thou didst give me to do.
O that each from his Lord may receive the glad word,
Well and faithfully done!
Enter into my joy, and sit down on my throne."