When Mr. Linden was out of sight from the porch, Faith went to the
deserted room.
It was in the latter end of summer. The windows were open, and the
summer wind blowing the muslin curtains flutteringly in. The maple
shaded Faith's old reading window, the leaves not changing yet; one
cupboard door a little open, shewed the treasures of books within. The
chintz couch stood empty, so it always stood when Faith saw it, except
only in those days of Mr. Linden's confinement with his wound. But now
her mind leaped back to that time; and the couch and the table and the
books, the very windows and fireplace, looked deserted. The red maple
leaves floating in--the dancing flames in the chimney--her lessons by
the side of that couch--her first exercise, which she had been sent to
do at that table;--all that and everything beside seemed to make its
passage through Faith's mind in tumultuous procession. She sat down on
the couch and leaned her head on the back of it; but only a few nervous
tears came, and oppressed sobbing breaths took the place of them. For a
little while then Faith fell on her knees, and if she could not speak
connectedly, nor think connectedly, she yet poured out her heart in the
only safe channel; and grew quiet and self-possessed. After an hour she
left the couch and turned to go down and join her mother.
Passing the table on her way out, with a glance which had been called
off by other things as she came in, Faith's eye was caught and stayed.
There was no exercise left there for her, but the very gold pen with
which she had written that first one--and which she had used so many
times since, lay there; and by the pen a letter. The blood rushed to
Faith's heart as if Mr. Linden had come back again, or rather as if he
had not taken quite all of himself away. In a flood of gladness and
thankfulness and sorrow, Faith took up the letter and standing there by
the table read it.
MY OWN LITTLE PRECIOUS MIGNONETTE,
I have a love for this sheet of paper, because it will be in your hands
when I cannot touch them nor see them,--how often they have ministered
to me just where I am writing this! just where you will find it. I know
_you_ will find it, Faith--I know where you will go as soon as I am out
of sight,--but dear child, do not let any sight or association in this
room make you anything but glad: they are all very dear to me. That
first day when you came in here to see me--and all the days that
followed,--and all the sweet knowledge I gained of my little
Mignonette, while she was learning other things. Faith, I can even
forgive Dr. Harrison his questions that day, for the delight it was to
me to shield you. Dear child, you must let me do that now whenever I
can,--it is one of the griefs of this separation that I cannot do it
all the time.
I must go back to our Bible verses!--Do you remember that first
'ladder' we went up together? 'The Lord God is a sun and a shield; the
Lord will give grace and glory.'--In that sunlight I shall think of you
as abiding,--I will remember that you are covered by that shield. I
know that the Lord will keep all that I have committed to him!
Now darling, if I could leave you 'messages,' I would; but they must
wait till I come and deliver them myself. Take, in the mean while, all
possible love and trust; and all comfort from the cause of my absence,
from our mutual work, from my expected coming home now and then--from
the diamonds on your finger and what they betoken! The diamonds stay
with you, Faith, but their light goes with me.
My child, I have too much to say to write any longer!--I shall be drawn
on too far and too long,--it is not far from daybreak now. Take the
best possible care of your self, and 'be strong and of a good courage,'
and 'the Lord that made heaven and earth, bless thee out of Zion'!
Precious child, you do not know how deeply I am
Always your own--
ENDECOTT."
The first lines of the letter wrung some tears from Faith's eyes, but
afterwards the effect of the whole was to shake her. She sat down on
the couch with the letter fast in her hand, and hid her head; yet no
weeping, only convulsive breaths and a straitened breast. Faith was
wonderful glad of that letter! but the meeting of two tides is just
hard to bear; and it wakened everything as well as gladness. However,
in its time, that struggle was over too; and she went down to Mrs.
Derrick looking much like her wonted self.
She went about so, all the day; nervously busy, though never more
orderly about her business. In the kitchen and dairy and storeroom, and
with her mother, Faith seemed as usual, with a very little of grave
thoughtfulness or remembrance thrown over her natural pleasantness;
only she gave books a wide berth, and took care to see no face that
came to the house. One would have thought her--perhaps Mrs. Derrick
even did--quietly composed and patiently submitting to trial, as if Mr.
Linden had been already weeks away. Perhaps Faith herself thought so. A
little thing shewed how much this quiet was worth.
The day had been gone through; the tea was over, as it might, with the
two alone; and mother and daughter had gone into the other room. Faith
lit the lamp, and then began a sentence to her mother about laying the
Bible in its place for prayer--when she stopped short. For a moment she
stood still with the revulsion; then she fell on her knees and hid her
face in Mrs. Derrick's lap, and the tears that had kept back so long
came in a stormy flood; clearing the sky which had not been clear
before. She was quiet really after that; she had no more fear of her
books; and the first thing Faith did was to take pen and paper and pour
out an answer to her morning's letter; an answer in which she gave Mr.
Linden the history of her whole day, with very little reservation.
Her mother watched her,--sat and looked at her as she wrote, with eyes
very glistening and tremulous in their fond admiration. Indeed that had
been their character all day, though Mrs. Derrick had followed Faith in
her busy work, with no attempt to check her, with no allusion to what
they both thought of uninterruptedly. Now, however, that Faith's tears
had made their own way, her mother's heart was easier; and she watched
the pretty writer by the lamp with all sorts of sweet and tender
thoughts.
A day or two passed, in great quiet and tender ministering to each
other of the mother and daughter. Faith had taken deep hold of her
studies again and every minute of the day was filled up as busily as
ever. So the sitting-room wore in all things minus one its wonted
aspect, when, the third evening, it received Dr. Harrison.
He came in looking remarkably well, in his light dainty summer dress,
and with that gentle carelessness of movement and manner that suited
the relaxing persuasions of a hot summer day. He came in, too, a little
like a person who through long absences has forgotten how wonted he
used to be in a certain place or how fond he was of what he found
there. Nothing further from the truth!
He accosted both ladies after his usual gay fashion, and talked for a
while about nothings and as if he cared about nothing. He could make
nothing of Faith, except perhaps that she was a trifle shy of him. That
did not mean evil necessarily; it was natural enough. He wouldn't
disturb her shyness!
"I have a sympathetic feeling for you, Mrs. Derrick," he remarked. "I
miss Mr. Linden so much in Pattaquasset, I can't think how you must do
in the house."
"No, doctor, you can't," was Mrs. Derrick's quiet rejoinder.
"How do you?"
"Why I can't tell you, either," said Mrs. Derrick.
"Mrs. Derrick," said the doctor, "I shouldn't like to be a lawyer and
have to examine you as a witness. Unless it wasn't August!"
"Well I suppose we should agree upon that, doctor," said Mrs. Derrick.
"I don't know what August has to do with it."
"My dear madam, it would be too much trouble!--Apparently it isn't
August everywhere!"--A very peremptory rap at the front door came in
the train of footsteps that were loud and brisk as by authority, and
that had quite survived the enervating effects referred to by the
doctor.
"Miss Faith," said Cindy appearing at the parlour door, "here's a man's
got something--and he won't give it to me without I'll take oath I'm
you--which of course I dursn't. I'm free to confess, I can't even get
sight of it. Shall I fetch him in--thing and all?"
Faith went to the door. It was nobody more terrific than an
express-man, who seemed to recognize "Miss Faith Derrick" by instinct,
for he asked no questions--only put a package into her hands, and then
gave her his book to sign. Faith signed her name, eagerly, and then ran
up stairs with her treasure and a beating heart, and struck a light.
There was no need to ask where it came from--the address was plain
enough; nor much need to ask what it was--she knew that it must be her
Bible. Yet that only heightened the pleasure and interest, as she took
off one wrapping paper after another, till its own beautiful morocco
covers appeared. Within was the perfection of type and paper, with here
and there a fine coloured map; in size and shape just that medium which
seems to combine the excellencies of all the rest. There was no letter
in the package, but a slip of paper with a new "ladder of verses"
marked the place where they began; and on the fly leaf, below the
inscription, was written the first verse of the ninety-first psalm.
This was the leading reference on the slip of paper.
Has any one--with any heart--ever received such a package? To such a
one there is no need to tell the glow of pleasure, the rush of
affection and joy, which filled Faith's heart and her face; to anybody
else it's no use. She had to exercise some care to prevent certain
witnesses of the eyes from staining the morocco or spotting the leaves.
The paper of references she left, to be enjoyed more leisurely another
time; and went on turning over the pages, catching glimpses of the
loved words that she had never seen so fairly presented to the eye
before; when after a good deal of this sort of delectation, through
half of which she was writing a letter to Mr. Linden, Faith suddenly
recollected Dr. Harrison! Softly the paper wrappers enfolded her
treasure, and then Faith went down stairs with the high colour of
pleasure in her cheeks. The doctor took several observations.
He had not been profiting by any opportunity to "examine" Mrs. Derrick.
On the contrary, he had talked about everything else, somewhat August
fashion, in manner, but yet so cleverly that even Mrs. Derrick
confessed afterwards she had been entertained. Now, on Faith's
reappearance, he went on with his subject until he came to a natural
pause in the conversation; which he changed by remarking, in a simple
tone of interest,
"I haven't learned yet satisfactorily what took Mr. Linden away?"
"His own business," said Mrs. Derrick. "You must have heard what he is
about now, doctor?"
"I have heard--but one hears everything. It is true then?"
"O yes, it's true," said Mrs. Derrick with an even play of her
knitting-needles.
"But then follows another very natural question," said the
doctor.--"Why did he come here at all?"
"I dare say he'd tell you if he was here--as I wish he was," said Mrs.
Derrick,--"Mr. Linden always seemed to have good reasons for what he
did."
"I think that too," said the doctor. "I am not quite so sure of his
telling them to me. But Pattaquasset has reason to be very sorry he is
gone away! What sort of a preacher will he make, Mrs. Derrick?"
"He's a good one now--" said Mrs. Derrick with a smile that was even a
little moved. "Don't you think so, doctor?"
"How dare you ask me that, Mrs. Derrick?" said the doctor with slow
funny utterance. "But I will confess this,--I would rather have _him_
preach to me than you."
"What sort of a bad reason have you got for that?" she said, looking at
him.
"Miss Faith," said the doctor with the mock air of being in a
dilemma,--"you are good at definitions, if I remember--what is the
proper character of a _bad reason!_"
Faith looked up--he had never seen her look prettier, with a little
hidden laughter both on and under her face and that colour she had
brought down stairs with her. But her answer was demure enough.
"I suppose, sir, one that ought not to be a reason at all,--or one that
is not reason enough."
"Do you consider it a bad reason for my not liking Mrs. Derrick's
preaching, that I am afraid of her?"
"I shouldn't think it was reason enough," said Faith.
"Do you like preaching from people that you are afraid of?"
"Yes. At least I think I should. I don't know that I ever really was
afraid of anybody."
These words, or the manner which went with them, quite obliterated the
idea of Mrs. Derrick from the doctor's head. But his manner did not
change. He only addressed his talk to Faith and altered the character
of it. Nothing could be more cool and disembarrassed. He had chosen his
tactics.
They were made to regulate likewise the length of his visit, though the
short summer evening had near run its course before he (in
parliamentary phrase) "was on his legs" not to speak but to go. Then
strolling on to the front door, he there met Reuben Taylor; flush in
the doorway. The boy stept back into the hall to let him cone out;
whence, as the doctor saw through the open window,--he went at once to
Faith's side. But either accidentally or of design, Reuben stood so
directly before her, that Dr. Harrison could see neither face--indeed
could scarce see her at all. The little business transaction that went
on then--the letter which Reuben took from his pocket and then again
from its outer enveloppe,--the simple respect and pleasure with which
he gave it to Faith--though colouring a little too,--all this was
invisible, except to Mrs. Derrick. Faith's face would have told the
doctor the whole. The pretty colour--the dropped eyes--and the
undertone of her grateful, "I am very much obliged to you, Reuben!"
Reuben made no verbal answer, and staid not a minute longer, but the
pleasure of his new trust was wonderful!