The spring opened from day to day, and the apple blossoms were
bursting. Mr. Linden might soon be looked for, and one warm May
afternoon Faith went in to make his room ready. It was the first day
she had been fit for it, and she was yet so little strong that she must
take care of her movements. With slow and unable fingers she did her
pleasant work, and then very tired, sat down in her old reading
window-seat and went into a long dream-meditation. It was pleasant for
a while, in harmony with the summer air and the robins in the maple; it
got round at last into the train of the last weeks. A fruitless reverie
ended in Faith's getting very weary; and she went back to her own room
to put herself on the couch cushions and go to sleep.
Sleep held on its way after a peaceful fashion, yet not so but that
Faith's face shewed traces of her thoughts. Mrs. Derrick came softly
and watched her, and the spring air blew back the curtains and fanned
her, and brushed her hair with its perfumed wings; and one or two honey
bees buzzed in and sought honey from the doctor's flowers, and forsook
them again for the fields.
Up there at last, following Mrs. Derrick, came Mr. Linden. With few
reasons asked or told of his sudden appearance; with little said even
of Faith's illness but the mere fact, he went up to the sunlit room and
there staid. Not restingly in Faith's easy-chair, but standing by the
low fire-place, just where he could have the fullest view of her. Mrs.
Derrick came and went,--he never stirred. The sunbeams came and
went--wrapped Faith in their bright folds and lay at his feet, then
began to withdraw altogether. They had shewed him the unwontedly pale
and worn face, and lit up the weary lines in which the lips lay asleep;
and just when the sunbeams had left it all, Mr. Linden became aware
that two dark eyes had softly opened and were gazing at him as if he
were a figure in a dream. So perhaps for a minute he seemed, touched
with the light as he was, which made a glorification in the brown locks
of his hair and gleamed about "pleasant outlines" standing as fixed and
still as a statue. But they were not statue eyes which looked into
hers, and Faith's dreamlike gaze was only for a moment. Then every line
of her face changed with joy--and she sprang up to hide it in Mr.
Linden's arms. He stood still, holding her as one holds some rescued
thing. For Faith was too weak to be just herself, and weariness and
gladness had found their own very unusual expression in an outflow of
nervous tears.
Something seemed to have taken away Mr. Linden's power of words. He did
place her among the cushions again, but if every one of her tears had
been balm to him he could not have let them flow more unchecked.
Perhaps the recollection that they _were_ tears came suddenly; for with
very sudden sweet peremptoriness he said,
"Faith, hush!--Are you so glad to see me?"
She was instantly still. No answer.
"What then?" The intonation was most tender,--so, rather than by any
playfulness, cancelling his own question. She raised her head, she had
dismissed her tears, yet the smile with which her glance favoured him
was a sort of rainbow smile, born of clouds.
"That is a very struggling and misty sunbeam!" said Mr. Linden. "Is
that why I was kept out of its range so long?"
Faith's head drooped. Her forehead lay lightly against him; he could
not see what sort of a smile she wore.
"Whereupon it goes into seclusion altogether. Mignonette, look up and
kiss me--how much longer do you suppose I can wait for that?"
He had no longer to wait at that time, and the touch of her lips was
with a tremulous gladness which was tale-telling. And then the position
of the lowered head and the hand which kept its place on his shoulder
shewed him that she was clinging, though with shy eagerness, like a
bird that with tired wing has found her nest. With one of those quick
impulses which to-day seemed to have taken the place of his usual
steadiness, Mr. Linden bent down and blessed her; in words such as she
never remembered from other lips. Not many indeed, but deep and
strong,--as the very depth and strength of his own human and religious
nature; words that stilled Faith's heart as with the shadowing of
peace; so that for the time she could not wonder, but only rest. They
made her tremble a moment; then she rested as if the words had been a
spell. But the rest wrought action. Faith drew back presently and
looked up at Mr. Linden to see how he looked. And then she could not
tell. Her puzzled eyes found nothing to remark upon.
"Endy--I thought you would not be here for two or three days yet."
"It was nearly impossible. My child, when did you get sick?"
"O--a good while ago."
"'A good while,'"--Mr. Linden repeated with grave emphasis. "Well do
you think it would have lengthened the time to have me come and see
you?"
Faith's heart was too full, and her answer, looking down, was a
tremulous, quiet and tender,
"I don't think it would."
"Then wherefore was I not permitted?"
"I didn't want you to come then."
"And again, wherefore?"
"Why you know, Endy. I couldn't want you till you were ready to come."
"I should have been most emphatically ready! What sort of medical
attendance have you had?"
"Good, you know. I had Dr. Harrison."
"And he did his duty faithfully?"
"I guess he always does--his medical duty," said Faith somewhat quietly.
"Duty is a sort of whole-souled thing, to my mind," said Mr. Linden.
"Do you think all his ministrations did you good?"
There was pain and wonder, and even some fear in Faith's eyes as she
looked at Mr. Linden.
"They ought not to have done me any harm"--she said meekly.
"_Did_ they, Faith? I thought--" Very softly and thoughtfully his
fingers came about her hair, his eyes looking at her, Faith could
hardly tell how. The pain of those weeks stung her again--the sorrow
and the shame and the needlessness. Faith's head sunk again upon Mr.
Linden's breast, for the tears came bitterly; though he could not know
that. He only knew that they came. Holding her with a strong arm--as if
against some one else; soothing her with grave kisses, not with words,
Mr. Linden waited for her to speak.
"Child," he said at last, "you will do yourself harm. Has _he_ brought
on this state of the nerves that he talks about? And in what possible
way?"
"Don't talk about it, Endy!--" said Faith struggling for
self-command--"I am foolish--and wrong--and weak. I'll tell you another
time."--But Faith's head kept its position.
"Do you think I can wait, to know what has made my coming home such a
tearful affair?"
"Yes. Because it's all over now."
"What is over?"
"All--that you wouldn't like."
"Faith, you talk in perfect riddles!--It is well that what I can see of
this very pale little face is less puzzling. Did you tell Dr. Harrison
of your claim upon me?"
"What?--" she said looking up.
"Well.--You know what that claim is. Did you tell him, Faith?"
Her eyes fell again. "Yes--at least--I shewed him my ring."
"In answer to his suit, Faith?"
"No.--He was talking as I did not like, one day."--Faith's cheeks were
growing beautifully rosy.
"Was it to protect yourself, or me?" said Mr. Linden watching her.
Faith's glance up and down, was inexpressibly pretty.
"Myself, I think."
"You have a strange power of exciting and keeping down my temper, at
one and the same time!" said Mr. Linden. "What did he dare say to you?"
"Nothing about me. It was something--about you--which I did not choose
to have him say."
Mr. Linden smiled, and called her a little crusader, but the grave look
came back. Dr. Harrison had known, then, just what ties he was trying
to break,--had felt sure--_must_ have felt sure--that they were bonds
of very deep love and confidence; and thereupon, had coolly set himself
to sow mistrust! Mr. Linden was very silent,--the keen words of
indignation that rose to his lips ever driven back and turned aside by
Faith's face, which told so plainly that she could bear no excitement.
He spoke at last with great deliberation.
"You may as well shew it to all Pattaquasset, Mignonette!--for all
Pattaquasset shall know before I have been here much longer."
"What?--why?" she said startling.
"For what you will, love. I think you need the protection of my name."
Faith could not deny it; howsoever she looked quaintly grave upon the
proposition.
"Do you know how you will have to scour the country now, and make
yourself as much as possible like cowslips and buttercups and primroses
and mouse-ear?" said Mr. Linden smiling. "One day you may be a Spring
beauty, and the next Meadow-sweet, and when I see you a wild pink I
shall feel comparatively happy."
Faith with a very little laugh remarked that she did not feel as if she
ever should be anything _wild_.
"What is your definition of wild?"
"Not tame."
"Does that meek adjective express the kind of pink you intend to be?"
"I didn't say what I should be--I only spoke of what I am."
"Shall I tell you the future tense of this very indicative mood?" he
said touching her cheeks.
"If you know it!"
"If I know it!--You will be (some months later) a Linden
flower!--whether wild or tame remains to be been."
Unless Linden flowers can be sometimes found a good deal
deeper-coloured than pinks, there was at least very little present
resemblance. The only notice Faith took of this prophecy was an
involuntary one. The door softly opened at this point, and Mrs. Derrick
came in to announce tea. She stood still a moment surveying them both.
"How do you think she looks, Mr. Linden?"
His eyes went back to Faith, giving a quick reply which he did not mean
they should. "She looks like a dear child--as she is, Mrs. Derrick. I
cannot say much more for her. But I shall take her down to tea."
Mrs. Derrick went joyfully off for shawls and wrappers. Mr. Linden was
silent; his eyes had not stirred. But he amused himself with taking
some of the violets from the table near by and fastening them in her
belt and hair; the very touch of his fingers telling some things he did
not.
"Sunbeam, do you feel as if you could bear transportation?"
"Not as a sunbeam. I could walk down, I think," said Faith. Mr. Linden
remarked that the truth of that proposition would never be known; and
then she was muffled in a large soft shawl, and carried down stairs and
laid on the sofa in the sitting-room. The windows were open for the May
wind, but there was a dainty little fire still--everything looked
strangely familiar; even Mr. Linden; though his face wore not just its
most wonted expression. He had laid her down among the cushions and
loosened her wrapping shawl, and paid a little attention to the fire;
and now stood in Dr. Harrison's favourite place, looking at
her,--perhaps trying to see whether she looked more like herself down
stairs than she had done above. He could not find that she did. Faith
felt as if a great cloud had rolled over and rolled off from her; yet
in her very happiness she had a great desire to cry; her weakness of
body helped that. Her head lay still upon the cushions with fingers
pressed upon her brow. She hardly dared look at Mr. Linden; her eye
wandered over less dangerous things; yet it saw him not the less. How
sweetly the wind blew.
Mr. Linden went off to the window and picked three or four of the May
roses that grew there, and then coming to sit down by Faith's sofa
softly pushed one of the buds in between her fingers, and made the rest
into a breast knot which he laid on the white folds of her dress. He
put other roses in her cheeks then, but it was all done with a curious
quietness that covered less quiet things. Faith took the flowers and
played with them, venturing scarce a look of answer. With the wasted
cheek, the delicate flush on it, and all the stirred fountain of
feeling which she was not so able as usual to control, Faith was very
lovely; to which effect the roses and violets scattered over her lent a
help of their own. Mr. Linden looked at her,--giving now and then a
little arranging touch to flowers or hair--with an unbending face,
which ended at last in a very full bright smile; though just why it
rouged her cheeks so instantly Faith did not feel quite sure. She felt
the rouge.
"I am glad you feel like yourself again," she remarked.
"How do you know that I do?"
"I think you look so."
"Quite a mistake. I am only bewitched. That is somewhat like myself, I
must own."
Faith's face made a remonstrance, not at all calculated to be
successful.
"Please don't bewitch me then!" said Mr. Linden answering the look.
"You know I cannot help it--and on the whole you don't wish I could.
What do you think of her now, Mrs. Derrick?" he added, getting up to
roll the tea-table close to the sofa. The folding of Mrs. Derrick's
hands was significant.
"Yes, but you must not look at her _so_," said Mr. Linden demurely
arranging the table and sofa angles in harmonious relation. "You should
look with cool unconcern--as I do."
"_You!_" said Mrs. Derrick. "Well I should like to see that for once."
Faith laughed again, and was ready for her supper after a new fashion
from what she had known for many a day past. There is no doubt but
cresses and broiled pigeon were good that night!