Dinner was ready when they reached home, so that Faith was taken at
once to the table; and when dinner was over, up stairs to go to sleep.
And sleep held her well nigh all the afternoon. The sunbeams were long,
the light of day was growing gentle, when Faith at last awoke and
arose, with a tinge in her cheeks and a face getting to be itself
again. She put her hair and her dress in fresh order, and went softly
about doing the same office for several things in the room; thinking
all the while what Mr. Linden had been working for, and how shut her
mouth was from saying anything about it.
"Where is Mr. Linden, mother?"
"Down stairs."
"I am going down too. I am quite well enough without being carried.
Come, mother."
"He won't like it, child,--you'd better let me call him."
"No indeed," said Faith. "I'll just take your arm, mother. It will do
me good."
So softly and with a little wilful pleasure on Faith's part, the stairs
were descended; and not content with that, Faith went into the tea-room
and began as of old to give a delicate hand to the tea-table
arrangements. Then when all was done, slowly made her entrance into the
other room. But there, to Faith's dismay, were two gentlemen instead of
one, standing in the middle of the floor in earnest conversation. Both
turned the minute she opened the door, and Squire Stoutenburgh came
towards her, exclaiming, "Why Miss Faith!--nobody gave me any hope of
seeing you. My dear, are you as well as you look?"
Faith's instant extreme desire was to quit the field she had so rashly
ventured upon. Her answer to Mr. Stoutenburgh, if made, was too
unintelligible to be understood or remembered; and meanwhile she was as
the Squire had hinted, looking very well, and a picture of dainty
confusion. It might not help the confusion, though it did put her face
more out of sight, to be rescued from the Squire's hands and placed in
the easy-chair.
"No, she is not as well as she looks, Mr. Stoutenburgh, and therefore
you must not keep her standing."
"I won't keep her--nor you neither--long," said the Squire. "Miss
Faith, I hope you'll keep _him_--standing or kneeling or something--all
summer. How long are you going to stay, sure enough?"
"Till I must go." Faith heard the smile with which it was spoken.
"Then I shall go home a happy man!" said Mr. Stoutenburgh, with a sort
of earnest heartiness which became him very well. "My dear, I'm as glad
as if you were my own daughter--and you'll let me say that, because
your father and I were such friends." With which original and sincere
expression of feeling the Squire went off.
"You naughty child," Mr. Linden said, coming back to Faith's chair,
"who gave you leave to come down stairs? I shouldn't be at all
surprised if you had been after cream."
"No I haven't, Endy,"--said Faith lifting up her face which was in a
sort of overwhelmed state.
"What is the matter?" he said smiling.
"Don't mind me," said Faith passing her hands over her face. "I am half
ashamed of myself--I shall be better in a day or two."
"How do you feel, after your ride and your sleep?"
"O well!--nicely,"--she said in happy accents.
"What made you try to walk down stairs?"
"I thought I could do it."
"And knew I would not let you. Will you be in a talking mood after tea?"
"I am now. I have been wanting to talk to you, Endecott, ever since you
got home."
"What about?"
"About these weeks."
The summons to tea came then, however; but when tea was disposed of,
and Faith had come back to her sofa in the sitting-room, Mr. Linden
took his place at her side.
"Now I am ready for 'these weeks,'" he said.
Faith was less ready than he, though she had wished for the talk. Her
face darkened to something of the weary look with which he had found
her.
"Endecott, I have wanted to see you dreadfully!" He looked pained--not
merely, she knew, because of that: but the thought had no further
expression.
"What has been the matter, my dear child?"
Faith's hand and head went down on his shoulder, as on a rest they had
long coveted. "I am afraid you will be ashamed of me, Endecott,--but I
will tell you. You know since I have been sick I have seen a great deal
of Dr. Harrison--every day, and twice a day. I couldn't help it."
"No."
"And Endy,--he used to talk to me."
"Yes,"--the word was short and grave.
"I don't know why he did it; and I did not like it, and I could not
help it. He would talk to me about Bible things."
"Well?--He used to do that long ago."
"And long ago you told me not to let him talk to me of his doubts and
false opinions. Endecott, I didn't forget that--I remembered it all the
while,--and yet he _did_ talk to me of those things, and I could not
tell how to hinder it. And then, Endecott--the things were in my
head--and I could not get them out!"--The manner of Faith's slow words
told of a great deal of heart-work.
Mr. Linden did not start--but Faith felt the thrill which passed over
him, even to the fingers that held hers. Clearly _this_ was not what he
expected.
"Faith,"--he said,--"has he touched _your_ faith?"
Faith's head drew nearer to his, with a manner half caressing, half
shrinking, but the answer was a low, "No--never."
"Child!" he said with a sort of deep terror in his voice,--"I think I
could not have borne that. I would rather he had won away your heart
from me!"
Faith did not move, and seemed to herself scarce to breathe, such a
spasm of various feelings was upon her heart. "It did not, Endy,"--she
whispered.
He stooped to kiss her, as if that was the only answer he could give
just then; merely saying, "Tell me all about it."
"I don't know how he did it"--Faith went on hesitatingly, as if the
words were not easy to her;--"and always before I knew it was coming,
it was said,--something that troubled me; almost every time he came. I
don't know whether it troubled him too, or whether--But no matter what
it was said for! He would tell me of some question that had occurred to
him, or some difficulty that he could not understand; or else it was a
contrary fact that somebody else had stated, or a cunning explanation
that somebody had found out, or a discovery that was against the truth,
or some train of consequences and inferences that would undermine it.
And these things were always so curiously put, that though I knew they
were false, Endy--I never doubted that--I knew they were not the
truth;--yet I could not shew him that they were not; and that hurt me.
It pained me by day and by night;--but that was not all." Faith
hesitated. "These things never did touch my faith, Endecott--but it
seems to me now as if they had shut it up in a fortress and besieged
it. I hadn't a bit of comfort of it except by snatches--only I knew it
was there--for ever so long. When I tried to read the Bible, often I
could think of nothing but these thoughts would push themselves in
between--like a swarm of gnats humming in my ears;--and often I had no
good of prayer,"--she added in a yet lower voice.
"Have you now?" Mr. Linden said. "Has that passed away?"
She hesitated again, perhaps struggling with some emotion which she
would not let get the better of her. Her words were quiet. "It is
passing. Earth and sky are all cleared since you came--as I knew they
would be."
Mr. Linden was silent and motionless,--looking down at her, curbing as
he best might the grief and indignation which were by turns as much as
he could manage. He did not speak for some time.
"I think, Endy," said Faith, "I shouldn't have felt so if I had been
well and strong. I am almost sure it was partly that. I wasn't strong
in mind or body--and how I wanted you!"
"And where _was_ my place in the world if not here!"
"I didn't want you till you came," she said in a very sweet low tone.
"Ah, child! you do not know what you are talking of,--nor what a snare
was spread for you."
"Do you think that, Endy?" she said in a scared way.
"What else?"
"But he always seemed--I always hoped, he was really interested in
those things himself."
"No man carries truth in one hand and falsehood in the other," said Mr.
Linden sternly.
Faith was sitting upright, looking very thoughtful and very grieved.
"But you do not think, Endecott,--you do not think--there was no truth
in it?"
His face caught her grieved look,--he answered slowly, "Child, you must
leave all that. I only know that he tried to get rid of every barrier
in his way."
"And how in this, Endecott?--What?"
"He doubtless thought your belief stood between him and your favour."
"And that if he could change that!"--Faith's head sank with a low word
of pain. Mr. Linden was silent. She looked up again, with a face of
yearning sorrow which it was a pity perhaps Dr. Harrison could not see.
"And now," she said, "we never can do anything more for him!"
But Mr. Linden was not ready for the wish,--the sternness of his face
did not relax this time even under the power of hers. Until as he
looked, with the sight of all her loveliness and the thought of all the
wrong done her, came the keen realization of why it had been
done;--then his look changed and saddened.
"Endecott," she said after a while, humbly, "do you think any one who
loves Christ could be brought to disbelieve him?"
"No--not really and permanently. The promise says, 'Because he hath set
his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him.'"
"Then what did you fear so much for me, Endy?"
She had cause for the question; he had spoken and looked and listened
with that intentness of sense which shews some hidden
anxiety,--measuring jealously every look and word of hers by some old
well-remembered standard.
"You remember, dear Faith," he said, "that when the thieves set upon
one of the pilgrims, though he made out to keep his jewels yet they
took from him all his spending money; and in the want of that he went
to the end of his life."
But the smile that answered him was an answering smile. Though there
was sorrow in it, and humbleness, and even fear, its fullest burdens
were the free guaranty that she was not hurt, and an untold wealth of
affection, that almost breathed out of the moving and parted lips.
"Endy,--it was only a cloud--I knew at the time it would scatter away
just as soon as you came. I knew it was a cloud, but I wasn't well."
Mr. Linden lifted her face, gazing at it intently. "My little
Mignonette," he said, "are you sure that you 'hold fast the beginning
of your confidence?' Are you sure he has not dimmed the light that used
to shine so bright in your heart?--that he has not made heaven seem
less real, nor the promises of less effect? Are you sure, Faith?--If he
has, find it out now!"
She had never seen him look so--never heard him speak with such
earnestness. The words seemed to come from the very depths of his
heart; freighted not only with their own moment, but with the pain
which the raising such questions had stirred in him. Faith knew little
of even the pictures of angels--if she had she might have thought of
one then. Her child nature would have thrown itself into his arms to
give the answer; as it was, the woman drew a little back and spoke with
veiled eyes.
"If he has, I don't know it, Endecott. It was a cloud that hindered all
enjoyment from me,--I knew at the time it was no more. It is gone, or
almost. It was wrong to be on me at all--but I was weak and not well."
Her speech was very humble, and the innocent trembling of the lips was
as one might answer an angel.
His eyes changed as she spoke, watching her still, but less clearly;
and bringing her where she had not dared to place herself, Mr. Linden
kissed her again and again--as one rejoices over what has been lost or
in deadly peril. Not many words--and those low and half uttered, of
deep thanksgiving, of untold tenderness. But Faith hid her face in her
hands, and though she did not shed any tears, shook and trembled.
"This will not do, for you nor for me," said Mr. Linden.
"Mignonette--have my words grieved you? they need not--there was not a
breath in them harsher than a summer wind."
"I didn't think it, Endy."
"What are you thinking of, my child?"
"Nothing--Never mind me,--" she said deprecatingly.
"Tell me, Faith," he repeated.
But she did not. The quivering emotion passed away or was overcome; and
then her answer was a very grave and sweet look and smile; still such a
one as might without any force have been given to an angel.
"Faith, what will make you speak?--this?--Tell me what you were
trembling about--I shall begin to think you have grown afraid of me."
"I don't think I have,--" she said very quietly.
"You are a sort of willowbranch,--so very pliant that you glide out of
reach on the very breath that comes after you. Now I think the very
profound confidence I reposed in you this morning, deserves some
return. I'm afraid I cannot ask for it with such persuasive eyes."
"It's no confidence--" said Faith. "I didn't know I had been in such
danger; and"--she spoke with some difficulty--"I didn't know what it
would be to offend you."
"Did you think you could?"
"If I did wrong--?"
"Faith," he said, "do you know what I should expect 'if I did wrong,'
as you say?--that you would break your heart, perhaps, but never that
you would be offended. I should expect to find you more than ever my
sweet ministering spirit."
A look of intense grave earnestness followed and echoed his thought
with one or two of her own; then her gravity broke in a radiant little
smile. "I am not exactly like you, Endecott," she said.
"What is the precise bearing of that remark?"
"You might be offended--where I should have no right,--" she said with
slow utterance and consideration of her words.
"But _why_--little Arabic poem?"
The colour started into Faith's cheeks, but she answered. "You are
better than I,--and besides,--you know, Endy!--it would be right for
you to do what it wouldn't be right for me to do." Her colour deepened
to brightness and her eyes were very cast down. Mr. Linden looked at
her--smiling a grave sweet smile.
"Faith," he said, "I have heard--or imagined--that a man might have an
angel for his wife, but I never heard yet of a woman who had an angel
for her husband--did you?"
Faith endeavoured to shield her eyes and cheek with a very insufficient
hand. "You put me in the witness-box,--what can I do?" she said.
"You can do one thing as well as anybody I ever saw," Mr. Linden said,
taking her hand down. "Faith, where did you get such pink cheeks?"
"What is an Arabic poem?" said Faith gravely.
"A pretty thing that requires translating. Faith, I have a great desire
to take you all about Pattaquasset and tell everybody what you are to
be."
"Endecott!"--said Faith with a startled glance.
"What?" he answered laughing.
"Why do you say so?"
"Just imagine the delight of all Quapaw, and the full satisfaction of
the Roscoms. Shouldn't you like to see it?"
Faith looked at him in a sort of frightened mood of mind, discerning
some earnest in the play. Mr. Linden's face did not reassure her,
though he carried the play at that time no further.