Faith and her mother sat alone at breakfast. About a fortnight of grave
quiet had followed after the joyous month that went before, with little
enlivening, few interruptions. Without, the season had bloomed into
greater luxuriance,--within, the flowers now rarely came; and Faith's
flowerless dress and belt and hair, said of themselves that Mr. Linden
was away. Roses indeed peeped through the windows, and thrust their
heads between the blinds, but no one invited them in.
Not so peremptorily as the roses--and yet with more assurance of
welcome--Reuben Taylor knocked at the door during breakfast time;
scattering the abstract musings that floated about the coffee-pot and
mingled with its vapoury cloud.
"Sit down, Reuben," said Faith jumping up;--"there's a place for
you,--and I'll give you a plate." To which Reuben only replied, "A
letter, Miss Faith!"--and putting it in her hands went off with quick
steps. On the back of it was written, up in one corner--"Flung on board
the Polar Bear, by a strong hand, from steamship Vulcan, half way
across."
There was no need of flowers now truly in the house, for Faith stood by
the table transformed into a rose of summer joy.
"Mother!" she exclaimed,--"It's from sea--half way across."--
"From sea!--half way across--" her mother repeated. "Why child, what
are you talking about? You don't mean that Mr. Linden's contrived to
make a letter swim back here already, do you?"
Faith hardly heard. A minute she stood, with her eyes very like what
Mr. Motley had graphically described them to be, breaking the seal with
hurried fingers,--and then ran away. The breakfast table and Mrs.
Derrick waited--they waited a long time before Faith came back to eat a
cold breakfast, which tasted of nothing but sea-breezes and was
therefore very strengthening. The strengthening effect went through the
day; there was a fresh colour in Faith's face. Fifty times at least the
"moonbeams" of her eyes saw a "strong hand" throw her packet across the
sea waves that separated the two steamers; the master of the "Polar
Bear" might guess, but Faith knew, that a strong heart had done it as
well. And when her work was over Faith put a rose in her belt in honour
of the day, and sat down to her books, very happy.
The books were engrossing, and it was later than usual when she came
down stairs to get tea, but Mrs. Derrick was out. That wasn't very
strange. Faith went through the little routine of preparation,--then
she took another book and sat down by the sweet summer air of the open
window to wait. By and by Mrs. Derrick came slowly down the road,
opened and shut the gate with the same air of abstracted
deliberateness, and came up the steps looking tired and flushed. In the
porch Faith met and kissed her.
"Where have you been now, mother? tea's ready."
"Pretty child!" was Mrs. Derrick's answer, "how glad I am you got that
letter this morning!"
Faith smiled; _she_ didn't forget it, but it was not to be expected
that it should be quite so present to Mrs. Derrick's mind. Yet almost
at the same instant she felt that her mother had some particular reason
for saying that just then.
"Where have you been, mother?"
"Up to Squire Stoutenburgh's," said Mrs. Derrick, putting herself
wearily in the rocking-chair,--"and they were all out gone--to Pequot
to spend the day. So I lost my labour."
Gently Faith stood before her and took off her bonnet. "What did you go
there for, mother?"
"I wanted to see him--" said Mrs. Derrick. "Squire Deacon's been here,
Faith."
"Mother! Is he back again?--What for?"
"Settle here and live, I suppose. He's married--that's one thing. What
was he here for?--why the old story, Faith,--he wants the place." And
Mrs. Derrick's eyes looked as if she wanted it too.
"Does he want it very much, mother?"
"Means to have it, child--and I don't feel as if I could live in any
other house in Pattaquasset. So I thought maybe Mr. Stoutenburgh would
make him hold off till next year, Faith," said Mrs. Derrick, a little
smile coming back to her lips. "I guess I'll go up again after tea."
Faith coaxed her mother into the other room and gave her her tea
daintily; revolving in her mind the while many things. When tea was
over and Mrs. Derrick was again bent upon business, Faith ventured a
question. "Mother, what do you suppose Squire Stoutenburgh can do to
help us?"
"I can't tell, child,--he might talk Sam Deacon into letting us keep
the house, at least. We've got to live somewhere, you know, Faith. It's
no sort of use for me to talk to him,--he's as stiff as a crab
tree--and I aint. I think I'll try."
"To-night, mother?"
"I thought I would."
Faith hesitated, putting the cups together. "Mother, I'll go. I dare
say I shall do as well."
"I'm afraid you're tired too, pretty child," said Mrs. Derrick, but
with evident relief at the very idea.
"I tired?--Never," said Faith. "You rest, mother--and don't fear," she
added, kissing her. "I'll put on my bonnet--and be there and back again
in a little while."
The summer twilight was falling grey, but Faith knew she could have a
guardian to come home; and besides the road between the two houses was
thickly built up and perfectly safe. The evening glow was almost gone,
the stars faintly gleaming out in the blue above; a gentle sea breeze
stirred the branches and went along with Faith on her errand. Now was
this errand grievously unpleasing to Faith, simply because of the
implication of that _one year_ of reprieve which she must ask for. How
should she manage it? But her way was clear; she must manage it as she
could.
Spite of this bugbear, she had gone with a light free step all along
her road, walking rather quick; for other thoughts had kept her
company, and the image of her little flying packet shot once and again
through her mind. At length she came to Mr. Stoutenburgh's gate, and
Faith's foot paused. Light shone through the muslin curtains; and as
her step neared the front door the broken sounds of voices and laughter
came unwelcomely through. A most unnecessary formality her knock was,
but one of the children came to the door and ushered her at once into
the tea-room, where the family were waiting for their late tea. Mrs.
Stoutenburgh--looking very pretty in her light summer dress--was half
reclining on the sofa, professing that she was tired to death, but
quite failing to excite any sympathy thereby in the group of children
who had not seen her since morning. The Squire himself walked leisurely
up and down, with his hands behind him, sometimes laughing at the
children sometimes helping on their play. Through the room was the full
perfume of roses, and the lamplight could not yet hide the departing
glow of the western horizon. Into this group and atmosphere little
Linda brought the guest, with the simple announcement, "Mother, it's
Miss Faith."
"Miss Faith!" Mrs. Stoutenburgh exclaimed, starting up and dispersing
the young ones,--"Linda, you shall have a lump of sugar!--My dear other
child, how do you do?--and what sweet corner of your little heart sent
you up here to-night? You have not--no, that can't be,--and you
wouldn't come here if you had. But dear Faith, how are you?"--and she
was rescued from the Squire and carried off to the sofa to answer at
her leisure. With a sort of blushing, steadfast grace, which was common
with her in the company of friends who were in her secret, Faith
answered.
"And you haven't had tea yet,"--she said remorsefully. "I came to give
Mr. Stoutenburgh some trouble--but I can do it in three minutes." Faith
looked towards the Squire.
"My dear," he said, "it would take you three years!"
"But Faith," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh--"here comes the tea, and you can't
go home without Mr. Stoutenburgh,--and nothing qualifies him for
business like a contented state of his appetite!"
Faith laughed and sat down again, and then was fain upon persuasion to
take a place at the table, which was a joyous scene enough. Faith did
little but fill a place; her mind was busy with thoughts that began to
come pressingly; she tried not to have it seem so.
"My dear," said the Squire as he helped Faith to raspberries, "what
fine weather we have had, eh?"
"Beautiful weather!"--Faith responded with a little energy.
"Papa," said one of the children, "do you think Mr. Linden's had it
fine too?"
"What tangents children's minds go off in!" observed Mrs. Stoutenburgh.
"Faith! don't eat your raspberries without sugar,--how impatient you
are. You used to preach patience to me when I was sick."
"I can be very patient, with these raspberries and no sugar," said
Faith, wishing she could hide the bloom of her cheeks as easily as she
hid that of the berries under the fine white shower.
"Poor child!" said her friend gently,--"I think you have need of all
your patience." And her hands came softly about Faith's plate, removing
encumbrances and adding dainties, with a sort of mute sympathy that at
the moment could find no more etherial channel. "Mr. Stoutenburgh drove
down to Quapaw the other day," she went on in a low voice, "to ask
those fishing people what indications our land weather gave of the
weather at sea; and--he couldn't half tell me about his visit when he
came home," said Mrs. Stoutenburgh, breaking short off in her account.
"Linda, go get that glass of white roses and set it by Miss
Faith,--maybe she'll take them home with her."
Faith looked at the white roses and smelled their sweetness; and then
she said, "Who did you see, Mr. Stoutenburgh?--down at Quapaw?"
"None of the men, my dear--they were all away, but I saw half the rest
of the village; and even the children knew what report the men had
brought in, and what _they_ thought of the weather. Everybody had a
good word to say about it, Miss Faith; and everybody--I do believe!"
said the Squire reverently, "had been on their knees to pray for it.
Jonathan Ling's wife said that was all they could ever do for him."
Which pronoun, be it understood, did not refer to Jonathan Ling.
"They're Mr. Linden's roses, Miss Faith," said little Linda, who stood
waiting for more marked admiration,--"do you like them? He always did."
Faith kissed the child, partly to thank her and to stop her lips,
partly to hide her own which she felt were tale-telling.
"Where did you get the roses, Linda?"
"O off the bush in the garden. But Mr. Linden always picked one
whenever he came, and sometimes he'd stop on his way to school, and
just open the gate and get one of these white roses and then go away
again. So we called it Mr. Linden's bush." Faith endeavoured to attend
to her raspberries after this. When tea was over she was carried off
into the drawing-room and the children were kept out.
"If you want me away too, Faith," Mrs. Stoutenburgh said as she
arranged the lamp and the curtains, "I'll go."
"I don't want you to go, ma'am."--And then covering her trepidation
under the simplest of grave exteriors, Faith spoke to the point. "It is
mother's business. Squire Deacon has come home, Mr. Stoutenburgh."
"My dear," said the Squire, "I know he has. I heard it just before you
came in. But he's married, Miss Faith."
"That don't content him," said Faith, "for he wants our farm."
"Rascal!" said Mr. Stoutenburgh in an emphatic under tone,--"the old
claim, I suppose. What's the state of it now, my dear?"
"Nothing new, sir; he has a right to it, I suppose. The mortgage is
owing, and we haven't been able to pay anything but the interest, and
that must be a small rent for the farm." Faith paused. Mrs.
Stoutenburgh was silent; looking from one to the other anxiously,--the
Squire himself was not very intelligible.
"Yes"--he said,--"of course. Your poor father only lived to make the
second payment. I don't know why I call him poor--he's rich enough now.
But Sam Deacon!--a small rent? too much for him to get,--and too
little.--Why my dear!" he said suddenly sitting up straight and facing
round upon Faith, "I thought--What does your mother expect to do, Miss
Faith?--has she seen Sam? What does he say?"
"He came to see her this afternoon, sir--he is bent upon having the
place, mother says. And she don't like to leave the old house," Faith
said slowly. "He will take the farm, I suppose,--but mother thought,
perhaps, sir--if you would speak to Mr. Deacon, he would let us stay in
the house--only the house without anything else--for another year.
Mother wished it--I don't know that your speaking to him could do any
good." Faith went straight through, but the rosy colour sprung and grew
till its crimson reached her forehead. Not the less she went clearly
through with what she had to say, her eyes only at the last words
drooping. Mr. Stoutenburgh rose up with great energy and stood before
her.
"My dear," he said, "he shall do it! If it was any other man I'd
promise to make him do more, but Sam always must have some way of
amusing himself, and I'm afraid I can't make this as expensive as the
last one he tried. You tell your mother, Miss Faith, that she shall
stay in her house till she'd rather go to yours. I hope that won't be
more than a year, but if it is she shall stay."
"That's good, Mr. Stoutenburgh!" said his wife with a little clap of
her hands.
Whether Faith thought it was 'good' might be a question; her eyes fell
further, she did not offer to thank Mr. Stoutenburgh for his energetic
kindness, nor to say anything. Yet Faith had seemingly more to say, for
she made no motion to go. She sat quite still a few minutes, till
raising her eyes fully to Mr. Stoutenburgh's face she said gravely,
"Mother will feel very glad when I tell her that, sir."
"She may make herself easy But tell her, my dear," said the Squire,
again forgetting in his earnestness what ground he was on,--"tell her
she's on no account to tell Sam _why_ she wants to stay. Will you
recollect that, Miss Faith?"
Faith's eyes opened slightly. "I think he must know--or guess it, Mr.
Stoutenburgh? Mother says she could hardly bear to live in any other
house in Pattaquasset."
"My dear Miss Faith!" said Mr. Stoutenburgh,--"I mean!--why she don't
want to stay any longer. _That's_ what Sam mustn't know. I'm very
stupid about my words, always."
Faith was again obliged to wait a few minutes before she could go on.
Mrs. Stoutenburgh was the first to speak, for the Squire walked up and
down, no doubt (mentally) attacking Mr. Deacon.
"I'm so glad!" she said, with the old dance of her eyes--and yet a
little sigh too. "So glad and so happy, that I could cry,--I know I
shall when the time comes. Dear Faith, do you feel quite easy about
this other business now?"
"What, ma'am?--about Mr. Deacon?"
"Why yes!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughing,--"isn't that the only one
you've been uneasy about?"
"I am not uneasy now," said Faith. "But Mr. Stoutenburgh--if Mr. Deacon
takes the farm back again, whom does the hay belong to, and the cattle,
and the tools and farm things?"
"All that's _on the land_--all that's growing on it, goes with it. All
that's under cover and moveable belongs to you."
"Then the hay in the barn is ours?"
"Everything in the barn."
"There's a good deal in the barn," said Faith with a brightening face.
"You know the season has been early, sir, and our hay-fields lie well
to the sun; and a great deal of the hay is in. Mr. Deacon will want
some rent for the house I suppose,--and I guess there will be hay
enough to pay it, whatever it is. For I can't sell my cows!--" she
added laughing a little.
Her two friends--the Squire on the floor and his wife on the
sofa--looked at her and then at each other.
"My dear," the Squire began, "I want to ask you a question. And before
I do, let me tell you--which perhaps you don't know--just what right
I"--
"Oh Mr. Stoutenburgh!" cried his wife, "do please hush!--you'll say
something dreadful."
"Not a bit of it--" said the Squire,--"I know what to say this time, my
dear, and when to stop. I wanted to tell you, Miss Faith, that I am
your regularly appointed guardian--therefore if I ask questions you
will understand why." But what more on that subject the Squire might
have said, and said not, was left to conjecture. Faith looked at him,
wondering, colouring, doubting.
"I never heard of it before, sir," she said.
"You shouldn't say _regularly_, Mr. Stoutenburgh," said his
wife,--"Faith will think she is to be under your control."
"I shouldn't say _legally_," said the Squire, "and I didn't. No she
aint under my control. I only mean, Miss Faith," he said turning to
her, "that I am appointed to look after your interests, till somebody
who is better qualified comes to do it."
"There--Mr. Stoutenburgh,--don't go any further," said his wife.
"Not in that direction," said the Squire. "Now my dear, if Sam Deacon
will amuse himself in this way, as I said, what will you do? Do the
farm and the house about counterbalance each other most years?"
Faith never knew how she separated the two parts of her nature enough
at this moment to be practical, but she answered. "We have been able to
pay the interest on the mortgage, sir, every year. That's all. Mother
has not laid up anything."
The Squire took a turn or two up and down the room, then came and stood
before her again. "My dear," he said, "you can't tell just yet what
your plans will be, so I won't ask you to-night, but you had better let
me deal with Sam Deacon, and the new tenant, and the hay, and
everything else. And you may draw upon me for something more solid, to
any amount you please."
"Something more solid than yourself!--O Mr. Stoutenburgh!" his wife
said, though her eyes were bright with more than one feeling.
Faith was silent a minute, and then gave Mr. Stoutenburgh a full view
of those steady eyes that some people liked and some did not care _just
so_ to meet.
"No, sir!--" she said with a smile and also a little wistful look of
the gratitude she did not speak,--"if the hay will pay the rent, I
don't want anything else. Mother and I can do very well. We will be
very much obliged to you to manage Mr. Deacon for us--and the hay. I
think I can manage the rest. I shall keep the cows and make
butter,"--she said with a laughing flash of the eye.
"O delicious!" cried Mrs. Stoutenburgh, "(I mean the butter,
Faith)--but will you let me have it?"
"You don't want it," said Faith.
"I do!--nobody makes such butter--I should eat my breakfast with a new
appetite, and so would Sam. We never can get butter enough when he's in
the house. I'll send down for it three times a week--how often do you
churn, Faith?"
Faith came close up to her and kissed her as she whispered laughingly,
"Every day!"
"Then I'll send every day!" said Mrs. Stoutenburgh clapping her hands.
"And then I shall hear of you once in a while.--Ungrateful child, you
haven't been here before since--I suppose it won't do to say when," she
added, kissing Faith on both cheeks. "I shall tell Mr. Linden it is not
benevolent to pet you so much."
"But my dear--my dear--" said the Squire from one to the other. "Well,
well,--I'll talk to you another time, Miss Faith,--I can't keep up with
more than one lady at once. You and Mrs. Stoutenburgh have gone on
clean ahead of me."
"What's the matter, Mr. Stoutenburgh?" said Faith. "I would like to
hear it now, for there is something I want settled."
"What's that?" said the Squire.
"Will you please go on, sir?"
"I guess I'll hear you first," said the Squire. "You seem to know just
what you want to say, Miss Faith, and I'm not sure that I do."
"You said we had gone on ahead of you, sir. Shall we go back now?"
"Why my dear," said the Squire smiling, "I thought you two were
settling up accounts and arrangements rather fast, that's all. If they
are the beginning and end, _that's_ very well; but if they're only
premonitory symptoms, that again's different."
"And not 'very well'?" said Faith, waiting.
"Not very," said Mr. Stoutenburgh shaking his head.
"How should it be better, sir?"
"My dear, in general, what is needless can be spared."
"I don't know what I am going to do, Mr. Stoutenburgh. I am going to do
nothing needless, not wilfully needless. But I am going to do it
_without help_." She stood before him, with perfect gentleness but with
as clear determination in both look and manner, making her meaning
known. Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughed, the Squire stood looking at her in a
smiling perplexity. Finally went straight to the point.
"Miss Faith, it is doubly needless that you should do anything more
than you've been doing--everybody knows that's enough. In the first
place, my dear, you are your father's child--and that's all that need
be said, till my purse has a hole at both ends. In the next
place--shall I tell her what she is in the next place, Mrs.
Stoutenburgh?"
"I fancy she knows," said his wife demurely.
"Well," said the Squire, "the next place is the first place, after all,
and I haven't the right to do much but take care of her. But my dear, I
have it under hand and seal to take better care than that."
"Than what, sir?"--said Faith with very deep colour, but unchanged
bearing.
"I don't know yet," said Mr. Stoutenburgh, "any more than you know what
you are going to do. Than to let you do anything that would grieve your
dear friend and mine. If I could shew you the letter you'd understand,
Miss Faith, but I'm not good at repeating. 'To take care of you as lie
would'--that was part of it. And because I can't half carry out such
instructions, is no sign I shouldn't do it a quarter." And the Squire
stood as firm on his ground as Faith on hers.
No, not quite; for in her absolute gentleness there was a power of
intent expressed, which rougher outlines could but give with less
emphasis. The blood spoke for her eloquently before Faith could find
any sort of words to speak for herself, brought now by more feelings
than one; yet still she stood before the Squire, drooping her head a
little, a soft statue of immoveability. Only once, just before she
spoke, both Faith's hands went up to her brow to push the hair back; a
most unusual gesture of agitation. But her look and her words were
after the same steady fashion as before, aggravated by a little wicked
smile, and Faith's voice sounded for sweetness like silver bells.
"You can't do it, Mr. Stoutenburgh!--not that way. Take care of me
every other way;--but I'll not have--of that sort--a bit of help."--
The Squire looked at her with a mixture of amusement and perplexity.
"Pin to follow suit--" he said,--"but then I don't just know what Mr.
Linden would do in such a case! Can you tell me, Miss Faith?"
"It is no matter--it would not make any difference."
"What would not?" said the Squire innocently.
"Anything that he could do, sir;--so you have no chance." She coloured
gloriously, but she smiled at him too with her last words.
"Well, Miss Faith," said Mr. Stoutenburgh, "I have my doubts as to the
correctness of that first statement; but I'll tell you what _I_ shall
do, my refractory young lady. If you set about anything outside the
limits, I'll do my best to thwart you,--there!"
If Faith was not a match for him, there was no meaning in the laugh of
her dark eye. But she only bade Mrs. Stoutenburgh an affectionate good
night, took her bunch of white roses and Mr. Stoutenburgh's arm and set
out to go home.