Faith put her roses in water and listened half a minute to their
strange silent messages. But after that she did a great deal of
thinking. If all went well, and Mr. Linden got home safe from
abroad,--and _this_ year were all she had to take care for, it was a
very little matter to keep the year afloat, and very little matter, in
her estimation, whatever she might have to do for the purpose. But
those "ifs" no mortal could answer for. Faith did not look much at that
truth, but she acted upon it; prayed over her thoughts and brought her
plans into shape in very humble consciousness of it. And at the early
breakfast the next morning she began to unfold them; which as Mrs.
Derrick did not like them, led on to a long talk; but Faith as usual
had her way.
After some preliminary arrangements, and late in the day, she set off
upon a long walk to Miss Bezac's. The slant beams of the summer sun
were again upon the trim little house as Faith came up towards it.
Things were changed since she was there before! changed a good deal
from the gay, joyous playtime of that visit. Mr. Linden in Europe, and
she--"It is very well," thought Faith; "it might not have been good for
me to have too much of such a time. Next year"--
Would if it brought joy, bring also an entering upon real life-work.
Faith knew it; she had realized long before with a thought of pain,
that this summons to Europe had perhaps cut short her last time of
absolute holiday pleasure. Mr. Linden could hardly now be more than a
few days in Pattaquasset before "next year" should come--and Faith did
not stop to look at that; she never thought of it three minutes
together. But life-work looked to her lovely;--what did not? Even the
little pathway to Miss Bezac's door was pleasant. She was secretly glad
of that other visit now, which had made this one so easy; though yet a
sympathetic blush started as she went in.
"Why Faith!" said Miss Bezac,--"you're the _very_ person I was thinking
of, and the very one I wanted to see! though I always do want to see
you, for that matter, and don't often get what I want. Then I don't
generally want much. But what a beautiful visit we had last time! Do
you know I've been conjuring ever since how your dress should be made?
What'll it be, to begin with?--I always do like to begin with that--and
it's bothered me a good deal--not knowing it, I mean. I couldn't
arrange so well about the making. Because making white satin's one
thing, and muslin's another,--and lace is different from 'em both--and
indeed from most other things except spider's webs." All which pleasant
and composing sentiments were uttered while Miss Bezac was clearing a
chair for Faith, and putting her in it, and laying her various pieces
of work together.
"I shouldn't be the least bit of help to you," said Faith who couldn't
help laughing. "Can't it wait?"
"Why it'll have to," said Miss Bezac; "he said it must,--but that's no
reason I should. I always like a reason for everything. It took me an
age and a quarter to find out why Miss Essie De Staff always will wear
aprons. She wears 'em out, too, in more ways than one, but that's good
for me. Only there's so many ways of making them that I get in a
puzzle. Now this one, Faith--would you work it with red flowers or
green?--I said black, but she will have colours. You've got a good
colour to-day--O don't you want some bread and milk?" said Miss Bezac,
dropping the apron.
"No, thank you!" said Faith laughing again,--"not to-day. I should work
that with green, Miss Bezac."
"But I'm afraid green won't do, with black above and black below," said
Miss Bezac. "Two sides to things you know, Faith,--aprons and all the
rest. I'd a great mind to work it with both, and then she couldn't say
she'd rather have had 'tother. What things I _have_ worked in my
day!--but my day's twilight now, and my eyes find it out."
"Do you have more to do than you can manage, generally?" said Faith.
"Why no, child, because I never take any more,--that's the way not to
have things--troubles or aprons. I could have my hands full of both,
but what's the use?--when one hasn't eyes--for sewing or crying. Mrs.
Stoutenburgh comes, and Mrs. Somers, and Miss Essie--and the landlord,
and sometimes I let 'em leave me a job, and sometimes I don't,--send
'em, dresses, and all, off to Quilipeak."
"Then I'll tell you what you shall give me to-day--instead of bread and
milk;--some of the work that you would send off. Don't you remember,"
said Faith, smiling quietly at Miss Bezac's eyes,--"you once promised
to teach me to embroider waistcoats?"
"Why yes!" said Miss Bezac--"and so I will. But, my dear, are you sure
he would wear it?--and after all, isn't it likely he'll get everything
of that sort he wants, in Paris? And then the size!--who's to tell what
that should be? To be sure you could do the fronts, and have them made
up afterwards--and of course he _would_ wear anything you made.--I'll
go right off and get my patterns."
Faith's confusion was startled. It was Miss Bezac's turn to look at
her. She caught hold of the seamstress and brought her back to
listening at least.
"Stop!--Miss Bezac!--you don't understand me. I want work!--I want
work. I am not talking of making anything for anybody!--" Faith's eyes
were truthful now, if ever they were.
"Well then--how can you work, if you won't make anything for anybody?
Want work, Faith?--you don't mean to say all that story about Sarn
Deacon's _true?_ Do you know," said Miss Bezac, dropping into a chair
and folding her hands, "when I heard that man had gone out of town, I
said to myself, it would be a mercy if he never came back!"--which was
the severest censure Miss Bezac ever passed upon anybody. "I really
did," she went on,--"and now he's come, and I s'pose I've got to say
_that_'s a mercy too--and this,--though I wouldn't believe it last
night."
"Then you have heard it?"
"My ears did, and they're pretty good ears too,--though I do get out of
patience with them now and then."
"It's true," said Faith, "and it's nothing very dreadful. Mother and I
have nothing to live upon but what I can make by butter; so I thought I
would learn and take work of you, if you had it for me. I could soon
understand it; and then you can let people bring you as much as they
will--what you cannot do, I will do. I could think of nothing so
pleasant;--no way to make money, I mean."
For a minute Miss Bezac sat quite still,--then she roused up.
"Nothing to live upon but butter!"--she said,--"well that's not
much,--at least if there's ever so much of it you want something else.
And what you want you must have--if you can get it. And I can get you
plenty of work--and it's a good thing to understand this sort of work
too, for he might carry you off to some random place where they wear
calico just as they can put it on--and that wouldn't suit you, nor him
neither. I don't believe _this_'ll suit him though--and it don't me,
not a bit. I'm as proud as a Lucifer match for anybody I love. But I'll
make you proud of your work in no time. What'll you do first? embroider
or stitch or cut out or baste or fit?"
"What you please--what you think best. But Miss Bezac, what are you
'proud' about?"
"O I've my ways and means, like other folks," said Miss Bezac. "And you
can do something more striking than aprons for people that don't need
'em. But I'm not going to give you _this_ apron, Faith--I sha'n't have
her wearing your work all round town, and none the wiser. See--this is
nice and light and pretty--like the baby it's for,--you like green,
don't you? and so will your eyes."
"I'd as lieve have Miss Essie wear my work as eat my butter," said
Faith. "But," she added more gravely,--"I think that what God gives me
to do, I ought to be proud to do,--and I am sure I am willing. He knows
best."
"Yes, yes, my dear--I believe that,--and so I do most things you say,"
answered Miss Bezac, bringing forth from the closet a little roll of
green calico. "Now do you like this?--because if you don't, say so."
"I'll take this," said Faith, "and the next time I'll take the apron. I
must do just as much as I can, Miss Bezac; and you must let me. Would
you rather have the apron done first? I want Miss Essie's apron, Miss
Bezac!"
"Well you can't have it," said Miss Bezac,--"and what you can't, you
can't--all the world over. Begin slow and go on fast--that's the best
way. And I'll take the best care of you!--lay you up in lavender,--like
my work when it's done and isn't gone home."
So laughingly they parted, and Faith went home with her little bundle
of work, well contented.
A very few days had seen the household retrenchments made. Cindy was
gone, and Mr. Skip was only waiting for a "boy" to come. Mother and
daughter drew their various tools and conveniences into one room and
the kitchen, down stairs, to have the less to take care of; abandoning
the old eating-room except as a passage-way to the kitchen; and taking
their meals, for greater convenience, in the latter apartment.
Faith did not shut up her books without some great twinges of pain; but
she said not one word on the matter. She bestowed on her stitching and
on her housework and on her butter the diligent zeal which used to go
into French rules and philosophy. But Mrs. Stoutenburgh had reckoned
without her host, for there was a great deal more of the butter than
she could possibly dispose of; and Judge Harrison's family and Miss De
Staff's became joint consumers and paid the highest price for it, that
Faith would take. But this is running ahead of the story.
Some days after Faith's appeal to Mr. Stoutenburgh had passed, before
the Squire presented himself to report progress. He found both the
ladies at work in the sitting-room, looking very much as usual, except
that there was a certain not inelegant disposition of various pieces of
muslin and silk and ribbon about the room which carried the appearance
of business.
"What rent will Mr. Deacon have, Mr. Stoutenburgh?" said Faith looking
up from her needle.
"My dear, he'll have what he can get," said the Squire, "but what
_that_'ll be, Miss Faith, he and I haven't just made up our minds."
"How much ought it to be, sir, do you think?"
"Nothing at all," said the Squire,--"not a cent."
"Do you think not, sir?" said Faith doubtfully.
"Not a cent!" the Squire repeated,--"and I told him so, and said he
might throw the barn into the bargain and not hurt himself."
"Will he agree to that, Mr. Stoutenburgh?--I mean about the house. We
can pay for it."
"My dear, I hope to make him agree to that, and more too. So just let
the hay stand, and the house, and the barn, and everything else for the
present. I'll tell you time enough--if quarter day must come. And by
the way, talking of quarters, there's one of a lamb we killed
yesterday,--I told Tim to leave it in the kitchen. How does your ice
hold out?"
"Do you want some, sir?" said Faith, in whose eyes there shone a soft
light the Squire could be at no loss to read.
"No my dear, I don't--though Mrs. Stoutenburgh does tell me sometimes
to keep cool. But I thought maybe _you_ did. Do you know, Miss Essie De
Staff never sees me now if she can help it--what do you suppose is the
reason?"
"I don't think there can be any, sir."
"Must be!" said the Squire,--"always is a reason for every fact. You
know what friends we used to be,--it was always, 'Hush, Mr.
Stoutenburgh!' or, 'How do you know anything about it?' Ah, he's a
splendid fellow!--My dear, I don't wish to ask any impertinent
questions, but when you do hear that he's safe across, just let me
know--will you?" And the Squire bowed himself off without waiting for
an answer.