Faith found that sewing and housework and butter-making took not only
her hands but her minutes, and on these little minute wheels the days
glided off very fast. She had plenty of fresh air, withal, for Mrs.
Stoutenburgh would coax her into a horseback ride, or the Squire take
her off in his little wagon; or Mrs. Derrick and Jerry go with her down
to the shore for clams and salt water. The sea breeze was more company
than usual, this summer.
By the time August days came, there came also a letter from Europe; and
thereafter the despatches were as regular and as frequent as the
steamers. But they brought no special news as to the point of coming
home. Mrs. Iredell lingered on in the same uncertain state, neither
worse nor better,--there was no news to send. Everything else the
letters had; and though Faith might miss that, she could not complain.
So the summer days slipped away peacefully; and when the mother and
daughter sat sewing together in the afternoon, (for Mrs. Derrick often
took some little skirt or sleeve) nobody would have guessed why the
needles were at work.
There was one remarkable thing about the boy Reuben had found to supply
Mr. Skip's place--he was never visible. Nor audible either, for that
matter, except that Faith at her own early rising often heard the
wood-saw industriously in motion. He was not to sleep in the house for
the first month,--that had been agreed; but whether he slept anywhere
seemed a matter of doubt. A doubt Faith resolved to set at rest; and
one August morning, while the birds were a-twitter yet with their first
getting up and the sun had not neared the horizon, Faith crossed the
yard to the woodshed and stood in the open doorway,--the morning light
shewing the soft outlines of her figure in a dark print dress, and her
white ruffles, and gleaming on her faultlessly soft and bright hair.
The woodshed was in twilight yet; its various contents shewing dimly,
the phoebe who had built her nest under the low roof just astir, but
the wood work was going on briskly. Not indeed under the saw--that lay
idle; but with the sort of noiseless celerity which was natural to him,
Reuben Taylor was piling the sticks of this or yesterday's cutting: the
slight chafing of the wood as it fell into place chiming with the low
notes of a hymn tune which Faith well remembered to have heard Mr.
Linden sing. She did not stir, but softly, as she stood there, her
voice joined in.
For a minute Reuben did not hear her,--then in some pause of
arrangement he heard, and turned round with a start and flush that for
degree might have suited one who was stealing wood instead of piling
it. But he did not speak--nor even thought to say good morning; only
pushed the hair back from his forehead and waited to receive sentence.
"Reuben!"--said Faith, stepping in the doorway. And she said not
another word; but in her eyes and her lips, even in her very attitude
as she stood before him, Reuben Taylor might read it all!--her
knowledge for whose love he was doing that work, her powerlessness of
any present means of thanks, and the existence of a joint treasury of
returned affection that would make itself known to him some day, if
ever the chance were. The morning sun gleamed in through the doorway on
her face, and Reuben could see it all there. He had raised his eyes at
the first sound of her voice, but they fell again, and his only answer
was a very low spoken "Good morning, Miss Faith."
Faith sat down on a pile of cut sticks and looked up at him.
"Reuben--what are you about?"
"Putting these sticks out of the way, Miss Faith"--with a half laugh
then.
"I shall tell Mr. Linden of you," (gravely.)
"I didn't mean you should have a chance, Miss Faith."
"Now you are caught and found--do you know what your punishment will
be?"
Reuben looked up again, but did not venture to guess.
"You will be obliged to come in and take a cup of coffee with me every
morning."
"O that's not necessary!" Reuben said with a relieved face,--"thank you
very much, Miss Faith."
"It is necessary," said Faith gravely;--"and you are not to thank me
for what you don't like."
"It was partly for what I do like, ma'am," said Reuben softly pitching
up a stick of hickory.
"It's so pleasant to have you do this, Reuben," said Faith, watching
him, "that I can't tell you how pleasant it is; but you must drink my
coffee, Reuben, or--I will not burn your wood! You know what Mr. Linden
would make you do, Reuben." Faith's voice lowered a little. Reuben did
not dispute the commands so urged, though a quick glance said that her
wish was enough.
"But dear Reuben, who's coming when you're gone?"
"Would you like Dromy Tuck, Miss Faith?--but I don't know that you ever
saw him. He's strong, and honest--he's not very bright. I'll find
somebody." And so the matter ended.
August went on,--Reuben sawed his last stick of wood and eat his last
breakfast at Mrs. Derrick's, and then set forth for Quilipeak, to begin
his new life there. The little settlement at Quapaw was not alone in
feeling his loss,--Mrs. Derrick and Faith missed him every day. One of
Reuben's last doings in Pattaquasset, was the giving Dromy Tuck in
charge to Phil Davids.
"Look after him a little, Phil," he said, "and see that he don't go to
sleep too much daytimes. He means to go straight, but he wants help
about it; and I don't want Mrs. Derrick to be bothered with him." Which
request, enforced as it was by private considerations, favoured Dromy
with as strict a censorship as he desired.
From Germany news came at last,--but it was of the sort that one can
bear to wait for. Mrs. Iredell was not able to be moved nor certain to
get well. Mr. Linden could neither come with his sister nor from her.
And thus, hindered from getting home to his Seminary duties in America,
there was but one thing he could do--finish his course in a German
University. But that ensured his being in Europe the whole year! No
question now of fall or winter or spring,--summer was the first time
that could be even thought of; and in this fair September, when Faith
had been thinking of the possibility of his sudden appearance, he was
beginning his work anew in a foreign land.
It came heavily at first upon her. Faith had not known how much she
counted on that hope or possibility. But now when it was gone she found
she had lost a large piece of her sunlight. She had read her letter
alone as usual, and alone she struggled with her sorrow. It cost Faith
for once a great many tears. Prayer was always her refuge. But at last
after the tears and the signs of them were gone, Faith went into her
mother's company again, looking wistful and as gentle and quiet.
Perhaps it was well for Faith that her mother knew what this quiet
meant--it saved her countless little remarks of wonder and comment and
sorrow. More devoted to her Mrs. Derrick could not be, but she had her
own strong box of feeling, and there locked up all her sorrow and
anxiety out of sight. Yet it was some time before the little
sitting-room, with its scattered bits of work, could look bright again.
"And I sha'n't see him again till----." It gave Faith a great pang.
That "next year" she never looked at much. She would have liked a
little more of those innocent play days which had been so unexpectedly
broken off. "Next year" looked serious, as well as glad. "But it is
good for me," she said to herself. "It must be good for me, to be
reminded to live on what cannot fail. I suppose I was getting to be too
very happy."--And after a few such talks with herself Faith went
straight on, for all that appeared, as peacefully as ever, and as
cheerfully.
It was not long after this, that passing Mr. Simlins' gate one
afternoon, as she was coming home from a walk, Faith was hailed by the
farmer. She could not but stop to speak to him, and then she could not
prevent his carrying her off into the house.
"'Twont hurt you to rest a minute--and 'twont hurt _me_," said he. "Why
I haint seen you since----How long do you s'pose folks can live and not
see moonshine? Now you pull off your bonnet, and I'll tell Mrs. Hummins
to give us something good for tea."
"What would mother do for hers, Mr. Simlins?" said Faith resisting this
invitation.
"Well you can sit down anyhow, and read to me," said Mr. Simlins, who
had already taken a seat himself in preparation for it. "People can't
get along without light from one phenomenon or the other, you know,
Faith."
She took off her bonnet, and brought the Bible. "What do you want, Mr.
Simlins?" her sweet voice said meaningly.
"Fact is," said the farmer rather sorrowfully, "I s'pose I want about
everything! I don't feel to know much more'n a baby--and there aint
more'n three grains of corn to the bushel in our minister's preachin'.
I go to meetin' and come home with my head a little more like a bell
than 'twas; for there's nothing more in it but a ringin' of the words
I've heerd. Do you mind, Faith, when somebody--I don't know whether you
or I like him best--wanted me to try a new kind of farming?--you mind
it? I guess you do. It never went out o' _my_ head again, till I set
out to try;--and now I find I don't know nothin' at all how to work it!"
"What is the trouble, dear Mr. Simlins?" said Faith looking up.
The farmer hesitated, then said low and huskily, "I don't know what to
do about joinin' the church."
"The Bible says, 'If a man love God, the same is known of him,'"--Faith
answered softly.
"Well, but can't it be known of him without that? Fact is, Faith, I'm
afeard!"--and a rough hand was drawn across the farmer's eyes--"I'm
afeard, if I do, I'll do something I hadn't ought to do, and so only
just dishonour the profession--and I'd better not have anything to do
with it!"
Faith turned back the leaves of the Bible.
"Listen to what God said to Joshua, Mr. Simlins, when he was going to
lead the people of Israel over into a land full of enemies.--
'Have not I commanded thee? Be strong and of a good courage; be not
afraid, neither be thou dismayed.'"
"It's easy to say 'be strong'," said the farmer after pausing a
minute,--"but how are you going to contrive it?"
Faith read from the Psalms; and her words fell sweeter every one. "'In
the day when I cried thou answeredst me, and strengthenedst me with
strength in my soul.' That is what David says, Mr. Simlins; and this is
Isaiah's testimony.--'They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their
strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and
not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.'"
"Go ahead, Faith!"--said the farmer, who was sitting with his head down
in his hands. "You aint leavin' me much of a corner to hide in. Turn
down a leaf at them places."
Faith was still again, turning over leaves.
"Paul was in trouble once, Mr. Simlins, and prayed earnestly about
something; and this is what he says of the Lord's answer to him.--'And
he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is
made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in
my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.'--'When I am
weak, then am I strong.'--And in another place--'I can do all things
through Christ which strengtheneth me.'"
"But he wa'n't much like me," said Mr. Simlins "he was an apostle and
had inspiration. I hain't none."
"He was a man, though," said Faith, "and a weak one, as you see he
calls himself. And he prays for the Christians at Ephesus, that God
would grant them 'to be strengthened with might by his Spirit;' and
they were common people. And the Bible says 'Be strong in the Lord and
in the power of his might;'--we aren't bid to be strong in ourselves;
but here again, 'Strengthened with might, according to his glorious
power, unto all patience and long-suffering with joyfulness.' Won't
that do?" said Faith softly.
"Have you put marks in all them places?" said the farmer.
"I will."
"If that don't do, I s'pose nothing will," said Mr. Simlins. "They're
mighty words! And they've stopped _my_ mouth."
Faith was silently marking the places. The farmer sat looking at her.
"You do know the Scripturs--I can say that for you!" he remarked.
"No, Mr. Simlins!--" said Faith looking up suddenly, "I don't know this
string of passages of myself. Mr. Linden shewed them to me," she said
more softly and blushing. She went on with what she was about.
"Well don't he say you like to speak truth rayther than anything else?"
said the farmer. "If he don't, I wouldn't give much for his discretion.
When's he going to have leave to take you away, Faith?" It was half
sorrowfully spoken, and though Faith rose up and blushed, she did not
answer him quickly.
"My business must take me away now, sir;--good night."
But Mr. Simlins shouted to Jem Waters, had the wagon up, put Faith in
with infinite care and tenderness, and sent her home so.
One rainy, stormy, wild equinoctial day in the end of September--not
long after that letter had come, Squire Stoutenburgh came to the door.
Faith heard him parleying with her mother for a minute--heard him go
off, and then Mrs. Derrick entered the sitting-room, with her eyes full
of tears and her heart, at least, full of a little package,--it did not
quite fill her hands.
"Pretty child!" she said, "I'm so thankful!"--and she went straight off
to the kitchen, and the little package lay in Faith's lap. The thick
brown paper and wax and twine said it had come a long way. The rest the
address told. It was a little square box, the opening of which revealed
at first only soft cotton; except, in one corner, there was an
indication of Faith's infallible blue ribband. Fastened to that, was a
gold locket. Quite plain, alike on both sides, the tiny hinge at one
edge spoke of a corresponding spring. That touched, Faith found Mr.
Linden. Admirably well done and like, even to the expression, which had
probably struck the artist's fancy; for he had contrived to represent
well both the pleasure and the pain Mr. Linden had felt in sitting for
this picture, for such a reason. The dress was that of the German
students--such as he was then wearing.
Faith had never guessed--till her wondering fingers had persuaded the
locket to open--she had never guessed what she should find there; at
the utmost she looked to find a lock of hair; and the joy was almost as
overwhelming as a little while ago pain had been. Faith could hardly
see the picture for a long time; she called herself foolish, but she
cried and laughed the harder for joy; she reproached herself for past
ungratefulness and motions of discontent, which made her not deserve
this treasure; and the joy and the tears were but enhanced that way.
Faith could hardly believe her eyes, when they were clear enough to
see; it seemed,--what they looked at,--too good to be true; too
precious to be hers. But at last she was fain to believe it; and with
blushes that nobody saw, and a tiny smile that it was a pity somebody
_didn't_ see, she put the blue ribband round her neck and hid the
locket where she knew it was expected to find its place. But Faith
forgot her work, and her mother found her sitting there doing nothing,
looking with dreamy happy thoughtfulness into distance, or into
herself; all Miss Bezac's silks and stuffs neglected around her.
And work, diligent, happy, contented, continued, was the order of the
day, and of many days and weeks after. Miss Bezac giving out that she
would take as much work as was offered her, she and Faith soon had both
their hands completely full. The taste and skill of the little
dressmaker were so well acknowledged that even from Pequot there was
now many an application for her services; and many a lady from there
and from Pattaquasset, came driven in a wagon or a sleigh to Miss
Bezac's cottage door.