The Hudson river railway, on a summer Saturday afternoon. Does
everybody know it? If not, let me tell the people who have not tried
it, or those more unfortunate ones who are tried by it, and driven into
the depths of newspapers and brown literature by the steam pressure of
mountains, clouds, and river, that it is glorious. Not on a dusty
afternoon, but when there has been or is a shower. Not the locomotive,
or the tender, or the cars, though the long chain has a sort of
grandeur, as its links wind into the bays and round the promontories,
express. But get a river-side seat, and keep your patience up the
lumbered length of Tenth Avenue, and restrain your impatience as the
train goes at half-stroke along that first bit of road where people are
fond of getting on the track; watch the other shore, meantime, or the
instructive market gardens on this; then feel the quickened speed, as
the engine gets her "head;" then use your eyes. Open your windows
boldly; people don't get cold from our North river air; never mind the
sun; hold up a veil or a fan; only look. See how the shore rises into
the Palisades, up which the March of Improvement finds such uncertain
footing: how the rising points of hill are rounded with shadow and
sunlight, and green from river to crown. See how the clouds roll softly
up on the further side, giving showers here and there--how the
white-winged vessels sail and careen and float. Look up the river from
Peekskill, and see how the hills lock in and part. Think of the train
of circumstances that rushed down Arnold's point that long ago morning,
where a so different train now passes. Mark the rounding outlines of
the green Highlands, and as you near Garrisons' let your eye follow the
sunbeam that darts down the little mill creek just opposite the tunnel.
Then on through those beloved hills, till they fall off right and left,
and you are out upon Newburgh bay in the full glory of the sunset.
After this (if you are tired looking) you may talk for a while, till
the blue heads of the Catskill catch your eye and hold it.
The blue range was a dim outline--hardly that--when Faith reached her
journey's end that night. She could hear the dash of the river, and see
the brilliant stars, but all details waited for morning; and the
morning was Sunday. Balmy, cloudless, the very air put Faith almost in
Elysium; and between dreamy enjoyment, and a timid sense of her own new
name and position, she would have liked for herself an oriole's nest on
one of the high branches. Failing that, she seemed--as her hostess and
again an old friend of Mr. Linden's told him--"like a very rosebud; as
sweet, and as much shut up to herself."
Truth to tell, she kept something of the same manner and seeming next
day. The house was very full, and of a very gay set of people; of whom
Faith's friend, Mr. Motley, was one. Faith met their advances
pleasantly, but she was daintily shy. And besides, the scene and the
time were full of temptations to dream over the out-of-door beauty. The
people amused her, but often she would rather have lost them in the
hills or the sunset; and was for various reasons willing that others
should talk while she looked.
So passed the first two days, and the third brought an excursion, which
kept the whole party out till lunch-time. But towards the end of the
day Mr. Linden was witness to a little drama which let him know
something more of Faith than he had just seen before.
It was near the time of dressing for dinner. Mr. Linden was already
dressed and had come to the library, where, in a deep recess on one
side of the window, he was busy with a piece of study. The window was
very large, and opened upon a green terrace; and on the terrace, in a
garden chair, just outside the open window, sat Faith; quietly and
intensely, he knew, enjoying the broad river and the mountain range
that lay blue in the sunlight a few miles beyond; all in the soft still
air of the summer day. She distracted Mr. Linden's thoughts from his
study. He could see her perfectly, though he was quite out of her view.
She was in one of the dainty little morning dresses he had sent her
from the place of pretty things; nothing could be more simple, and it
suited her; and she looked about as soft and still as the day.
Meanwhile some gentlemen had entered the library, and drew near the
window. Faith was just out of their range, and Mr. Linden was
completely hid in his recess, or doubtless their remarks would have had
a different bearing The remarks turned upon Faith, who was here as well
as in New York an object of curiosity to those who had known Mr.
Linden; and one of the speakers expressed himself as surprised that
"Linden" should have married her.
"Wouldn't have thought it,--would you?" said Mr. Motley. "To be sure;
he's able to do all the talking."
"She does very well for the outside," said another. "Might satisfy
anybody. Uncommon eyes."
"Eyes!" said Mr. Motley. "Yes, she has eyes!--and a mouth. I suppose
Linden gets some good of it--if nobody else does. And after all, to
find a woman that is all eyes and no tongue, is, as you remark,
uncommon."
"She's not quite stylish enough for him," said a third. "I thought
Linden would have married a brilliant woman."
"He'll be a brilliant man, if you tell him that," said Mr. Motley.
"Corruscations, and so forth. I never thought I should see him
bewitched--even by a rose leaf monopoly."
The conversation was interrupted. It had not been one which Mr. Linden
could very well break; all he could do was to watch Faith. He could see
her slightly-bent head and still face, and the colour which grew very
bright upon the cheek nearest him. She was motionless till the last
words were broken off; then, with a shy movement of one hand to her
cheek, covering it, she sprang away, as lightly as any bird she was
ever named after.
Mr. Linden was detained in the library, where, as the dinner-hour drew
near, other members of the family began to gather. A group of these
were round the table, discussing an engraving; when Mr. Linden saw
Faith come in. He was no longer in the dangerous recess; but Faith did
not come near him; she joined the party at the table. Mr. Linden
watched her. Faith's dressing was always a quiet affair; to-day somehow
the effect was very lovely. She wore a soft muslin which flowed about
her in full draperies; with a breast-knot of roses on its white folds.
Faith rarely put on flowers that Mr. Linden had not given her. To-day
was an exception; and her white robe with no setting off but those
roses and her rich hair, was faultless. Not merely that; the effect was
too striking to be absolutely quiet; all eyes were drawn to her.
The gentlemen whom she had heard speak were among the party; and no
eyes were more approving. Mr. Linden watched, as he might, without
being seen to watch. Faith joined not only the party, but the
conversation; taking her place in it frankly; showing no unwillingness
to give opinions or to discuss them, and no desire to avoid any subject
that came up. She was taking a new stand among these strangers. Mr.
Linden saw it, and he could guess the secret reason; no one else could
guess that there was anything to give a reason for, so coolly, so
naturally, it was done. But the stand was taken. Faith had not stepped
in the least out of her own bounds; she had abated not a whit of her
extreme modesty. She was never more herself, only it was as if she had
laid down a self-indulgent shyness which she had permitted herself
before, and allowed Mr. Linden's friends to become acquainted with Mr.
Linden's wife. But with herself! Her manner to-day was exceedingly like
her dress; the plainest simplicity, the purest quality, and the roses
blushing over all. It fascinated the gentlemen, every one of them. They
found that the little demure piece of gravity could talk; and talk with
a truth and freshness of thought too, which was like the rest of her,
uncommon and interesting, soft and free, at once. Faith went off to
dinner on the arm of one of her maligners, and was very busy with
company all the evening after, having little to do with Mr. Linden.
She had escaped to her room earlier than he, however; and when he came
in she was sitting thoughtfully before the open window. She rose up
directly, and came to him, with the usual smile, and with a little
hidden triumph dancing in her eyes, and an odd wistful look besides of
affection and humility. She only came close to him for a caress,
without speaking. Mr. Linden took her face in both hands and looked at
it--a beautiful smile mingling with the somewhat moved look of his own.
"What a child you are!"
The colour rushed all over Faith's cheeks.
"Why?--" she whispered. The answer to which, cheeks and brow, and lips,
might spell out as best they could.
"Do you know why I did not come with your flowers,
Mignonette?"--"Before dinner?--no. I got some for myself."
"I was on my way for them, and was entrapped and held fast. My little
Mignonette! I never thought to have you put your hand to your cheek in
that way again!"
"Again, Endecott! Who told you?" said Faith, as usual jumping to
conclusions.
"Who told me what, my beauty?"
Faith's eye fell in doubt, then looked up searchingly.
"I believe you know everything; but you don't look displeased. How
_did_ you know, Endecott?"--"I saw and heard. And have seen and heard
since," he added, smiling.
A question or two found out exactly how it had been; and then Faith put
the inquiry, simple to quaintness, "Did I do better to-day?"--"If you
are so anxious for me--" he said, stroking back her hair. "They did not
deserve to have one of my wife's words, but her words were admirable."
It was worth while to see Faith's cheeks.
"Will you trust me to ride with Mr. Middleton to-morrow?" she asked
presently, smiling.
"No. Yes--I will trust you but not him."
"Does that mean that you will trust me to go?"--"Not with him."
"But what shall I do?" said Faith, flushing after a different
fashion--half laughing too--"I told him I would go, or that I thought I
would go."
"Tell him that you think you will not."
Faith looked a little troubled: she foresaw a charge of questions she
did not like to meet.
"Are you afraid of the horse, Endy?" she said, after a pause, a little
timidly. "No, darling."
Faith was pretty just now, as she stood with her eyes cast down: like a
generous tempered horse first feeling the bit; you can see that the
creature will be as docile as possible, yet he is a little shy of your
curb. Anything like control was absolutely new to her; and though her
face was never more sweet, there was with that a touch of embarrassment
which made an inexpressibly pretty mixture. Mr. Linden might well be
amused and touched, and charmed too, all in one.
"Mr. Motley asked me to ride too," she said after a minute, blushing a
little deeper, and speaking as if it were a supplement to her former
words. "He wanted to show me the Belle Spring. I had better give them
both the same answer."
"Has nobody else preferred his request? they are just the two people
with whom I do not want you to ride," said Mr. Linden, smiling. "I
shall have to ask you myself, or claim you. Mrs. Linden, may I have the
honour?"--Faith gave him a very bright answer of a smile, but with a
little secret wish in her heart that the other people had not asked her.
Her denial, however, was perfectly well taken by Mr. Motley; not indeed
without a little bantering talk and raillery upon the excessive care
Mr. Linden bestowed on her. But Mr. Middleton, she saw, was not pleased
that she disappointed him. Within two or three days Faith had become
unmistakeably the centre of attraction to all the gentlemen of the
neighbourhood. To walk with her, to talk to her, to attend upon her,
were not a coveted honour merely, but a coveted pleasure. It was found
wonderfully refreshing to talk to Faith: her eyes were something
pleasant to look at, for more than George Alcott; and the truth of her
enjoyment and gratitude made it a captivating thing to be the means of
exciting them.
Mr. Middleton was one of those men who think very much indeed of the
value of their approbation, and never bestow it but where they are sure
the honour of their taste and judgment is like to be the gainer--one of
those men who in ordinary keep their admiration for themselves, and
bestow in that quarter a very large amount. Faith's refusal to ride
with him touched him very disagreeably. It was impossible to be
offended with her, but perhaps all the more he was offended with
somebody; and it happened unluckily that some reported light words of
Mr. Motley about Mr. Linden's care of his wife, and especial distrust
of the gentlemen who had asked her to ride, reached Mr. Middleton's ear
in a very exaggerated and opprobrious form. Mr. Middleton did not know
Mr. Linden, nor know much of him; his bottled-up wrath resolved that
Mr. Linden should not continue long in his reciprocal ignorance. And so
it fell out, that as this week began with showing Mr. Linden something
of Faith that he had not seen before, it did not end without giving her
a new view of him.
It was a captivating summer morning when the cavalcade set forth from
Rye House, on a picnic to Alderney, one of the show places in the
neighbourhood. It seemed fairyland to Faith. The beautiful country over
which they travelled, in summer's luxuriance of grass and grain; the
river rolling below at a little distance, sometimes hidden only to
burst upon the view again; and towering above all, unchanged beyond the
changing lights and shades of the nearer landscape, the long mountain
range. The air was perfection; the sounds of voice and laughter and
horses' brisk feet helped the exhilaration, and the lively colours and
fashion of caps and habits and feathers made pretty work for the eye.
Faith's ears and eyes were charmed. At a cross road the party was
joined by Mr. Middleton; whose good humour, at present in a
loose-jointed state, was nowise improved at the sight of Faith. She
rode then, at any rate; and she sat well and rode fearlessly, that he
could see; and his eye keen for such things, noted too the neat
appointments of her dress, and saw that they were all right, and fitted
her, and she fitted them; and that her figure altogether was what no
man might dislike to have beside him, even a man so careful of his
appearance as Mr. Middleton. Not near Faith did he come; but having
noted all these things with gathering ire, he sheered off to another
part of the troop.
It was a pretty day to Faith, the whole first part of it. The ride, and
the viewing the grounds they went to see. These were indeed naturally
very noble; and to Faith's eyes every new form of natural beauty, of
which her range had hitherto been so very small, was like a fresh
draught of water to thirsty lips. It was a great draught she had this
morning, and enjoyed almost to the forgetfulness of everything else.
Then came the lunch. And that was picturesque, too, certainly; on such
a bank, under such trees, with such a river and mountains in front; and
Faith enjoyed it and them so far. But it was splendid too, and noisy;
and her thoughts went at one time away very far, to Kildeer river, and
remembered a better meal taken under the trees, with better talk, and
only Bob Tuck to look at them. She stole a glance at Mr. Linden. He was
doing his part, and making somebody very comfortable indeed--Faith half
smiled to see it.
Mr. Middleton at another part of the assembled company, had been
getting his temper up with wine and his ill humour with the various
suggestions and remarks of some careless gossipers at his side. Finding
that he winced under the mention of Mrs. Linden and the ride, they gave
him that subject with as many variations as the Katydid polka,--the
simple "She did"--(or rather "She _didn't_")--skilfully diversified and
touched up,--which brought Mr. Middleton's heavy piece of displeasure,
already primed, loaded, and at full cock, to the very point where his
temper struck fire. He left the table and drew towards Mr. Linden, who
was talking in the midst of a group of ladies and gentlemen. Middleton
knew which was he that was all.
"You, sir!" he said, like a surly bull-dog, which term describes both
his mental and physical features, "my name's Middleton; I want you to
take back what you've said about me."
Mr. Linden at the moment was in the full tide of German talk with one
of his old fellow students from abroad; his excellent poise and play of
conversation and manner setting off the gesticulations of the
foreigner. With a look of more surprise than anything else he brought
eyes and attention to bear upon Mr. Middleton.
"What, sir?" he said.
"Will you take back what you've said about me?" The dogged wrath of the
man was beyond the use of many words, to which indeed he was never
given.
"I have not said anything, sir, which requires that." And with a bend
of the head, cool and courteous as his words, Mr. Linden dismissed the
subject; and placing himself on the grass with his friend and some
others, fell back into the German. Middleton followed fuming.
"I've come to speak to you!" he said, beginning with an execration,
"and you must get up and answer me. Will you take back what you said?"
Stooping down, he had thrown these words into Mr. Linden's ear in a way
to leave no doubt whom they were meant for.
"I have answered you, sir."
"That is to tell you what I think of it!" said Middleton, dashing in
his face the remains of a glass of wine which he had brought with him
from the board on purpose.
He was on his feet then! with what a spring! as in the fairy tale the
beautiful princess of a sudden became a sword. Just such eyes of fire
Mr. Middleton had never been privileged to see. But Faith saw the hands
drop and grasp each other, she saw the eyes fall, and the colour go and
come and go again, with a rush and swiftness that was startling to see.
Absolutely motionless, the very breath kept down, so he stood. And even
his assailant gazed, in a sort of spell-bound wonder. The twittering
birds overhead, how they carolled; how softly the leaves rustled, and
the river sent up its little waves: and the sunshine and shadow crept
on, measuring off the seconds. The pure peace and beauty of everything,
the hush of human voices, were but the setting of the deep human
struggle. The victory came.
With a face from which at last the colour had taken its permanent
departure, Mr. Linden looked up and spoke; and something made the very
low tones ring in the air.
"I have said nothing about you which needed apology, Mr. Middleton. You
have been misinformed, sir." And with that same bend of dismissal Mr.
Linden drew himself up and walked away, bareheaded as he was. The trees
hid him in a moment.
Then there came a stir.
"What a coward!" cried George Alcott, pressing forward, "to do that to
a man who you knew wouldn't knock you down!"
The young German had started up, sputtering strange things in his
native tongue.
"Mr. Linden is an excellent commentator," said one young lady, who took
the liberty of speech pretty freely. "How clear he makes it that 'The
discretion of a man deferreth his anger; and it is his glory to pass by
a transgression.'"
"I really thought," said Mr. Motley, in a make-believe whisper, "when
Middleton first came up, that he had been taking a glass too much, but
now I see that he took just half a glass too little!"
"Sir," said Colonel Rye, stepping forward, a man of most noble
character and presence both, "Mr. Linden is my guest and friend, you
must answer this to me."
Before Mr. Middleton could make answer, Faith had come in between and
laid hold of the Colonel's hand. She was white, and quiet, but she
could not at once speak. All around stood still.
"Sir," she said, in words that were well heard for everybody held his
breath, "Colonel Rye, this is Mr. Linden's affair."
"I beg your pardon, my dear young lady--it is mine."
"No, sir," said Faith he felt how eagerly her fingers grasped his, "it
is in Mr. Linden's hands. He forgives Mr. Middleton entirely."
"I don't forgive him!" said the Colonel, shortly.
"Sir," said Faith, "Colonel Rye, this is not what Mr. Linden would
wish. Endecott will tell you, sir, that he has passed it by. Don't undo
what he has done! No true friend of Mr. Linden will make any more of
this."
"I am willing to answer it to anybody," said Middleton, gruffly, but as
if half ashamed of himself.
"There is nothing to answer to any one," said Faith, quitting the
Colonel, and turning to him; her face was so white and gentle that it
smote him, and those very steady sweet eyes had a power in them just
now that broke his doggedness. "There is nothing to answer to any one,
unless Mr. Middleton," (how soft her voice was), "unless you find you
were wrong, and choose to tell Mr. Linden, which I dare say you will.
Colonel Rye, will you see, for Mr. Linden's honour, that this goes to
no harm?"--The extreme gentleness and the steady firmness of Faith
ruled them all; and at her last appeal the Colonel's only answer was to
take her in his arms and kiss her, an acknowledgment Faith would
willingly have gone without. But it was good for a promise.
"Mr. Alcott," she said seeking him in the group, "you said we would go
down the bank--." Faith did not finish her sentence, but he saw her
wish to finish it by action.
She went with him till they were out of sight and away from everybody;
then slipped her arm from his and begging him not to wait for her sat
down on the grass. For a while she sat very still, whether her heart
was fuller of petition or thanksgiving she hardly knew. She would have
rejoined Mr. Alcott much sooner if she had guessed he was waiting for
her--like an outpost among the trees; but all the time had not brought
back Faith's colour. After a while, other steps came swiftly over the
turf as she sat there, and before she had raised her head it was lifted
up for her.
"My precious wife! what are you doing here?" Very low the tones were,
very grave, very tender.
Faith sprang, and after an exploring glance into his face, knelt on the
grass beside him and threw her arms round his neck, pressing her cheek
very close as if she would take off or share the affront that had been
offered to his. That for a minute--and then changing characters--she
raised her head and pushing the hair back from his brow with her soft
hurried fingers, she covered that and his face with kisses--with a kind
of eager tenderness that could not say enough nor put enough love and
reverence into every touch. All this while she was still; she did not
shed tears at all, as some women would have done; and she said not one
word.
Perhaps surprise made him passive: perhaps the soothing of her caresses
was too sweet and too much needed to be interrupted, even by a return.
He let her have her way, nor even raised his eyes. One arm indeed was
round her, but it left her free to do what she liked. If Faith needed
any light on what the morning's work had been, it was furnished by
those few minutes. Only at last, with a sudden motion Mr. Linden
brought her lips to his, and gave her back principal and interest.
"You blessed child!" he said. "Are you a veritable angel already?"--"I
should have brought you a palm-branch, Endy." For almost the first time
he had ever heard it so, Faith's voice was unsteady.
Had she not done it? Mr. Linden did not say so, as he took grave note
of her pale cheeks. Presently rising up he passed his arm round her,
and took her up the bank to the rest of the party, nor let go his hold
till she was seated between Mrs. Rye and himself. Then from the fern
leaf in his hand, he proceeded to give them both an account of ferns in
general--living and fossil, extant and extinct; with his usual happy
skill and interest, and--except that the lips never broke into a
smile--with just his usual manner. And never had the grave depth of eye
been more beautiful, more clear. Not Faith alone watched it with loving
admiration, but no one any more than she ventured word or look of
sympathy.
When at last the various groups began to draw in towards a centre, and
ladies put on their riding hats, and grooms were buckling girths again,
Mr. Middleton with two or three others was seen advancing towards Mr.
Linden's quarter. Mrs. Rye rose hastily.
"I am sorry to find that I made a mistake, sir," said Middleton, with a
sort of unwilling courtesy; "I was under misinformation--and I was not
aware of your profession. I beg your pardon for what has occurred."
Mr. Linden had risen too, and with folded arms and the most unmoved
face stood watching the party as they came up.
"It is granted," he said, offering his hand. "But permit me to say, Mr.
Middleton, that you made a third mistake, equally great if the other
two had not existed."
Mr. Middleton's private thoughts were perhaps not clearly disentangled.
At all events he had no desire to multiply words, and turned off.
"So, he has spoken, has he!" said Colonel Rye, coming up. "Like a bear,
I dare say. Why do you think I didn't fight him, Endecott?"
A smile came over Mr. Linden's face then--bright and stirred.
"I think, sir, you yielded to Mignonette's power, as I did long ago."
"You?--Did he?" said the Colonel, turning.--"No, sir; never!" said
Faith, laughing and blushing till her cheeks were brilliant. The
Colonel smiled at her.
"My dear," said he, "you conquered me! and I don't believe any other
man more invincible than myself. Is this your horse? No, Motley; no,
George; she is going to have an old cavalier for her ride home."
And much to Faith's pleasure, so she had.