Saturday was but a half holiday to Mrs. Derrick's little family--unless
indeed they called their work play, which some of them did. It was
spent thus.
By Mrs. Derrick, in the kitchen, in the bed-rooms, all over the house
generally--with intervals at the oven door.
By Mr. Linden in the sitting-room, where Faith came from time to time
as she got a chance, to begin some things with him and learn how to
begin others by herself. The morning glided by very fast on such smooth
wheels of action, and dinner came with the first Natural Philosophy
lesson yet unfinished. It was finished afterwards however, and then Mr.
Linden prepared himself to go forth on some expedition, of which he
only said that it was a long one.
"I am going to petition to have tea half an hour later than usual
to-night, Miss Faith," he said.
"_Just_ half an hour later, Mr. Linden?" she said smiling. "You shall
have it when you like."
"I hope to be home by that time--if not don't wait for me. You will
find all the materials for your French exercise on my table."
Which intimation quickened Faith's steps about the little she had
beforehand to do, and also quickened a trifle the beating of her heart.
It was not quiet--timidity and pleasure were throbbing together, and
throbbing fast, when she turned her back upon the rest of the house and
went to Mr. Linden's room. She would have a good uninterrupted time
this afternoon, at any rate. And the materials were there, as he had
said,--all the materials; from books, open and shut, to the delicate
white paper, and a pen which might be the very one Johnny Fax thought
could write of itself. Faith stood and looked at them, and then sat
down to work, if ever such a determination was taken by human mind.
She had been a good while absorbed in her business when a knock came to
the front door, which Faith did not hear. Cindy however had ears to
spare, and presently informed Mrs. Derrick that a gentleman wished to
see her. And in the sitting-room Mrs. Derrick found Dr. Harrison.
"You haven't _forgotten to remember_ me, I hope, Mrs. Derrick," he said
as he took her hand. He looked very handsome, and very pleasant, as he
stood there before her, and his winning ease of manner was enough to
propitiate people of harder temper than the one he was just now dealing
with.
"No indeed!" said Mrs. Derrick; "I remember a great many things about
you,"--(as in truth she did.) "But I daresay you've changed a good deal
since then. You've been gone a great while, Dr. Harrison."
"Do you _hope_ I have changed?--or are you afraid I have?"
"Why I don't think I said I did either," said Mrs. Derrick smiling, for
she felt as if Dr. Harrison was an old acquaintance. "And I suppose it
makes more difference to you than to me, anyway." Which words were not
blunt in their intention, but according to the good lady's habit were a
somewhat unconscious rendering of her thoughts. "How's Miss Sophy,
after her holiday? I always think play's the hardest work that's done."
"I am very sorry you found it so!" said the doctor.
"You needn't be--" said Mrs. Derrick, rocking complacently and making
her knitting needles play in a style that certainly might be called
work,--"I've got over it now. To be sure I was tired to death, but I
like to be, once in a while."
The doctor laughed, as if, in a way, he had found his match.
"And how is Miss Derrick?" he asked. "If she was tired too, it was my
fault."
"I guess that 'll never be one of your faults, Dr. Harrison," said Mrs.
Derrick,--"it would take any amount of folks to tire _her_ out. She's
just like a bird always. O she's well, of course, or I shouldn't be
sitting here."
"And so like a bird that she lives in a region above mortal view, and
only descends now and then?"
"Yes, she does stay upstairs a good deal," said Mrs. Derrick, knitting
away. "Whenever she's got nothing to do down here. She's been down all
the morning."
"I can't shoot flying at this kind of game," said the doctor;--"I'll
endeavour to come when the bird is perched, next time. But in the
meanwhile, Miss Derrick seemed pleased the other night with these
Chinese illuminations--and Sophy took it into her head to make me the
bearer of one, that has never yet illuminated anything, hoping that it
will do that office for her heart with Miss Derrick. The heart will
bear inspection, I believe, with or without the help of the lantern."
And the doctor laid a little parcel on the table. Mrs. Derrick looked
at the parcel, and at the doctor, and knit a round or two.
"I'm sure she'll be very much obliged to Miss Harrison," she said. "But
I know I sha'n't remember all the message. I suppose _that_ won't
matter."
"Not the least," said the doctor. "The lantern is expected to throw
light upon some things. May I venture to give Mrs. Derrick another word
to remember, which must depend upon her kindness alone for its
presentation and delivery?"
Mrs. Derrick stopped knitting and looked all attention.
"It isn't much to remember," said the doctor laughing gently. "Sophy
wishes very much to have Miss Derrick go with her to-morrow afternoon.
She is going to drive to Deep River, and wished me to do my best to
procure Miss Derrick's goodwill, and yours, for this pleasure of her
company. Shall I hope that her wish is granted?"
Now Mrs. Derrick, though not quick like some other people, had yet her
own womanly instincts; and that more than one of them was at work now,
was plain enough. But either they confused or thwarted each other, for
laying down her work she said,
"I know she won't go--but I'll let her come and give her own answer;"
and left the room. For another of her woman's wits made her never send
Cindy to call Faith from her studies. Therefore she went up, and softly
opening the door of the study room, walked in and shut it after her.
"Pretty child," she said, stroking Faith's hair, "are you very busy?"
"Very, mother!"--said Faith looking up with a burning cheek and happy
face, and pen pausing in her hand. "What then?"--
"Wasn't it the queerest thing what I said that day at Neanticut!" said
Mrs. Derrick, quite forgetting Dr. Harrison in the picture before her.
"What, dear mother?"
"Why when I asked why you didn't get Mr. Linden to help you. How you do
write, child!"--which remark was meant admiringly.
"Mother!"--said Faith. "But it can be done"--she added with quiet
resolution.
"I'm sure it never could by me, in that style," said Mrs. Derrick,--"my
fingers always think they are ironing or making piecrust. But child,
here's Dr. Harrison--come for nobody knows what, except that Sophy took
it into her head to send her heart by him--as near as I can make out.
And he wants you to go to Deep River to-morrow. I said you
wouldn't--and then I thought maybe you'd better speak yourself. But if
you don't like to, you sha'n't. I can deal with him."
"I don't want to see Dr. Harrison, mother!--To-morrow?" said Faith.
"Yes--I will see him."
She rose up, laid her pen delicately out of her fingers, went down
stairs and into the sitting-room, where she confronted the doctor.
Faith was dressed as she had been at the party, with the single
exception of the blue ribband instead of the red oak leaves; and the
excitement of what she had been about was stirring both cheek and eye.
Perhaps some other stir was there too, for the flush was a little
deeper than it had been upstairs, but she met the doctor very quietly.
He thought to himself the lanterns had lent nothing with their
illumination the other night.
"No, sir," she said as he offered her a chair,--"I have something to
do;--but mother said--"
"Will the bird perch for no longer than this?" said the doctor, turning
with humourous appeal to Mrs. Derrick who had followed her.
"My birds do pretty much as they like, Dr. Harrison," said Mrs. Derrick
"They always did, even when I had 'em in cages."
"Then this bird is free now?"
"I guess you'd better talk to her--" said Mrs. Derrick, taking her seat
and her knitting again.
"Miss Derrick!" said the doctor obeying this direction with an
obeisance,--"you are free to command, and I can but obey. Will you go
with Sophy to-morrow to Deep River? I am not altogether uninterested,
as I hope to have the honour of driving you; but she sends her most,
earnest wish."
"To-morrow is Sunday, Dr. Harrison."
"Well--isn't Sunday a good day?"
"It isn't mine," said Faith gently.
"Not yours?" said the doctor. "You have promised it away, and we are so
unfortunate?"
Her colour rose a little, but it was with an eye as steady as it was
soft that she answered him.
"The day belongs to God, Dr. Harrison--and I have promised it, and
myself, away to him."
The doctor looked astonished for a minute. And he gazed at her.
"But, my dear Miss Derrick, do you think there is anything contrary to
the offices of religion in taking a pleasant drive, in a pleasant
country, in pleasant weather? that is all."
Faith smiled a little, gravely; it was very sweet and very grave.
"There are all the other days for that," she said. "God has given us
his work to be done on his day, Dr. Harrison; and there is so much of
it to do that I never find the day long enough."
"You are right!" he said--"You are quite right. You are a great deal
better than I am. I am sorry I asked you,--and yet I am glad.--Then
Miss Derrick, will you forgive me? and will you some other day shew
that you forgive me and be so good as to go with us?"
But Faith's interest in the subject was gone.
"I am very busy, sir," she said. "I have work to do that I do not wish
to put off."
"Cannot you go with us _at all?_ We will wait and make it any day?"
"Do not wait," said Faith. "I _could_ go, but I could not go with
pleasure, Dr. Harrison. I have not the time to spare, for that, nor for
more now. Please excuse me."
And she went.
"Mrs. Derrick," said the doctor musingly, "this is a winged creature, I
believe--but it is not a bird!"
At which Mrs. Derrick looked at him with a mingled satisfaction that he
had got his answer, and curiosity to know what he thought of it. For
the further she felt herself from her child's high stand, the more
presuming did she think it in any one to try to bring _her_ down from
it.
"If I thought, as I came here, that I walked on a higher level than the
generality of mankind, as perhaps in the vanity of my heart I did,--I
feel well put down on the ground now," pursued the doctor. "But Mrs
Derrick, when may I hope to see this winged thing of yours again?"
It must be confessed that Mrs. Derrick did not admire this speech,--'a
winged thing,' as she justly thought, was a somewhat indefinite term,
and might mean a flying grasshopper as well as a canary bird. Therefore
it was with some quickness that she replied,
"What sort of a winged thing are you talking of, doctor?"
"Nothing worse than a heavenly one, madam. But angel or cherub are such
worn-out terms that I avoided them."
He was standing yet where Faith left him, looking down gravely,
speaking half lightly, to her mother.
"I don't know who'll see her when she's an angel," said Mrs. Derrick,
with a little flush coming over her eyes. "But she wouldn't thank you
for calling her one now," she added presently, with her usual placid
manner. "Won't you sit down again, doctor?"
"May I ask," said he eying her, somewhat intent upon the answer,--"why
she wouldn't thank me for calling her one now?--by which I understand
that it would incur her displeasure."
"Why--why should she?" said Mrs. Derrick, who having dropped a stitch
was picking it up with intentness equal to the doctor's.
"True!" said the doctor in his usual manner. "Angels don't thank
mortals for looking at them. But Mrs. Derrick, when may such a poor
mortal as I, stand a chance of seeing this particular one again?"
Mrs. Derrick laid down her work.
"Well you _have_ changed!" she said, "there's no doubt of that! I don't
recollect that you used to care so much about seeing her when you were
here before. If I don't forget, you set your dog on her cat. And as to
when you'll see her again, I'm sure I can't tell, doctor. She's a busy
child, and folks out of the house have to do without seeing her till
she finds time to see them." Whereat Mrs Derrick smiled upon Dr.
Harrison with the happy consciousness that she was one of the folks in
the house.
The doctor stood smiling at her, with a half humourous, quite pleasant
expression of face.
"Set my dog on her cat!" he exclaimed. "_That_ is why she would be
angry with me for calling her a cherub!--
'Tantae ne animis celestibus irae!'"
The doctor sat down.
"What shall I do!" he said. "Advise me, Mrs. Derrick."
"I know what I should have done if I'd got hold of you," said Mrs.
Derrick. "I thought I never would speak to you again--but you see I've
got over it."
"I'm not sure of it," said the doctor meditatively. "'Folks out of the
house'--well! It strikes me I've been 'in' to little purpose this
afternoon."--He rose again. "Where is Mr. Linden? is he 'out', or 'in',
this fine day?"
"He's out this afternoon," said Mrs. Derrick. "I was thinking to ask
you if you wanted to see him, and then I knew it was no use."
"Yes, I should like to see him," said the doctor; "but as he is a
mortal like myself, I suppose I can find him another time by the use of
proper precautions."
And Dr. Harrison took his departure.
Mrs. Derrick on her part went upstairs again, and opening the door
merely peeped in this time.
"What is it, mother?"
"Are you busy yet, child?"
"Not quite through."
"I thought," said Mrs. Derrick stepping softly into the room, "that
we'd go down to the shore this afternoon, and maybe dig some clams. I
don't know but it's too late for that--we might ride down and see.
You're tired, pretty child--and other people won't like that a bit more
than I do."
"I'd like to go, mother--I'm almost done, and I'm not tired," Faith
said with happy eyes. "There is time, I guess, for Mr. Linden don't
want tea as early as usual. I'll come soon."
Mrs. Derrick withdrew softly, and again Faith was entirely lost in her
business. But she had nearly done now; the work was presently finished,
the books put up in order, and the papers, with the exercise on top;
and Faith stood a moment looking down at it. Not satisfied, but too
humble to have any false shame, too resolute to doubt of being
satisfied and of satisfying somebody else, by and by. And the
intellectual part of her exercise she thought, and with modest reason,
would satisfy him now. Then she went down to her mother, quite ready
for the beach or for anything else.
It was one of those very warm October days which unlearned people call
Indian summer,--the foreground landscape yellow with stubble fields and
sered forest, the distance blue with haze. So soft and still, that the
faint murmur of the wheels as they rolled along the sandy road sounded
as if at a distance, and the twittering birds alone set off the
silence. Now and then came a farm wagon loaded with glowing corn, then
the field where the bereaved pumpkins lay among the bundles of
cornstalks. Sportsmen passed with their guns, schoolboys with their
nut-bags, and many were the greetings Faith received; for since the day
at Neanticut every boy thought he had a right to take off his hat to
her. From the midst of his cornfield, Mr. Simlins gave them a wave of
his hand,--from the midst of its blue waters the Sound sent a fresh
welcome.
"I declare, child," said Mrs. Derrick, as they neared the shore, "it's
real pleasant!"
"The tide's out, mother," said Faith, who had the spirit of action upon
her to-day--"we can get some clams now, if we're quick."
"I don't know but you're learning to be spry, among other things," said
her mother looking at her. "I thought you were as spry as you could be,
before. What haven't you done to-day, child!"
Faith laughed a little, and then jumping out of the wagon and helping
her mother down, was certainly 'spry' in getting ready for the
clam-digging. Her white dress had been changed for a common one and
that was carefully pinned up, and a great kitchen apron was put on to
cover all but the edges of skirts as white as the white dress, and with
shoes and stockings off, basket and hoe in hand, she stood ready almost
before her mother had accomplished fastening up old Crab to her
satisfaction. Mrs. Derrick on her part prepared herself as carefully
for work (though not quite so evidently for play) and the two went down
to the flats. The tide was far out,--even the usual strips of water
were narrow and far apart. Wherever they could, the little shell-fish
scrambled about and fought their miniature battles in one-inch water;
but at the edge of the tall shore-grass there was no water at all,
unless in the mud, and the shell-fish waited, by hundreds, for the
tide. Here was the scene of action for the two ladies. Walking daintily
over the warm mud with their bare feet, which however white and
twinkling at first were soon obliged to yield to circumstances;
disturbing the little shell-fish--who in turn disturbed them, by very
titillating little attacks upon the aforesaid feet,--Mrs. Derrick and
Faith marched up to the edge of the grass and there sought for clam
holes. The war went on after this fashion. A clam hole being found, the
hoe was struck far down into the mud to _unearth_ the inhabitant; which
the clam resenting, spit up into the intruder's face. But the
intruder--proof against such small fire--repeated the strokes, and the
clam was soon brought to light and tumbled ignominiously into the
basket,--to be followed every second or two by another of his
companions; for the clam holes were many. The basket was soon full, but
not before the cool ripple of the tide had passed the muscle rocks and
was fast coming in-shore.
"Well I do think play's hard work!" said Mrs. Derrick, bringing herself
once more to an erect position--"I told Dr. Harrison so this morning.
How you and Mr. Linden stand it, Faith, I don't know."
"What, mother?" said Faith, making a descent upon another promising
clam shell. But Mrs. Derrick always preferred to go on with her remarks.
"It's good he's doing it, for his own sake, I guess," she said,--"he's
done nothing but work ever since he came to Pattaquasset."
"Doing what, mother?" said Faith. "What _are_ you talking of?"
"Why I'm talking of you, child!" said her mother,--"you and Mr. Linden.
One of you played all the morning and the other's going to play all the
afternoon. But I think you've done enough, Faith--it won't do to get
sick so long as we've nobody but Dr. Harrison to depend on. I don't
believe _he_'s much of a doctor."
"Played all the morning?" said Faith taking up her basket,--"it was
better than play to me. I wish I could do something for _him_, mother!"
Very gravely, and even a little sorrowfully, the last words were said.
"Why yes," said Mrs. Derrick stoutly. "Never tell me it's anything but
play to teach you, child--he didn't look as if it was, neither. I
thought he got his pay as he went along."
Faith knew he had looked so; but that was not Faith--it was Mr. Linden,
in her account.
"Dr. Harrison ought to be a good doctor, mother," she remarked, leaving
the subject. "He has had chance enough."
"La, child," said Mrs. Derrick, untying her apron, "chance don't prove
anything. A man may have just as good a chance to kill as he has to
cure. By which I don't mean that _he_ has, for I don't know."
"The tide is coming in, mother. We came just in the very point of the
time. How pretty it is!--" said Faith; standing in the blue mud, with
her bare feet, and with the basket of clams in her hand, but standing
still to look off at the flats and the dark water and the hazy opposite
shore, all with the sunny stillness and the soft enveloping haze of
October lying lovingly upon them. Faith thought of the 'glory' again,
and watched to see how water and shore and flats and sky were all
touched with it. One or two sails on the Sound could not get on; they
lay still in the haze like everything else; and the 'glory' was on them
too. She thought so. It seemed to touch everything. And another glory
touched everything,--the glory of truth Faith had only for a little
while come to know. She recognized it; there was 'light from heaven' in
more senses than one; the glow of joy and hope unknown a while before;
the softening veil of mind-peace over whatever might be harsh or sharp
in actual reality. She did not run out all the parallel, but she felt
it, and stood looking with full eyes. Not full of tears, but of
everything pleasant beside.
Then came the drive home, with the air darkening every minute, but
notwithstanding this, Mrs. Derrick stopped by the way.
"Faith," she said, "hold the reins, child--I won't be a second, but
I've got something to see to in here;" and Faith was once more left to
her meditations.
Not for long; for as she sat gazing out over old Crab's ears, she was
'ware' of some one standing by the wagon: it was Squire Deacon.
"I shall commence to think I'm a lucky man, after all!" said the
Squire. "I was coming down to see you, Miss Faith,--and couldn't just
resolve my mind to it, neither. I wanted to pay a parting visit."
"Were you?--are you going away, Squire Deacon?"
"Why yes," said the Squire, looking down at his gun--for he had been
shooting,--"I've had considerable thoughts of taking a turn down to
York. Cilly says she don't think it's worth my while--but I guess she
don't know much more 'n her own concerns. Pattaquasset's a good deal
come round this season," he added, without specifying which way.
"Do you mean that you intend to forsake Pattaquasset entirely?" said
Faith, noticing the comfortable supply of ducks in the Squire's bag.
"Well I can't just say--I'm not free to certify," said the Squire. "I
said I thought it was worth my while to go, and so I do. I should like
to know from your lips, Miss Faith, whether you'll make it worth my
while to come back."
Faith was very glad it was so dark.
"I don't see how I can touch the question either way, sir," she said
gently and with not a little difficulty.--"Wherever you are, I hope
you'll be very happy, and very good, Squire Deacon."
"I should like something a little better grown than that, ma'am," said
the Squire, striking his gun on the ground. "I can't just tell whether
_that_'s wheat or oats. It's likely _my_ meaning's plain enough."
Faith was dumb for a minute.
"I believe I understood you, sir," she said in a low voice. "I meant to
answer you."
"Well what's to hinder your doing it, then?" said Squire Deacon.
"I thought I had done it," said Faith. "I have nothing to do with the
question of your coming or going anywhere, sir,--and can't
have,--except to wish you well, which I do heartily."
"That's your ultimate, is it, Miss Faith?"
"No, sir," said Faith, conquering the beating of her heart. "Squire
Deacon, I want to see you _in heaven_."
And she stretched out to him her little hand frankly over the side of
the wagon.
Squire Deacon took it for a moment--then dropped it as if it had burnt
his fingers. And then with a voice in which whether sorrow or anger
prevailed Faith could not tell, he said--
"Well--I don't blame _you_,--never did and never shall. Cunning's been
too much for me this time." And he took up his gun and strode off, just
as Mrs. Derrick opened the house door and came out to take her place in
the wagon again.
"Dear mother!" said Faith,--"why didn't you come sooner!"
"Why I couldn't, child!" said Mrs. Derrick. "That woman always will
tell one every pain and ache she's had since the year one. What's the
matter?--why didn't you tie Crab and come in, if you were lonesome."
Faith was silent.
"What's the matter?" repeated her mother,--"have you been getting sick
after all I said to you?"
"Squire Deacon has been here talking to me," said Faith in a low tone.
"Well then you had company, I'm sure. What did he talk about? Come,
Crab!--get on, sir!"
"He says he is going away from Pattaquasset, and he lays it to me,
mother," she said after some hesitancy again.
"What does he lay it to you, for?" said Mrs. Derrick. "I don't believe
he's going away, to begin with."
"He wanted me to say something to bring him back again," said Faith
lower yet.
"O is that all!" said Mrs. Derrick composedly. "I knew that gun was
loaded, long ago. Well what's the harm if he did?--it's not dangerous."
"I'm sorry," said Faith. "But mother, do make Crab get on!--it's time."
"It's not late," said Mrs. Derrick. "And don't you fret about Sam
Deacon, child,--he always was a little goose--till he got to be a big
one; but you needn't think he'll ever shoot himself for love of
you,--he loves himself better than that."
And at this point, Crab--roused by the thought of his own supper--set
off at a good round trot which soon brought them home. There was nobody
there, however, not even Cindy; so the need of haste did not seem to
have been urgent. Faith soon had the kitchen fire in order, and her
clams in the pot, and was for the next half hour thoroughly busy with
them. Then she made herself ready for tea, and the mother and daughter
sat together by the lamp, the one with her knitting the other with her
book. But the extra half hour was already past.
"Faith," said Mrs. Derrick at last, "why wouldn't Mr. Linden do the
other thing you asked him to?"
Faith looked up suddenly from her book, as if not understanding the
question; then her head and her voice drooped together.
"I haven't asked him yet, mother."
"I didn't know but he'd some objection," said Mrs. Derrick. "Well I
wish he'd come--I want my supper. I'm as tired as tired can be,
paddling round there in the mud. How did you like your lantern, child?"
she said as the clock struck half past seven.
Faith raised her head and listened first to the clock and for any sound
that might be stirring near the house; then answered,
"I haven't looked at it, mother."
"What do you think of having supper?"
"Before Mr. Linden comes, mother?--well, if you like it, I'll get you
yours--the clams are ready."
"I don't care," said her mother,--"I'm more sleepy than hungry. I'll
just lie down here on the sofa, Faith, and you can wake me up when you
hear him." And disregarding the cooked clams in the kitchen, Mrs.
Derrick went to sleep and dug them all over again.
The clock ticked on,--softly, steadily, from the half hour to the hour,
and from the hour to the half. Out of doors there was nothing stirring,
unless the owl stirred between his unmusical notes, or Mr. Skip's dog
did something but howl. Hardly a wagon passed, hardly a breath moved
the leaves. Cindy, on her part, was lost in the fascination of some
neighbouring kitchen.
And Faith at first had been lost in her study. But the sounding of
eight o'clock struck on more than the air, and she found, though she
tried, she could not shut herself up in her book any more. Mrs. Derrick
slept profoundly; her breathing only made the house seem more still.
Faith went to the window to look, and then for freer breath and vision
went to the door. It was not moonlight; only the light of the stars was
abroad, and that still further softened by the haze or a mistiness of
the air which made it thicker still. Faith could see little, and could
hear nothing, though eyes and ears tried well to penetrate the still
darkness of the road, up and down. It was too chill to stay at the
porch, now with this mist in the air; and reluctantly she came back to
the sitting-room, her mother sleeping on the sofa, her open study book
under the lamp, the Chinese lantern in its packing paper. Faith had no
wish to open it now. There was no reason to fear anything, that she
knew; neither was she afraid; but neither could she rest. Half past
eight struck. She went to the window again, and very gravely sat down
by it.
She had sat there but few minutes when there came a rush of steps into
the porch, and Cindy burst into the little sitting-room, almost too out
of breath to speak.
"Here's a proclamation!" she said--"Mr. Linden's been shot at dreadful,
and Jem Waters is down to fetch Dr. Harrison. I'm free to confess they
say he aint dead yet."
With which pleasing announcement, Cindy rushed off again, out of the
room and out of the house, being seized with a sudden fear that Jem
Waters would forestall her in spreading the news. The noise had awaked
Mrs. Derrick, and she sat looking at Faith as if she was first in her
thoughts. Faith stood before her with a colourless face, but perfectly
quiet, though at first she looked at her mother without speaking.
"Come here, pretty child," said her mother, "and sit down by me."
"Mother," said Faith,--but she would not have known her own
voice,--"something has happened."
But the way Mrs. Derrick's arms came round her, said that she too had
heard.
"Where can he be, mother?" said Faith gently disengaging herself.
"I don't know, child."
Faith was already at the door.
"Faith!" her mother said, following her with a quick step,--"stop,
child!"
Faith put back a hand as if to stop _her_--she was listening.
There was not a sound. Faith went down the steps and stood at the gate.
Not a sound still; and her mother said softly, "Faith, you must not go
out."
She put one hand on her mother's arm, and clasping it stood without
stirring; her other hand on the gate. In mingled sorrow and fear her
mother stood, not knowing well what to do or what to say,--in that
emergency where woman can only endure--where she is powerless but to
suffer. Faith stood without moving head or hand.
And so they remained, they knew not how long, until Cindy once more
presented herself and told her story more at length.
"You see I was down to Mis' Somerses, and so was Dr. Harrison; and Jem
Waters come there for him. And Jem he makes, up to Mis' Somerses Jenny,
and to-night he wouldn't hardly speak to her--wouldn't no how tell what
he come for. So then Jenny got mad and she went and listened; and she
said Jem wanted to catch up Dr. Harrison and run off with him--and the
doctor he wanted his horse. I don' know how they settled it but I'm
free to confess I'm sleepy "--and Cindy once more disappeared, and the
stillness settled down over all.