At which remark Sam took Faith's hand with a bow of great perplexity and reverence, and Reuben drew near and waited for the flowers.
"Give them to her from Mr. Linden," said Faith, rosy red, as she put them in his keeping;—"she will like that best, Reuben."
Reuben thought he knew how to combine the two messages, and the boys went off just as the coffee-pot came in.
"Faith," said Mr. Linden coming back to sit down by her, "here is a rosebud so much like you that I think I ought to wear it. What do you consider the most appropriate way?"
"How do gentlemen wear flowers?—You'll have to stick it in a buttonhole," said Faith half grave and half laughing,—"if it must be worn."
"But that is to treat it as a common flower!"
"You'll have to treat it so," said Faith glancing from the rosebud to him.
"Look at it," said Mr. Linden,—"do you see how very lovely it is?"
She did look at it, more closely, and then at him with an appeal of grave remonstrance, deep though unspoken. But it was met defiantly.
"If I am to wear this, Mignonette, you must put it in place."
Faith was a little shy of even doing so much, and besides was aware that her mother as well as the coffee-pot had come upon the scene. However she took the flower and succeeded in attaching it securely where she thought it ought to go, on the breast of Mr. Linden's waistcoat; by which time the resemblance between the two rosebuds was perfect, and striking; and Faith drew back to her breakfast, glad to have everybody's attention diverted to coffee, which she declared was good with cowslips. It may be said that the diversion was not immediate; for though her chair was at once wheeled round to the table, yet Faith had to take her thanks then and there—in full defiance of Mrs Derrick's presence. After that, however, Mr. Linden—to do him justice—did change the subject.
Cowslips and coffee went on well till near the end of breakfast, which to say truth had been rather prolonged as well as delayed; and then there came a front door knock. It was of no use for Faith to start, for breakfast was not absolutely finished; and the next minute who should come in from the hall but Miss Essie de Staff. As fresh as possible, in white dress and black silk apron; her black hair from which she had drawn off the sunbonnet, in shining order; the black eyes as well! Perhaps they dilated on first seeing the party; more sparkling they could not be. She advanced at a moderate pace towards the table, looking and speaking.
"Mrs. Derrick!—I didn't know you were such late people. I have come to run away with your daughter, and thought I should find the coast clear. Mr. Linden! I didn't know Pattaquasset was so happy as to have you back, sir."
"We have breakfast late for Faith's sake," said Mrs. Derrick, while Mr. Linden rose and gave the lady first his hand and then a chair, remarking that the happiness of Pattaquasset was pleasant news to him too.
"But Faith's well again, isn't she?" said Miss Essie, waiting to get breath, mentally.
"She's better," said Mrs. Derrick.
"She goes out?"
"She has been once."
"Is that all? Well it will do her good to go again. Sophy Harrison and I made up our minds that she and I and Faith would spend the day together—and so I've come to fetch her. Do you believe in the possibility of ladies falling in love with ladies, Mr. Linden?"
"I have more knowledge of gentlemen's possibilities. Who is supposed to be in danger, Miss Essie?"
"Faith cannot go out to spend the day," said Mrs. Derrick decidedly.
"Is itdanger?" said Miss Essie. "Mrs. Derrick, why can't Faith go with me? Faith, won't you go?"—She had come up close to the table and stood by Faith's side, whom her eyes were now reading, or at least endeavouring to spell out.
"Not to-day, Miss Essie, thank you."
"Thank me? you ought to apologize to me." Miss Essie took a chair in that place, where she could "rake" the whole table. "Here will be Sophy and me horribly disappointed. We had counted on you. Sophy is all alone. You know, Faith, the doctor is laid up?"
"We heard of it,"—Faith answered, not very easily.
"Well, do you know he says he is going South?"
"I heard so," said Faith. Miss Essie could not make much of the rising colour in her cheeks, it came and went so easily!
"What takes him off just now in such haste?—business?"
Faith looked up and gave her inquisitor a full clear look, such as curiosity never cares for, while she answered with quiet dignity, "He did not tell me, Miss Essie."
"It's a pity Dr. Harrison's just going now that you're just come," said the lady of the black eyes, shifting her ground. "You used to be such friends."
"What is a friend?" said Mr. Linden—"By the way, Miss Essie, you should make these cresses an excuse for at least eating salt with us, and so prove your title to the name."
"Dear me!" said the lady taking a handful,—"I thought a friend was something more—more etherial than that!"
"Than what, if you please?"
"A person who eats your salt!—I don't love cresses. I am not one ofNebuchadnezzar's family. Where did you get the fashion? It's French.Dr. Harrison eats them. Did he teach it to you, Faith?"
"I think I had that honour," said Mr. Linden.
"I dare say you gave more lessons than were given in school," said MissEssie significantly. "What else did you learn of him, Faith?"
Faith gave the lady only a glance of her soft eye, but her face and her very throat were charged with varying colour. Her attention went from cresses to cowslips.
"I am saucy!" said the lady.—"Mr. Linden, are you coming back to the bona fide school here? there'll be a great many glad."
A very involuntary lesson to Miss Essie herself came longingly to Mr. Linden's lips, but except from the slight play and compression of the same she had not the benefit of it. He spoke as usual.
"She has never learned the art of self-defence, Miss Essie, therefore I pray you attack me. No, I am not coming back to the school—and to say truth, I think there would be some people sorry—as well as glad—if I did."
"Your bad scholars?"—said the lady, not intent upon her question.
"No—my good friends."
"Ishould be glad," said Miss Essie. "Who are your friends that would be sorry? Dr. Harrison, for instance?"
"The friends who like my present work better."
"And you are going to be a clergyman?" said Miss Essie, leaning her elbow on the table and 'studying' Mr. Linden, perhaps some other things too, with her eyes. He smiled under the scrutiny, but merely bowed to her question.
"It's dreadful hard work!—" said Miss Essie.
"Dreadful?—Miss Essie, you have not studied the subject."
"No," said she laughing,—"I said 'dreadfulhard.' And so it is, I think."
"'There be some sports are painful, but their labour delight in them sets off'—is not that equally true of some work?" said Mr. Linden, making one or two quiet additions to the breakfast on Faith's plate. Which means of assistance Faith inadvertently disregarded and pushed her plate away.
"Do you suppose anybody delights in them?" said Miss Essie. "I can't understand it—but perhaps they do. A minister is very much looked up to. But one thing is certain—of all things the hardest, it is to be a minister's wife!"
"Ofallthings! He must be a poor sort of a minister who lets his wife have a harder life than his own."
"He can't help it—" said Miss Essie, walking her black eyes about. "Of course he don't wish it—but women always do have a harder time than men, and a minister's wife particularly."
"It's a comfort to think he don't wish it," said Mr. Linden with a sort of resigned gravity.
"Well it would not be much comfort to me," said Miss Essie. "When a woman marries, she naturally expects her husband to belong to her;—but a minister belongs to everybody else!"
"I see I have not studied the subject," said Mr. Linden. "Miss Essie, you are giving me most important information. Is this so inevitable that I ought in conscience to warn the lady beforehand?"
Miss Essie smiled graciously. "It would be no use,—she wouldn't believe you.Imight warn her. I have seen it."
"What have you seen?"
"Why that!—that a woman who marries a minister needn't expect to have any more of her husband than his clothes to mend."
"Melancholy statement!" said Mr. Linden.
"It's of no use to tell it to a man!" said Miss Essie. "But I have seen it."
"Not in my house."
"I shall see it in your house, if you ever let me in there—but it will be too late to warn then. Very likelyyouwill not see it."
Faith sat with one hand shielding her face from this speaker, though by that means it was more fully revealed to the other. Her other hand, and her eyes as far as possible, were lost in the bunch of cowslips; her colour had long ceased to be varying. She sat still as a mouse.
"No, I shall not see it. To what end would your warnings be directed, if they could reach her in time?"
"To keep her from taking such a trying position."
"Oh—" said Mr. Linden. "Have you no feeling for me, Miss Essie? It is very plain why you scrupled to eat salt with me this morning!"
"I'll eat salt with you as a single man," said Miss Essie,—"but if you are going to be a minister, be generous, and let your wife go! Any other woman will tell you so."
"Let her go where? With me?—that is just what I intend."
"Yes," said Miss Essie,—"and then—you'll never know it—but she will sit alone up stairs and sew while you are writing your sermons, and she'll sit down stairs and sew while you're riding about the country or walking about the town; and she'll go out alone of your errands when you have a cold that keeps you at home; and the only time she hears you speak will be when you speak in the pulpit! And if you ask her whether she is happy, she will say yes!—"
Despite all her desperate contusion, the one visible corner of Faith's mouth shewed rebellion against order. Mr. Linden laughed with most unterrified amusement.
"If she says that, it will be so, Miss Essie—my wife will be a most uncompromising truth-teller. But in your pictureIam the one to be pitied. Will she never sit on the same floor with me underanycircumstances?"
"More than you deserve!" said Miss Essie. "You to be pitied, indeed! You know the man has the stir, and the talk, and the going from place to place, and the being looked up to, and the having everybody at his feet; and what has she?"
Mr. Linden did not answer, even with his eyes, which were looking down; and the smile which came at Miss Essie's last words, was clearly not meant for her. His wife would have something—so it said and asserted,—and his wife was not an indefinite, imaginary person,—it said that too. And she was worth all that could be laid at her feet. How much he had to lay there—what homagehishomage was—even of this the face gave unconscious token. Miss Essie looked, and read it or at least felt it, much more than she could well have put into words. Then taking in review Faith's bowed head, she turned and spoke in quite a different tone.
"There is no use in talking to people, Mrs. Derrick. After all, mayn'tI have Faith?"
"To spend the day? Oh no, Miss Essie!—she's not strong enough," said Mrs. Derrick, rising from the table and beginning to put the cups together. Faith left the party and went to the fire, which in the advanced state of the May morning needed no tending.
"Yet she must spend the day somewhere," said Miss Essie wheeling round."Faith!—what are you going to do with yourself?"
"Nothing, Miss Essie,"—came softly from the fire-mender. But as her hand moved to and fro with the tongs, the sparkle of the diamonds caught Miss Essie's eye.
"Child!—how did you get that?"—she exclaimed, springing to her side and arresting the tongs. Faith's low "I don't know, ma'am"—was inimitable. It was well neither lady had sight of Mr. Linden's face.
"It's very beautiful!" said Miss Essie, controlling herself into some order, and poring over the little hand she had made captive. "I never saw a greater beauty of a ring—never. Do you know what it means, Faith?" She dropped her voice and tapped significantly the finger.
Faith answered like a person put to the question,—"Yes."
"Do you?" said Miss Essie in the same low aside and half laughing. "I am so glad. I always thought it. But this is splendid, Faith.Youdon't know how handsome it is. It is easy to know where this came from. I needn't ask."
"I must ask you both to sit down," said Mr. Linden,—"Faith is not strong enough for much standing, Miss Essie."
"I can't sit down—I'm going away," said the lady. "I'll tell Sophy she may expect you the first day you can go out for so long,"—she went on renewing her half whisper to Faith. "Does she know of this?"—touching the diamonds which Miss Essie had not yet let go.
"No, Miss Essie—" Faith stood in great confusion. Mr. Linden left the table, and gently disengaging her from Miss Essie placed her in the great chair, and stood resting one hand on the back of it.
"Miss Essie," he said, "Faith belongs to me—and therefore if I take care of her strength in a somewhat summary way, you will forgive me."
Miss Essie paused and looked at him in most bewildering confusion. He had spoken and she had heard, very clearly.
"I don't believe it!"—she said with an attempt at jocularity in which there mingled somehow, inexplicably, a quality that was not pleasure. "Faith!—no double-dealing. Two is too much."
"Or even the suggestion of two," Mr. Linden said.
"Do you mean," said Miss Essie looking at him with a semi-comical endeavour to cover up discomfiture and other things—"do you mean to say that I have made nothing here but an abominable mistake?"
"I should give it a different adjective."
Miss Essie made a despairing gesture. "Oh!—I might well say it's no use talking to people! Will you ever for give me, Mr. Linden, for all the mischief I have tried to do you? I didn't knowbothparties were within hearing of me, you know, sir?—"
"Miss Essie, I hope you may always be as successful."
Perhaps Miss Essie wondered, as she glanced at Faith, whether she had done any "mischief" or no; but she ventured no sort of repartee, being altogether in an uncomfortable and somewhat awed state of mind. She made hurried adieus to Mrs. Derrick, more formal and extremely civil leave-taking of Mr. Linden, parted in a sort of astonished wise with Faith and the diamonds which evidently bewildered her yet, and made what was also evidently an escape out of the house. While Mr. Linden attended the lady to the door, Faith softly and swiftly passed behind them and made her escape too, up stairs. She was gone before he turned.
It was perhaps an hour after this, when Cindy entered Faith's room and gave her a note. "I'm free to confess," said Cindy, "that Mr. Linden gave it to me, but who writ it I don't know." But Faith did. It ran thus:—
"Mademoiselle—With great impatience I have waited for my Sunbeam to break through the gloomy clouds of doubt which surround me—but I perceive the 'warning' has taken effect!
In keeping with this is the state of the outer world, which is even rainy!—so that my purpose to take said Sunbeam out to drive is for the present thwarted.
Conceive of my state of mind!
In vain I repeat to myself the comforting truth, that my Sunbeam is shining somewhere, if not on me,—there are circumstances where philosophical truths lose all their power.
I remember that the 'warning' contained some notable mistakes,—as for instance, that I should ever—my pen refuses to write the words!—or I do. As well might it be said that I should——. Mademoiselle, you must perceive the obvious bearing of these two upon each other.
If your interest in the writer has carried you so far, perhaps he may indulge the hope that at some future time it may carry you further—even to the head of the stairs—where it is needless to say you will be received with open arms.
It is also needless to sign this—it could come from but one person!"
Some two minutes after, Faith's room door opened, and a very flashing bright sunbeam came out upon the place indicated, only a little peachblossom tinge in her cheeks witnessing to any consciousness. She was met according to promise—then held off and looked at with serio-comic eyes.
"What a cruel child you are!" Mr. Linden said.
"What do you want, Endecott?" said Faith trying to be serious.
"How can you have the heart to sit up stairs and sew while I am down stairs in my study?"
Faith instantly came so close, taking the nearest refuge, that he could not very well see her face; but that she was laughing still he knew.
"Endecott!—don't talk so. I didn't know where you were."
"Will it be in this sort of weather that you will 'go out to do errands' and leave me at home?"
"Endecott!—If you don't want anything more of me," said Faith lifting up a face which was an array of peach-blossoms,—"I'll go back again."
"Will you?—" with a little tightening of his hold, and signification of his approval of peachblossoms. "Faith, you are a lovely child! Will it distress you very much if I go off and ride about the country alone?"
But now,—seeing she could not get away,—she stood graver; and the answer was very gentle, almost tender—"No."
"Then you will not confess that you were frightened out of your wits at the picture?" said Mr. Linden smiling, though with an answering change of tone.
"Did you think I was?"
"No—you are too much of a woman for that, even if you had believed it true."
"Thenyouwere not frightened?—" she said with some comicality.
"I? desperately!—my note did not give you any idea of the state of my mind! Imagine me sitting down stairs and saying to myself—(words naturally suggested by the state of the weather)—
'O how this spring of love resemblethTh' uncertain glories of an April day,Which now shews all the beauties of the sun,And by and by a cloud takes all away!'"
One of the soft flashes of Faith's eye came first to answer him; and then she remarked very coolly, (N.B. her face was not so,) "I think it will clear at noon, Endecott."
"Do you?" he said looking towards the window with a counterfeit surprise that was in comical antithesis to his last words,—"does it rain still!"
Faith's eye came back quick from the window to him, and then, for the first time in many a long day, her old mellow sweet laugh rolled over the subject, dismissing make-believes and figures of speech in its clear matter-of-fact rejoicing.
"My dear little Mignonette!" Mr. Linden said, "that does my very heart good. You are really getting better, in spite of lessons and warnings, and all other hindrances. Do you want to know what I have truly been thinking of since you came up stairs? Shall we exchange thoughts?"
"Please give me yours," she answered.
"They sprang from Miss Essie's question. Faith, when she asked me what my wife would have, I could not tell her—I could not answer it to myself afterwards very definitely. Only so far—she will have all I have to give." His hand was smoothing and arranging her hair as he spoke—his look one that nobody but Faith ever had from Mr. Linden. She had looked up once and seen it; and then she stood before him, so still and silent as if she might have had nothing to say; but every line of her brow, her moved lip, her attitude, the very power of her silence, contradicted that, and testified as well to the grace of a grave and most exquisite humility which clothed her from head to foot. Mr. Linden was as silent as she, watching her; but then he drew her off to the low couch in the wide old-fashioned entry window, and seated her there in a very bath of spring air and struggling sunbeams.
"I suppose it is useless to say 'Please give me yours'," he said smiling. "Mignonette, we have had no reading to-day—do you like this time and place?—and shall it be with you or to you?"
"It will be both, won't it?" said Faith; and she went for her Bible.
The day was struggling into clearness by the time dinner was over. Patches of blue sky looked down through grey, vapoury, scattering clouds; while now and then a few rain drops fell to keep up the character of the morning, and broad warm genial sunbeams fell between them. It was not fair yet for a drive; and Mr. Linden went out on some errands of business, leaving Faith with a charge to sleep and rest and be ready against his return.
He was but a little while gone when Jem Waters made his appearance and asked for Faith. Mr. Simlins had been ill—that Faith knew—but Jem brought a sad report of how ill he had been, and a message that he was "tired of not seeing Faith and wished she would let Jem fetch her down. She might go back again as soon as she'd a mind to." He wanted to see her "real bad," according to Jem; for he had ordered the best wagon on the premises to be cleaned and harnessed up, and the best buffalo robe put in, and charged Jem to bring Miss Faith "if she could anyways come." And there was Jem and the wagon.
Faith demurred; she had not had her sleep and didn't know, or rather did know, how the proceeding would be looked upon; but she also fancied more meaning in the summons than Jem had been commissioned to make known. And perhaps another little wee feminine thought came in to help her decision.
"Mother," she said, "I shall go. You need not say anything about it unless you are asked. It isn't far to Mr. Simlins—I shall be home in time for my ride." So, quickly ready, Jem drove her down.
Mr. Simlins she found sitting up, in a nondescript invalid's attire of an old cloak and a summer waistcoat; and warm as the day was, with a little fire burning, which was not unnecessary to correct the damp of the unused sitting-room. He was, as he said, "fallen away considerable, and with no more strength than a spring chicken," but for the rest looked as usual. And so spoke.
"Well,—why haint you been to see me before?"
"I have been sick, sir."
"Sick?" said he, his voice softening unconsciously towards her sweet tones. "Sit there and let me see.—I believe you have. But you aint fur from well now!" He had some reason, for the face he had turned to the sunlight bore all the quiet lines of happiness, and its somewhat faint colour was replaced under his scrutiny by a conscious deep rose.
"Don't you know," said he settling himself back in his chair,—"I don't think I see the sun and moon when I don't see you? Or the moon, anyways—you aint but the half of my Zodiack."
"What did you want to see the moon for, Mr. Simlins?" said Faith willing to interrupt him.
"Well—you see, I've been a kind of a latudinarian too," said Mr. Simlins doubtfully.—"It pulls a man's mind down; as well as his flesh—and I got tired of thinkin' to-day and concluded I'd send for you to stop it." His look confessed more than his words. Faith had little need to ask what he had been thinking about.
"What shall I do to stop it, sir?"
"Well, you can read—can't you?—or talk to me."
There was a strange uneasy wandering of his eye, and a corresponding unwonted simplicity and directness in his talk. Faith noted both and silently went for a Bible she saw lying on a table. She brought it to Mr. Simlins' side and opened its pages slowly, questioning with herself where she should read. Some association of a long past conversation perhaps was present with her, for though she paused over one and another of several passages, she could fix upon none but the parable of the unfruitful tree.
"Do you mean that for me?" said the farmer a minute after she had done.
"Yes sir—and no, dear Mr. Simlins!" said Faith looking up.
"Why is it 'yes' and 'no'? how be I like that?"—he growled, but with a certain softening and lowering of his growl.
"The good trees all do the work they were made for. God calls for the same from us," Faith said gently.
"I know what you're thinkin' of," said he;—"but haint I done it? Who ever heerd a man say I had wronged him? or that I have been hard-hearted either? I never was."
It was curious how he let his thoughts out to her; but the very gentle, pure and true face beside him provoked neither controversy nor mistrust, nor pride. He spoke to her as if she had only been a child. Like a child, with such sympathy and simplicity, she answered him.
"Mr. Simlins, the Bible says that 'the fruits of righteousness are byJesus Christ.'—Do you know him?—are you in his service?"
"I don't know as I understand you," said he.
"I can't make you understand it, sir."
"Why can't you? who can?" said he quickly.
"It is written, Mr. Simlins,—'They shall be all taught of God.'"—She shewed him the place. "And it is written, 'Come, and let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, and to the house of the God of Jacob; andhe will teach usof his ways, and we will walk in his paths.'—That is it. If you are willing to walk in his paths, he will shew them to you." Faith looked eagerly at the farmer, and he looked at her. Neither heart was hid from the other.
"But supposin' I was willin'—which I be, so fur's I know—I don't know what they be no more'n a child. How am I goin' to find 'em out?"
Faith's eyes filled quick as she turned over the leaves again;—was it by sympathy alone that occasion came for the rough hand to pass once or twice hastily across those that were looking at her? Without speaking, Faith shewed him the words,—"If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine."
"That is the question, dear Mr. Simlins. On that 'if' it all hangs." The farmer took the book into his own hands and sat looking steadily at the words.
"Well," said he putting it back on her lap—"supposin' the 'if' 's all right—Go ahead, Faith."
"Then the way is clear for you to do that; and it's all easy. But the first thing is here—the invitation of Jesus himself."
"'Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart, and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.'"
"You see," she went on very gently,—"he bids youlearn of him—so he is ready to teach you. If you are only willing to take his yoke upon you,—to be his servant and own it,—he will shew you what to do, step by step, and help you in every one."
"I don't see where's the beginning of the way yet," said the farmer.
"That," said Faith. "Be the servant of Jesus Christ and own it; and then go to him for all you want. He is good for all."
There was a pause.
"I s'pose you've been goin' on in that way a good while."
"A good while—yes,"—Faith almost whispered.
"Well, when you are goin' to him sometimes, ask somethin' for me,—will you?"
He had bent over, leaning on his knees, to speak it in a lower growl than ordinary. Faith bowed her head at first, unwilling to speak; but tears somehow started, and the drops followed each other, as she sat gazing into the black fireplace,—she could not help it—till a perfect shower of weeping brought her face into her hands and stirred her not very strong frame. It stirred the farmer, robust as he was in spite of illness; he shifted his chair most uneasily, and finally laid down his head on his folded arms on the table. Faith was the first to speak.
"Mr. Simlins, who takes care of you?"
"Ugh!" (a most unintelligible grunt,) "they all do it by turns—Jenny and all of 'em."
"What have you had for dinner to-day?"
"Didn't want anything!" He sat up and brushed his cloak sleeve across his forehead.
"Mr. Simlins, I shall send you down something from home and you must eat it."
"The doctor said I was to take wine—but I haint thought of it to-day."
"Where is it?"
He nodded his head in the direction of the cupboard. Faith went rummaging, poured him out a glass and brought it.
"You see," said he after he had taken it—"I've been pretty well pulled down—I didn't know—one time—which side of the fence I was goin' over—and I didn't see the ground on the other side. I don't know why I should be ashamed to say I was afeard!"—There was a strong, stern, truth-telling about this speech that thrilled his hearer. She sat down again.
"You had best take some yourself," he said. "Do Faith!"
"No sir—I'm going. I must go," she answered rising to make ready.
It was strange how the door could have opened and she not heard it—neither she nor Mr. Simlins in fact,—perhaps because their minds were so far away. That the incoming steps were unheard was not so strange, nor new, but the first thing of which Faith was conscious was the soft touch of a hand on either side of her face—she was a prisoner. Faith's instant spring to one side brought her face to face with everybody. Mr. Simlins looked from one to the other, and his first remark was characteristically addressed to Faith.
"Why you didn't tell me that!"
"Has she told you everythingbutthat?" said Mr. Linden smiling, and giving the farmer's hand good token of his presence.
"Where under the sun did you come from?" said the farmer returning his grasp with interest, and looking at Mr. Linden as if indeed one of the lights of the solar system had been out before his arrival. Faith sat down mutely and as quietly as possible behind Mr. Linden.
"From under the sun very literally just now—before that from under a shower. I have been down to Quapaw, then home to Mrs. Derrick's, then here. Mr. Simlins, I am sorry to see that you are nursing yourself instead of me. What is the matter?"
"I'd as lieves be doin' this, of the two," said the farmer with a stray smile. "There aint much the matter. How long have you been in this meridian?"
"Two days." And stepping from before Faith, Mr. Linden asked her "if she had come there in a dream?"
"Do you ever see such good-lookin' things in your dreams?" said the farmer. "My visual pictures are all broken down fences, or Jem or Jenny doin' somethin' they haint ought to do. How long're you goin' to stay in Pattaquasset, Dominie?"
"Some time, I hope. Not quite so long as the first time, but longer than I have been since that. Do you know, Mr. Simlins, your coat collar is a little bit turned in?—and why don't you give the sunshine a better welcome?—you two sick people together want some one to make a stir for you." Which office Mr. Linden took upon himself—lightly disengaging the collar, and then going to the window to draw up the shade and throw back the shutters, stopping on his way back to straighten the table cover, and followed by a full gush of sunlight from the window.
"It is so glorious this afternoon!" he said. And standing silent a moment in that brilliant band of light-looking out at the world all glittering and sparkling in the sun, Mr. Linden repeated,—"'Unto you that fear my name, shall the Sun of Righteousness arise, with healing in his wings.'—What a promise that is!"
"Where did you get those words?"—said Mr. Simlins, after the sunlight and the silence had given them their full effect.
"From the Bible—God's book of promises. Do you want to see the place?"
Mr. Simlins turned down a corner of the leaf and laid the book, still open, on the table. Then looked at Mr. Linden with a mixture of pleasure and humour in his eyes. "Are you any nearer bein' a minister than you was a year ago?"
"Nearer in one way. But I cannot lay claim to the title you gave me for another year yet, Mr. Simlins."
"You're Say and Seal as much as ever. What more fixin' have you got to do?"
"A little finishing," said Mr. Linden with a smile.
And he got up and went for Faith's shawl and gloves which were on the table. Mr. Simlins watched the shawling and gloving with attention.
"You can tell Jem he won't be wanted again, Faith," he said. "I guess you'll see him at the gate." Mr. Linden smiled, but some other thought was on his mind,—the face that he turned to Mr. Simlins shewed concern that was both grave and kind.
"What can I do for you?" he said.
"This aint the prettiest place in Pattaquasset; but maybe you'll come and see me sometimes—till I can get out my self," Mr. Simlins said considerately.
"You may be sure I will. And will you let me pray with you now, beforeI go?"
The farmer hesitated—or was silent—one instant, then with a sort of subdued abruptness said,
"I'm ready!"—
They knelt there in the sunlight; but when the prayer was over Mr. Simlins felt half puzzled to know for whose sake it had been proposed. For with the telling of his doubts and hindrances and wants—things which he had told to no one, there mingled so much of the speaker's own interest,—which could not be content to leave him but in Christ's hands.
There was not a word spoken after that for a minute,—Mr. Linden stood by the low mantelpiece resting his face on his hand. The farmer, busy with the feelings which the prayer had raised, sat with downcast eyes. And Faith was motionless with a deep and manifold sense of happiness, the labyrinth of which herself could not soon have threaded out. The silence and stillness of his two companions drew the farmer's eyes up; he read first, with an eager eye that nobody saw, the sweet gravity on one half hidden face, and the deep pure joy written in all the lines of the other; and secret and strong, though half unknown to himself, the whole tide of his heart turned that way. If not before, then at least, something like Ruth's resolution came up within him;—"thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God!" Mr. Linden was the first one that moved.
"Are you ready, dear child?"
The farmer's eyes were on her too, even while he wrung Mr. Linden's hand. But he only said before he let it go,—"Give a glass of wine to her when she gets home."
Out in the sweet afternoon air, and driving through the gate which opened on the highway, with Jem Waters on hand to shut it, Mr. Linden brought Faith's face round towards him and scanned it earnestly.
"My child, how tired you are! I wish I knew whether it would do you most good to go straight home, or to breathe this air a little longer."
"I hope you won't conclude to take me home," said Faith. "I have been looking for this all day."
"Do you think you deserve to have it?" said Mr. Linden, turning Jerry's head however the way that wasnotstraight home. "Why didn't you sleep, and wait for me to bring you down here?"
"One reason was, Endy, that I half guessed Mr. Simlins wanted to talk to me and that it might be better for him to see one than two.
"I could have left you there for a while."
"No you couldn't!" she said. "And I couldn't have driven off Jerry and left you—though that would have been better."
"You could have driven me off. What was the other reason?"
"The other reason isn't really worth your hearing. Don't you think this afternoon is too pretty to spoil with bad reasons?"—she said with gentle eyes, half fun, half confession.
"Entirely. Faith—I think you would bear the ride better if you had a sort of afternoon lunch,—shall we stop at Miss Bezac's for a glass of milk?"
"Oh no!"—she said hastily. "Oh no, Endecott! I don't want anything but to ride."
"And to hide—" said Mr. Linden laughingly. "Another bad reason, Faith?"
She gave him a little blushing look, very frank and happy, that also bore homage to his penetration.
"Stop anywhere you please, Endy," she said honestly. "I was very glad you came to Mr. Simlins'."
"Would you rather get it from Mrs. Davids?" he inquired demurely.
"No, not rather. Whichever you like, Endecott," Faith said, hiding the start which the question in this real form gave her. The afternoon sun through which they were riding was very bright; the washed leaves were brilliantly green; sweet scents of trees and buds filled the air, and opening apple blossoms were scattering beauty all over the land. Nothing could spoil that afternoon. Faith had a secret consciousness besides that the very thing from which she shrank was by no means disagreeable to Mr. Linden. She did not care what he did! And he,—in the joy of being with her, of seeing her grow stronger every hour, Mr. Linden was in a 'holiday humour'—in the mood for work or play or mischief; and took the road to Miss Bezac's for more than a glass of milk.
"Mignonette," he said, "what varieties of pride do you consider lawful and becoming?"
"I know only a few innocent sorts," said Faith,—"that I keep for myself."
"Luxurious child! 'A few innocent sorts of pride that you keep for yourself'! You must divide with me."
How Faith laughed.
"You wouldn't thank me for one of them all, Endecott. And yet—" She stopped, and coloured brilliantly on the sudden.
"Explain and finish," said Mr. Linden laconically.
"If I told you what they are you would laugh at me."
"That would not hurt me. What are they, Mignonette?"
She spoke gravely, though smiling sometimes; answering to the matter of fact, as she had been asked. "I am proud, a little, of very fine rolls of butter, or a particularly good cheese. I think I am proud of my carnations, and perhaps—" she went on colouring—"of being so good a baker as I am. And perhaps—I think I am—of such things as sewing and dressmaking;—but I don't think there is much harm in all that. I know myself sometimes proud of other things, where I know it is wrong."
"How do you know but I am proud of your rolls of butter too?" said Mr. Linden looking amused. "But Mignonette, what called forth such a display of the carnations you arenotproud of? What was the force of that 'And yet'?"
It brought the colour again, and Faith hesitated and looked puzzled,Then she tried a new way of escape.
"Don't you mean to let me have any of my thoughts to myself?" she said playfully.
"Don't you mean to let me have any of them for myself?"
"You?—Haven't you them almost all?"
"My dear I beg pardon!—one for every carnation,—but I did not know that I had so nearly made the tour of your mind. I was under the impression that my passports were not yet made out—and that my knowledge of your thoughts was all gained from certain predatory excursions, telescopic observations, and such like illegal practices. I am sure all my attempts to cross the frontier in the ordinary way are met by something more impassable than a file of bayonets."
Faith looked up at him as if to see how much of this was meant for true.
"But," said she naively, "I feel as if I had been under a microscope."
"My dear!" said Mr. Linden again, with an air at once resigned and deprecating. But then his gravity gave way. "Faith!—isthatyour feeling in my company? I wonder you can endure the sight of me."
"Why?"—said she timidly.
"If I seem to you like a microscope."
"Only your eyes, like those power-glasses.—Not for size!" said Faith, laughing now herself.
"Ah little Mignonette," he said smiling, "some things can be seen without microscopic vision. And do not you know, my child, that carnations must draw attention to the particular point round which they bloom?"
"Endy, you shall know what I was thinking of," she said. "You touched it already. It was only—that perhaps sometime youwouldbe a little proud even of those little things in me—because—Now you can punish me for being proud in earnest!"—It was said in great confusion; it had cost Faith a struggle; the white and red both strove in her downcast face. Mr. Linden might not fathom what was not in a man's nature; but Faith had hardly ever perhaps given him such a token of the value she set upon his pleasure.
"Punish you?" he said, leaving Jerry to find the road for himself for a minute,—"how shall I do it?—so? And how much punishment do you require? I think a little is not enough. 'Because' what, love?"
"Endy!—" she said under her breath,—"you know!—don't ask me."
"Then—if I exceed your limits—you will not blame me?"
"Limits of what?"
"Limits of this species of executive justice."
"I don't think you would keep limits of anybody else's setting," saidFaith with a little subdued fun. "Look, Endy!—we are coming to MissBezac's."
"Most true," said Mr. Linden,—"now shall you see (perhaps!) one of the innocent sorts of pride that I keep for myself. What have we come for?" he added laughing, as Jerry trotted up the side hill to the cottage,—"is it butter, or carnations, or dressmaking?—they all make a rare combination in my mind at present."
"She is at home!" said Faith,—"if she wasn't, the window-curtains would be down. Now she is going to be pleased,—and so am I, for she will give me something to eat." Faith looked as if she wanted it, as she softly opened the door of the dressmaker's little parlour, or workroom, and softly went in. The various business and talk of the afternoon had exhausted her.
Miss Bezac, having in her young days been not only rich, but also a firstrate needlewoman, now that she was older and poor plied her needle for a different purpose. Yet something of old habits clung to her still; she would not take the common work of the village; but when Mrs. Stoutenburgh wanted a gay silk dress, or Miss De Staff a delicate muslin, or Mrs. Somers an embroidered merino—then Miss Bezac was sure to have them go through her hands; and for these ladies she took the fashions and dispensed them exceeding well. Strangers too, in Pattaquasset for the summer, often came to her,—and had not Miss Bezac made the very first embroidered waistcoat that ever Squire Deacon wore, or Sam Stoutenburgh admired himself in? So her table was generally covered with pretty work, and on this particular afternoon she was choosing the patterns for a second waistcoat for the young member from Quilipeak, a mantilla for his mother, and a silk apron for Miss Essie, all at once. In deep cogitation Faith found her, and Faith's soft salutation,—
"Dear Miss Bezac, will you let strangers come in?" How gloriously Faith blushed.
"Strangers!" cried Miss Bezac, turning round. "Why Faith!—you don't mean to say it's you?—though I don't suppose you mean to say it's anybody else. Unless—I declare I don't know whether it is you or not!" said Miss Bezac, looking from her to Mr. Linden and shaking hands with both at once. "Though if it isn't I ought to have heard—only folks don't always do what they ought—at least I don't,—nor much of anything."
"It is nobody else yet," said Mr. Linden smiling. Whereat Miss Bezac laid one hand on the other, and stepping back a little surveyed the two "as a whole."
"Do you know," she said, "(you wouldn't think it) but sometimes I can't say a word!"
"You must not expect Faith to say much—she is tired," said Mr. Linden putting her in a chair. "Miss Bezac, I brought her here to get something to eat."
"Well I don't believe—I don't really believe that anybody but you would ever do such a kind thing," said Miss Bezac. "What shall I get? Faith—what will you have? And you're well enough to be out again!—and it's so well I'm not out myself!—I'll run and see if the fire ain't,—the kettle ought to be boiled, for I wanted an early cup of tea."
"No, dear Miss Bezac, don't!" said Faith. "Only give me some bread and milk."
Miss Bezac stopped short.
"Bread and milk?" she said—"is that good for you? The bread's good, I know, baked last night; and the milk always is sweet, up here with the cowslips—and most things are sweet when you're hungry. But ain't you more hungry than that?—and somebody else might be, if you ain't—and one always must think of somebody else too. But you do, I'll say that for you. And oh didn't I say long ago!—" A funny little recollective pause Miss Bezac made, her thoughts going back even to the night of the celebration. Then she ran away for the bread and milk,—then she came back and put her head in at the door.
"Faith, do you like a cup or a bowl?—I like a cup, because I always think of a cup of comfort—and I never heard of a bowl of anything. But you can have which you like."
"I like the cup too," said Faith laughing. "But even the bowl would be comfort to-day, Miss Bezac."
The cup came, and a little pitcher for replenishing, and a blue plate of very white bread and very brown bread, and one of Miss Bezac's old-fashioned silver spoons, and a little loaf of "one, two, three, four, cake", that looked as good as the bread. All of which were arranged on a round stand before Faith by Miss Bezac and Mr. Linden jointly. He brought her a footstool too, and with persuasive fingers untied and took off her bonnet—which supplementary arrangements Miss Bezac surveyed with folded hands and great admiration. Which also made the pale cheeks flush again, but that was pretty to look upon. Faith betook herself to the old-fashioned spoon and the milk, then gave Mr. Linden something to do in the shape of a piece of cake; and then resigning herself to circumstances broke brown bread into the milk and eat it with great and profitable satisfaction, leaving the conversation in the hands of the other two. The sun sank lower and lower, sending farewell beams into the valleys, and shaking out gold pieces in Miss Bezac's little brown sitting-room like the Will-o'-wisps in the "Tale of tales". Through the open door her red cow might be seen returning home by a winding and circuitous path, such as cows love, and a little sparrow hopped in and out, from the doorstep, looking for "One, two, three, four", crumbs. Faith from her seat near the fire could see it all—if her eyes chose to pass Mr. Linden,—what he saw, she found out whenever they went that way. It was not wonderful that Faith turned from the table at last with a very refreshed face.
"Miss Bezac, you have made me up," she said smiling.
"Have I?" said her little hostess,—"well that comes pretty near it. Do you know when I saw you—I mean when I sawbothof you, I really thought you had come for me to make up something else? And I must say, I wish you had,—not that I haven't dresses enough, and too many—unless I had a new pair of eyes—but I always did set my heart on making that one. And I haven't set my heart upon many things for a good while, so of course I ain't used to being disappointed. You won't begin, will you, Faith?"
Faith kissed her, hastily expressing the unsentimental hope that her tea would be as good as her bread and milk; and ran out, leaving Mr. Linden to follow at his leisure. Faith was found untying Jerry.
"What do you mean?" said Mr. Linden staying her hands and lifting her in the most summary manner into the wagon. "Bread and milk is too stimulating for you, child,—we must find something less exciting. What will you see fit to do next?"
"I can untie a bridle," said Faith.
"Or slip your head through one. But you should have seen the delight with which Miss Bezac entered upon the year of patience that I prescribed to her!—and the very (innocuous) pride that lay hid in the prescription. Do you feel disposed to punish me for that, Mignonette?"
One of Faith's grave childish looks answered him; but then, dismissing Mr. Linden as impracticable, she gave herself to the enjoyment of the time. It was a fit afternoon! The sunbeams were bright on leaves and flowers, with that fairy brightness which belongs peculiarly to spring. The air was a real spring air, sweet and bracing, full of delicate spices of May. The apple blossoms, out and bursting out, dressed the land with the very bloom of joy. And through it all Mr. Linden drove her, himself in a "holiday humour." Bread and milk may be stimulating, but health and happiness are more stimulating yet; and Faith came home after a ride of some length looking not a bit the worse, and ready for supper.
A month passed away,—with apple blossoms, strawberry flowers, now with strawberries themselves. Roses coming into splendour, carnations in full force, and both re-established in the cheeks of Faith Derrick. What a month it had been!—of weather, of work, of society. Lessons after the old fashion, reading aloud, talking; going round the country at Jerry's heels, or on the back of Mrs. Stoutenburgh's pony—for there she was put, just so soon as she could bear it, passing by degrees from a gentle trot on level ground to a ladylike scamper over the hills. Faith had not been so strong for many a day as the longest day of that summer found her.
Coming home from their afternoon ride by the way of the postoffice, Mr. Linden found there a letter from Europe; the seal of which he broke as they entered, the house, just in time to give Faith a little enclosed note to herself as she went up stairs to change her dress. Its words were few. Referring Faith to Mr. Linden for particulars, it asked her to let him come to Germany without delay. The aunt with whom Miss Linden lived was at the point of death, apparently—she herself in danger of being left quite alone in a strange land. Yet with all the urgency of the case, the whole breathing of Miss Linden's note was, "Faith—can you spare him?—will you let him come?"
The question was settled before it was asked, in Faith's mind; but what a laying down of pleasure and what a taking up of pain was there! The rest of the vacation was gone at once; for Mr. Linden could not go to Europe and come back, even on the wings of steam, and have a day left before study would begin again. No more of him—except, at the best, snatches—till next year; and next year was very far off, and who could tell what might be next year? But at the best, she must see little more of him until then; and in the mean time he must put half the world between them. Nobody saw how fast the roses faded on Faith's cheek; she sat and looked at the matter all alone, and looked it through. For one few minutes; and then she rose up and began dressing slowly, looking at it still, but gathering all her forces together to deal with it. And when her dressing was done, she still stood leaning one hand and her head on the dressing table, thinking over all that was to do. She had remembered, as with a flash of remembrance, what day the next steamer would sail—from what port—she knew the hour when Mr. Linden must leave Pattaquasset. And when her mind had seen all the preparations to be made, and she thought she was strong enough, she turned to go down stairs; but then feeling very weak Faith turned again and kneeled down to pray. And in a mixed feeling of strength and weakness, she went down stairs.
First to the kitchen, where she quietly looked after the state of the clothes in the wash, and desired Cindy to have all Mr. Linden's things ready for ironing that evening. Then attended to the supply of bread and the provision for breakfast; saw that one or two things about the supper were in proper order and progress; asked Mrs. Derrick to make the tea when it was time, and finally, as quietly as if the afternoon's ride had been the only event of the afternoon, opened the door of the sitting-room and softly went in.
For a while after reading his own letter Mr. Linden had sat absolutely still,—then with a sort of impatience to see Faith, to give her what comfort he could, at least to have her with him every minute, he had paced up and down the sitting-room till she appeared. Now he took her in his arms with all sorts of tender caresses—with no words at first but, "My little Mignonette!" Faith herself was quite still and wordless; only once, and that suddenly and earnestly, she gave his cheek the salutation she had never given him before unbidden. From her it was a whole volume, and thoroughly peace-speaking, although it might intimate a little difficulty of words.
Keeping one arm round her, Mr. Linden began again his walk up and down the room; beginning to talk as well—telling her what was in his letter, how long the journey would take, and more than all, what she must do while he was away. How long the absence would be—when he should be at home again, that was little touched upon by either; the return might be very speedy—that seemed most probable, but neither he nor Faith cared to put in words all the uncertainties that hung about it. From every point he came back to her,—with injunctions about her strength, and directions about her studies, and charges to take care of herselffor him—with other words of comfort and cheering, spoken cheerfully from a very sorrowful heart. One other charge he gave—
"My little Sunbeam, my dearest Faith, keep both your names unclouded!"
"I have had one lesson, Endy"—
She was a little pale, but had listened to him quietly as intently; voice and smile both ready to do their part, albeit gravely, whenever there was a part for them.
"I shall not forget—" she added now with a smile, a rare one, after a little pause.
He brought her back to the sofa then, kissing the pale cheeks as if he missed their carnations. Yet—with the stringency of the old law which saith that "Doublet and hose must shew itself courageous to petticoat"—Mr. Linden gave her bright words, although they were words of a very grave brightness—not contradicted, but qualified by his eyes.
"Mignonette," he said, "I did not think next year could gain brightness from anything—but I cannot tell you how it has looked to me within these last two hours. If I could but call in Mr. Somers, and then take you with me!"
It brought a rush of the carnations; but Faith did not think so extravagant a wish required any combating. Neither did she say whatshethought of "next year."
That evening at least they had quietly together. What Faith did after they had separated for the night, Mr. Linden never knew; but the morning saw everything ready for his departure,—ready down to the little details which a man recognizes only (for the most part) by the sense of want. And if cheeks were paler than last night, they were only now and then less steady—till he was gone.
Dr. Harrison took passage in the steamship Vulcan, C. W. Cyclops, commander, for the Old World; having come to the conclusion that the southern country was not sufficiently remote, and that only a change of hemispheres would suit the precise state of his mind. Letters of combined farewell and notice-giving, reached Pattaquasset too late to cumber the doctor with a bevy of friends to see him off; but his sudden motions were too well known, and his peculiarities too long established, to excite much surprise or dismay by any new manifestations.
The Vulcan lay getting her steam up in that fair June morning, with very little regard to the amount of high pressure that her passengers might bring on board. Nothing could be more regardless of their hurry and bustle, the causes that brought them, the tears they shed, the friends they left behind, than the ship with her black sides and red smoke pipe. Tears did indeed trickle down some parts of her machinery, but they were only condensed steam—which might indeed be true of some of the tears of her passengers.
Punctual to her time she left her moorings, steaming down the beautiful bay with all the June light upon her, throwing back little foamy waves that glittered in the sun, making her farewell with a long train of blue rollers that came one after another to kiss the shore. What if tears sprinkled the dusty sidewalks of Canal St.?—what if that same light shone on white handkerchiefs and bowed heads?—The answering drops might fall in the state-rooms of the Vulcan, but on deck bustle and excitement had their way.
So went on the miles and the hours,—then the pilot left the vessel, taking with him a little handful of letters; and the passengers who had been down stairs to write were on deck, watching him off. In the city business rolled on with its closing tide,—far down on the Long Branch shore people looked northward towards a dim outline, a little waft of smoke, and said—"There goes the Vulcan." The freshening breeze, the long rolls of the Atlantic, sent some passengers below, even now,—others stood gazing back at the faint city indications,—others still walked up and down—those who had left little, or cared little for what they had left. Of these was Dr. Harrison, who paced the deck with very easy external manifestations.
Some change of mind—some freak of fancy, sent him at last to the other side of the ship—then to the prow. Here sailors were busy,—here one passenger stood alone: but if there had been twenty more, Dr. Harrison could have seen but this one. He was standing with arms folded, in a sort of immoveable position, that yet accommodated itself easily to the ship's slow courtseying; as regardless of that as of the soft play of the sea breeze; looking back—but not to the place where the Vulcan had lain a few hours before. He was rather looking forward,—looking off to some spot that lay north or northeast of them: some spot invisible, yet how clearly seen! Looking thither,—as if in all the horizon that alone had any interest. So absorbed—so far from the ship,—his lips set in such grave, sad lines; his eyes so intent, as if they could by no means look at anything else. Nay, for the time, there was nothing else to see! Dr. Harrison might come or go—the sailors might do their utmost,—far over the rolling water, conscious of that only because it was a barrier of separation, the watcher's eyes rested on Mignonette. If once or twice the eyelids fell, it was not that the vision failed.
Dr. Harrison stopped short, unseen, and not wishing at that moment to meet the consequences of being seen. Yet he stood still and looked. The first feeling being one of intense displeasure and disgust that the Vulcan carried so unwelcome a fellow-passenger; the second, of unbounded astonishment and wonder what he did there.Heputting the ocean between him and Pattaquasset?hesetting out for the Old World, with all his hopes just blossoming in the New? What could be the explanation? Was it possible, Dr. Harrison asked himself for one moment, that he could have been mistaken? that he could have misunderstood the issue of the conversation that morning in Faith's sick room? A moment resolved him. He recalled the steady, dauntless look of Faith's eyes after his words,—a look which he had two or three times been privileged to receive from her and never cared to meet;—he remembered how daintily her colour rose as her eyes fell, and the slow deliberate uncovering of her diamond finger from which the eyes were not raised again to look at him; he remembered it with the embittered pang of the moment. No! he had not been mistaken; he had read her right. Could it be—it crossed the doctor's mind like a flash of the intensest lightning—thathis letterhad done its work? its work of separation? But the cool reminder of reason came like the darkness after the lightning. Mr. Linden would not have been at Mrs. Derrick's, as the doctor had heard of his being there, if any entering wedge of division had made itself felt between his place there and him. No, though now he was here in the Vulcan. And Dr. Harrison noticed anew, keenly, that the expression of the gazer's face, though sorrowful and grave, was in nowise dark or desponding. Nothing of that! The grave brow was unbent in every line of it; the grave lips had no hard set of pain; the doctor read them well, both lips and brow! Mr. Linden was no man to stand and look towards Pattaquasset if he had nothing there. And with a twinge he now recollected the unwonted sound of that name from the pilot's mouth as he took charge of the letters and went off. Ay! and turning with the thought the doctor paced back again, as unregardful now of the contents of the Vulcan, animate or inanimate, as the man himself whom he had been watching.
What should he do? he must meet him and speak to him, though the doctor desired nothing less in the whole broad earth. But he must do it, for the maintenance of his own character and the safety of his own secret and pride that hung thereby. That little piece of simplicity up there in the country had managed to say him no without being directly asked to say anything—thanks to her truthful honesty; and perhaps, a twinge or two of another sort came to Dr. Harrison's mind as he thought of his relations with her,—yes, and of his relations withhim. Not pleasant, but all the more, if possible, Dr. Harrison set his teeth and resolved to speak to Mr. Linden the first opportunity. All the more, that he was not certain Mr. Linden had received his letter,—it was likely, yet Dr. Harrison had had no note of the fact. It might have failed. And not withstanding all the conclusions to which his meditations had come, curiosity lingered yet;—a morbid curiosity, unreasonable, as he said to himself, yet uncontrollable, to see by eye and ear witness, even in actual speech and conversation, whether all was well with Mr. Linden or not. His own power of self-possession Dr. Harrison could trust; he would try that of the other. Yet he took tolerably good care that the opportunity of speaking should not be this evening. The doctor did not come in to supper till all the passengers were seated, or nearly so, and then carried himself to the end of the apartment furthest from his friend; where he so bore his part that no mortal could have supposed Dr. Harrison had suffered lately in mind, body, or estate.
Mr. Linden's part that night was a quiet one, the voluntary part of it, and strictly confined to the various little tea-table courtesies which with him might indeed be called involuntary. But it so happened that the Vulcan carried out quite a knot of his former friends—gentlemen who knew him well, and these from their various places at the table spoke either to him or of him frequently. Dr. Harrison in the pauses of his own talk could hear, "Linden"—"Endecott Linden"—"John, what have you been doing with yourself?"—in different tones of question or comment,—sometimes caught the tones of Mr. Linden's voice in reply; but as they were both on the same side of the table eyesight was not called for. The doctor sat in his place until the table was nearly cleared; then sauntered forth into the evening light. Fair, bright, glowing light, upon gay water and a gay deck-full; but Dr. Harrison gaining nothing from its brightness, stood looking out on its reflection in the waves more gloomily than he had seen another look a little time ago. Then a hand was laid lightly on his shoulder, making its claim of acquaintanceship with a very kind, friendly touch. The doctor turned and met hand and eye with as far as could be seen his old manner, only perhaps his fingers released themselves a little sooner than once they would, and the smile was a trifle more broad than it might if there had been no constraint about it.
"I am not altogether taken now by surprise," said he, "though surprise hasn't yet quit its hold of me. I heard your name a little while ago. What are you doing here, Linden?"
"Rocking in the cradle of business as well as of the deep," said Mr. Linden. "The last steamer brought word that I must sail by this, and so here I am."
"Who rocks the cradle of business?" said the doctor, with the old comical lift of the eyebrows with which he used to begin a tilt with Mr. Linden.
"Duty and Interest rock it between them,—singing of rest, and keeping one awake thereby."
"A proper pair of nurses!" said the doctor. "Why man, they would tear the infant Business to pieces between them! Unless one of them did as much for the other in time to prevent it."
"Never—unless Inclination took the place of Interest."
"Don't make any difference," said the doctor;—"Inclination always follows the lead of Interest.—Except in a few extraordinary specimens of human nature."
Mr. Linden turned towards the scattered groups of passengers, and so doing his eye caught the shining of that very star which was rising over Pattaquasset as he and Mignonette rode home two nights before. Only two nights!—For a minute everything else might have been at the antipodes—then Mr. Linden brought at least his eyes back to the deck of the Vulcan. "What sort of a motley have we here, doctor? Do you know many of them?"