"Faith," said Miss Cecilia, almost before this process or dispersion commenced,—"wheredidyou get such a pretty nosegay this time of year?"
"They grew—" said Faith smiling.
"Did they come out of your own garden."
"We don't keep oak trees in our garden."
"I declare! it's elegant. Faith, give me just one of those red leaves, won't you? I want it."
"No indeed!" said Faith, starting back and shielding the oak leaves with her hand, as that of Miss Deacon approached them. "What are you thinking of?"
"Thinking of!" said Cecilia colouring. "So, Faith, I hear you've set up for a school teacher?"
"I've one little scholar," said Faith quietly. "That isn't much 'setting up,' Cecilia."
"One scholar!" said Cecilia contemptuously. "Didn't you go over with all the boys to Neanticut the other day?"
"Yes," said Faith laughing, "indeed I did; but I assure you I didn't go to teach school."
"Miss Derrick," said Dr. Harrison, offering his arm to Faith,—"my sister begs the favour of your assistance—instantly and urgently—you know I presume for what?"
"Yes, I know, Dr. Harrison," said Faith smiling—"I left it unfinished"—
And the two walked away together.
"Seems to me, Mr. Simlins," said Squire Deacon, watching Faith and her convoy with a certain saturnine satisfaction; "I say it seems to me, that the Judge aint making the thing right side upwards. The boys get all the prizes—without Dr. Harrison thinkshehas, and the teacher don't seem to be much count. Now what a handsomer thing it would have been to make the boys gethimsomething with their own hard cash,—a pleasure boat—" added the Squire, "or a Bible—or anything of that sort. I thought all this philustration was to sethimup."
Mr. Simlins gave a kind of grunt.
"It haint pulled himdownmuch," he said,—"as I see. And I suppose Judge Harrison thinks that drivin' wedges under a church steeple is a surrogate work—without he saw it was topplin'."
Without getting any too clear a notion of the meaning of these words—it took a lively imagination to follow Mr. Simlins in some of his flights, the Squire yet perceived enough to stay his own words a little; and he passed away the tedium of the next few minutes by peering round the corner of the house and getting far-off glimpses of Faith.
"She looks 'most like a spectral illusion," he said admiringly. "The tablecloths aint bleached a bit whiter 'n her dress."
"She aint no more like a spectre than I'm like a ghost," said Mr.Simlins. "Washin' and ironin' 'll make a white frock for any woman."
Then stalking up to Mr. Linden accosted him grimly, after his fashion. "Well Mr. Linden—what d' you think of that farm at Neanticut? don't you want to take it of me?"
"There are too many fences between me and it," was the smiling reply.
"It's good land," Mr. Simlins went on; "you can't do better than settle down there. I'd like to have you for a tenant—give you the land easy."
"Let me pay you in nuts?" said Mr. Linden.
But then came up other farmers and heads of families to claim Mr. Linden's attention; men whose boys were at the school; and who now in various states of gratification, but all gratified, came one after another to grasp his hand and thank him for the good he had done and was doing them.
"You're the first man, sir," said one, a broad-shouldered, tall, strong man, with a stern reserved face,—"you're the first man that has been able to make that boy of mine—Phil—attend to anything, or go to school regular. He talks hard sometimes,—but you do what you like with him, Mr. Linden! I give you my leave. He's smart, and he aint a bad boy, at heart; but he's wild, and he has his own way and it aint always a good one. His mother never had any government of him," said the father, looking towards the identical person whom Dr. Harrison had characterized as 'the perspective of a woman,' and who certainly had the air of one whose mind—what she had—was shut up and shut off into the further extremities of possibility.
Then came up Judge Harrison.
"Well, Mr. Linden, I hope you have been gratified. I have. I declare I have!—very much. You are doing a great thing for us here, sir; and I don't doubt it is a gratification to you to know it. I haven't made up my mind what we shall do to thankyou—we've been thanking the boys—but that's, you know,—that's a political expedient. My heart's in the other thing."
"Squire Deacon was givin' me about the same perspective of the case," said Mr. Simlins,—"only he thought he warnt the one to do the thaukin'."
Mr. Linden's face, through all these various gratulations, had been a study. One part of his nature answered, eye to eye and hand to hand, the thanks and pleasure so variously expressed. But back of that lay something else,—a something which gave even his smile a tinge,—it was the face of one who
"Patiently, and still expectant,Looked out through the wooden bars."
Sometimes grave, at others a queer sense of his own position seemed to touch him; and his manner might then remind one of a swift-winged bird—who walking about on the grass for business purposes, is complimented by a company of crickets on his superior powers of locomotion. And it was with almost a start that he answered Judge Harrison—
"Thankme, sir? I don't think I deserve any thanks."
"I am sure we owe them," said the Judge,—"but that's another view of the case, I know. Well—it's a good kind of debt to owe—and to pay!—"
And he was lost again among some other of his guests. In the gradual shifting and melting away of groups, it happened that Mr. Linden found himself for a moment alone, when the doctor again approached him.
"Did I do your office well?" he said gently, and half putting his arm through Mr. Linden's as if to lead him to the house.
The answer was laughingly given—
"'What poet would not mourn to seeHis brother write as well as he?'"
"Well," said the doctor, answering the tone, "did I hit your boys?—the right ones?"
"My boys in point of scholarship?—yes, almost as carefully as I should."
"I am glad you were satisfied," said the doctor;—"and I'm glad it's over!—What sort of a life do you lead here in Pattaquasset? I don't know it. How can one get along here?"
He spoke in a careless sort of confidential manner, as perfectly aware that his companion was able to answer him. They were very slowly sauntering up to the house.
"One can get along here in various ways—" said Mr. Linden,—"as in other places. One can (ifone can) subside to the general level, or one can (with the like qualification) rise above it. The paths through Pattaquasset are in no wise peculiar, yet by no means alike."
"No," said the doctor, with another side look at him—"I suppose as much. I see you're a philosopher. Do you carry a spirit-level about with you?"
"Define—" said Mr. Linden, with a smile which certainly belonged to the last philosopher he had been in company with.
"I see you do," said the doctor. "What's your opinion of philosophy? that it adds to the happiness of the world in general?"
"You ask broad questions, Dr. Harrison—considering the many kinds of philosophy, and the unphilosophical state of the world in general."
The doctor laughed a little. "I don't know," said he,—"I sometimes think the terms have changed sides, and that 'the world in general' has really the best of it. But do you know what particular path in Pattaquasset we are treading at this minute?"
"A path where philosophy and happiness are supposed to part company, I imagine," said Mr. Linden.
"Pre-cisely—" said the doctor. "By the way, if anything in my father's house or library can be of the least convenience to you while you are travelling the somewhat unfurnished ways of Pattaquasset, I hope you will use both as your own.—Yes, I am taking you to the supper table—or indeed they are plural to-night—Sophy, I have brought Mr. Linden to you, and I leave you to do what you will with him!"
With a slight congee the doctor left thorn and went back again; and then came the full rush of all the guests, small and great. Miss Harrison claimed Mr. Linden's assistance to marshal and arrange the boys at their table—one being given specially to them; and then established him as well as circumstances permitted at another—between Miss Cecilia Deacon and Miss Essie de Staff. Miss Harrison herself did not sit down. The guests were many, the servants far too few; and Miss Harrison and her brother with one or two helpers, of whom Faith was one, went round from table to table; attending to everybody's wants. The supply of all eatables and drinkables was ample and perfect enough; but without the quick and skilful eyes and hands of these educated waiters, the company could not have been entirely put in possession of them. So Faith's red oak leaves did after all adorn the entertainment, and publicly, though most unconsciously on her part.
"Reuben," she whispered at his shoulder, "there are no roast clams here—shall I give you some jelly? I see you have got substantials."
"No thank you, Miss Faith," said Reuben—adding with some hesitation,"I believe it's ungrateful in me, but I don't want to eat."
"Are you eating your book all the while? I am so glad, Reuben! Where is your father?"
"I think he's home, Miss Faith—he must be by this time."
"Home! I'm sorry. I've been looking for him. Sam—what can I get you? coffee?"
"Miss Faith!" said Sam standing up in his place, "I'd rather have one of those leaves you've been wearing all day than all the coffee that ever was burnt!"
"Leaves! you foolish boy," said Faith, her own colour in an instant emulating them, and as before her hand went up to shield them. "I can't give you one of these, Sam—I'll bring you some coffee."
Away she ran, coming back presently with a cup and a piece of jelly cake, bestowing a fellow piece upon Reuben,
"You can get plenty of oak leaves anywhere, Sam," she said laughing a little.
"But you haven't worn 'em, Miss Faith—and I can't keep this!" said Sam surveying the cake with a very serio-comic face.
"Well, who wants to?" said Joe Deacon. "Hand us over the other cake, that's got nothing between. If you're settin' up to get round anybody, Sam Stoutenburgh, you'll find there's two or three in a bunch—I tell you." Which remark Faith was happily too far off to hear.
"Faith," said Mrs. Somers, leaning back and stopping her as she passed; "do you know why I let Sophy keep you running about so?"
"I like to do it, Mrs. Somers."
"Well that's not the reason. You ought to sit up at the head of the table for your skill in arranging flowers. I didn't know it was in you, child."
And Mrs. Somers bent closer to Faith to take the breath of the roses, but softly for she loved flowers herself.
Faith bore it jealously, for she was afraid of another invading hand; and blushing at the praise she could not disclaim ran away as soon as she was free. But as the tide of supper-time began to ebb, the doctor arrested Faith in her running about and saying that his sister had had no supper yet and wanted company, led her to the place his aunt had spoken of, a clear space at one end of the table, where the doctor also discoveredhehad taken no supper. The rest of the party sat at ease, or began to scatter again about the grounds. A new attraction was appearing there, in the shape of Chinese lanterns, which the servants and others were attaching in great numbers to the trees and shrubbery. The sun went down, the shades of evening were fast gathering. At last Miss Harrison rose.
"When the lamps are lit, Miss Derrick," said the doctor as they followed her example, "there is a particular effect which I will have the pleasure of shewing you—if you will allow me."
"Dr. Harrison, how doyoudo!" said a voice that sounded like—perhaps as much like the bark of a red squirrel as anything; and a little figure, with everything faded but her ribbands, and everything full but her cheeks, looked up with a pair of good, kind, honest eyes into the doctor's face. "It makes a body feel young—or old—I don't know which, to see you again," she said. "Though indeed I know just how old you are, without looking into the Bible. Not but that's a good place to look, for various things. And there's a great variety of things there,—if a body had time to read 'em all, which I haven't. I used to read like a scribe when I was young—till my eyes got bad; but a body can't do much without eyes, especially when they have to sew all the time, as I do. I always did think it was one indemnification for being a man, that a body wouldn't have to sew. Nor do much of anything else—for 'man works from sun to sun, but a woman's work is never done.' And I always think the work after sundown comes hardest—it does to me, because my eyes are so bad.—Well, Miss Cilly! don't your dress fit!"—It may be proper to mention that this last sentence was a little undertone.
"You have given me, Miss Bezac," said the doctor, "what I have wanted all my life until now—an indemnification for being a man!"
"Is that the way they talk over in France?" said Miss Bezac—"well, it don't make a body want to go there, there's that about it. And there always is something about everything. And I've something to say to you, Faith, so don't you run away. You've done running enough for one day, besides."
Faith was in no danger of running away. For while Miss Bezac was running off her sentences, a little low voice at Faith's side said "Ma'am!"—by way of modestly drawing her attention to Johnny Fax and his red ribband.
Faith stooped down to be nearer the level of the red ribband.
"You did bravely, Johnny. And you got a book too. I guess Mr. Linden was pleased with you to-night," she added softly.
"O he's always pleased with me," said Johnny simply. "But I wasn't brave, ma'am,—I was frightened." Then in a lower tone, as if he were telling a great secret, Johnny added,
"I'm coming to you next Sunday if it's cold weather"—and looked up in her face to see the effect of this mysterious announcement.
"You, Johnny!" said Faith, with a flash of remembrance of the time she had last seen him, which made her almost sorrowful. "Well, dear—we'll do the best we can," she added in a tone which was sweet at least as tenderness could make it. The child looked at her a little wistfully.
"Mr. Linden says he don't think I'm big enough to keep warm out of doors any more," he said with childish inexplicitness.
"I don't think you are," said Faith. "Well, Johnny—you come to me next Sunday, and we'll try!"—And she gave him, what Sam Stoutenburgh would probably have mortgaged his life for,—a soft touch of her lips upon his cheek. And Sam Stoutenburgh was not far off.
"Miss Faith!" he said as she rose to her former position,—"stand out of the way, Johnny, there's a good boy!—mayn't I see you home to-night? Please don't refuse me everything!"
"There isn't room in the wagon, Sam," said Faith.
"Are you going to ride?" said Sam. "But I may go with you to the wagon?"
"Yes if you like," said Faith looking a little puzzled and amused. "I suppose you may."
"Are there any more to come?" said Miss Bezac, whose patience had outlasted that of Dr. Harrison,—"because if there are, I'd rather wait—I don't like to be stopped when once I begin. And if I was you, Faith—(how pretty you look!)—I'd keep still and not let my head be turned; the old direction's the best; and after all directions are more than dresses. For what's the odds between an embroidered vest and a plain one? Not that it's much to embroider it—I used to fiddle faddle many a one, till I lost my eyes; and I'll teach you to do it in a minute, if you like." With which kind and lucid proposal, Miss Bezac put her hand softly on Faith's waist and smoothed out an imaginary wrinkle in the white dress.
"Dear Miss Bezac," said Faith, not losing her amused look,—"I don't want to embroider waistcoats. What are you talking of?"
"I know—" said Miss Bezac, "and I suppose that's enough. If folks don't know what you mean they can't say anything against it. But you don't know what you want, child,—any more than I did. And do you know, sometimes I wish I'd never found out? But whenever you do know, you can come to me; and I'll fix you off so you won't know yourself. It's a pleasant way to lose a body's identity, I can tell you. Now give me a kiss and I'll go, for I live 'tother side of creation—where you never come; and why you don't come, and bring him, I don't see—but I've seen him, in spite of you. Here he comes, too"—said Miss Bezac, "so I'll be off."
There was such a variety of confusions in this speech that Faith was hopeless of setting them right. She stood looking at the speaker, and did not try. However, everybody was accustomed to Miss Bezac's confusions.
"Are you pledged to stand still on this particular spot?" Mr. Linden said at her side.
"No indeed," said Faith with ready smile,—"but people have been talking to me—"
"Yes, and there is no telling how many I shall interfere with if I take you away now."
"I don't care—" said Faith. "Only Dr. Harrison said he wanted to shew me something when the lamps were lit."
"When they are lighting? or when they are lit?"
"When they are lit, he said."
"Well they are not lit yet," said Mr. Linden, "and before they are I want you to get a view of people and things in twilight perspective. For which purpose, Miss Faith, I must take you to the extreme verge of society and the lawn—if you will let me."
"I would like to go anywhere you please, Mr. Linden." And Faith's face gave modest token that she would like it very much.
He gave her his arm, and then by skilful navigation kept clear of the groups most likely to interrupt their progress; passing rather towards the boy quarter, making Sam Stoutenburgh sigh and Joe Deacon whistle, with the most frigid disregard of their feelings. The shrubbery at the foot of the lawn was in more than twilight now, and its deeper shadow was good to look out from; giving full effect to the dying light on earth and sky. The faint rosecoloured clouds hung over a kaleidoscope of dresses, which was ever shifting and making new combinations, passing into black spots in the shadow of the trees, or forming a broad spread of patchwork on the open lawn. The twilight perspective was far more witching than the sunlight full view.
"How pretty that is!" said Faith delightedly. "Thank you, Mr. Linden. I don't believe Dr. Harrison will shew me any effect so good as this. How pretty and odd it is!"
"Don't you know," he said, "that you never should thank me for doing pleasant things?"
"Why, Mr. Linden?" she said in a tone a little checked.
"Why?—because I like to do them."
"Well," she said laughing slightly, "that makes me want to thank you more."
"It don't make me deserve the thanks, however. Do you perceive the distant blue of Miss Cecilia's dress? does it make you think of the blue ether over your head?"
"Not the least!" said Faith much amused. "What makes you ask me that,Mr. Linden?"
"I should like to hear why it does not?"
"The two things are so very, very far apart," Faith said, after a moment's consideration. "I don't see what could make me think of them together. The only thing is that both are blue, but I should have to think to remember that."
"You haven't answered me yet," he said smiling. "Why are they far apart?—your blue gentians there, are as far below the sky in number of miles—yet from them to the sky the transition is easy."
"Yes—" said Faith looking down at her blue gentian. "Why is it, Mr.Linden? But this is God's work too," she added softly.
"I suppose that is the deep root of the matter. The ruined harp of man's nature yet answers to a breath from heaven as to no other touch. Then blue has been so long the emblem of truth, that separated from truth one can scarce, as you say, realize what colour it is."
"Then Mr. Linden," said Faith after a moment's silence, with the tone and the look of quick pleasure,—"isthiswhat you mean by 'reading' things?"
"Yes—" he said with a smile,
"'To rightly spellOf every star that heaven doth shew,And every herb that sips the dew.'"
"But how far can you read?" said Faith. "And I never thought of such reading till—till a little while ago! How far can you read, Mr. Linden?"
"I don't know," he said,—"because I don't know how far Icannotread! Yet if 'the invisible things of God' may be known 'by the things which are seen,' there is at least room for ample study. To some people, Miss Faith, the world is always (with the change of one adjective) an incomprehensible little green book; while others read a few pages now, and look forward to knowing the whole hereafter."
There was a pause, a little longer than usual.
"And you say I must not thank you?"—Faith said very low.
"I say I think you have no cause."
She was silent.
"Has the day been pleasant?" Mr. Linden asked, as they walked up and down.
"Yes, very pleasant. I liked what you didn't like, Mr. Linden—all that examination business. And I was very glad for Reuben and little Johnny."
"How do you know I didn't like it?"
"I don't 'know'—I thought you didn't," she said looking at him.
"You don't like to say why?"
"Yes! I thought you didn't like it, Mr. Linden, when Judge Harrison first proposed it. You wished he would give us the pleasure without the shewing off."
"Well, did you also know," he said with a peculiar little smile, "that one of my best scholars was not examined?"
"No—who do you mean?" she said earnestly.
He laughed, and answered,
"One who would perhaps prefer a private examination at home—and to whom I have thought of proposing it."
"An examination?" said Faith, wondering and with considerable heightening of colour, either at the proposal or at the rank among scholars assigned her.
"You need not be frightened," Mr. Linden said gravely—"if anybody should be, it is I, at my own boldness. I am a little afraid to go on now—though it is something I have long wanted to say to you."
"What is it, Mr. Linden?" she said timidly.
"I have thought—" he paused a moment, and then went quietly on. "You have given me reason to think, that there are other desirable things besides French of which you have no knowledge. I have wished very much to ask you what they are, and that you would let me—so far as I can—supply the deficiency." It was said with simple frankness, yet with a manner that fully recognized the delicate ground he was on.
The rush of blood to Faith's face he could see by the lamplight, but she hesitated for an answer, and hesitated,—and her head was bent with the weight of some feeling.
"I should be too glad, Mr. Linden!" she said at last, very low, but with unmistakeable emphasis.
"Then if you will let me see to-morrow what you are doing with that other little book, I will see what companions it should have." And warned by the kindling lamps on every side, he led the way a little more into the open lawn, that Faith might at least be found if sought. That allowed him to see too, the look he had raised in her face; the little smile on the lips, the flush of colour, the stir of deep pleasure that kept her from speaking. Yet when they had taken a few steps on the broad lawn and other people would soon be nearing them, she suddenly said, softly,
"What 'other' book do you mean, Mr. Linden?"
"I don't know how many there may be, Miss Faith, but Imeantone which I tried to get at the store one day, and found that the last copy had passed into your hands."
"The arithmetic!" said Faith. "That was how you knew it.—There is Dr. Harrison looking for me!" she added, in a tone which gentle as it was would have turned that gentleman to the right about if he had heard it—which he did not—and if he had not been indifferent on the point of all such tones,—which he was.
"Stars shine by their own light!" said the doctor as he came up. "I have no need to ask, 'Where is Miss Derrick?' Your Quercus rubra there is brilliant at any distance, with a red gleam. You have Mars on your breast, and Hesperus in your eye! It is heaven on earth!"
Faith could not choose but laugh at the mixture of gallantry and fun and flattery in the doctor's manner, though his meaning was, to her, doubtful. Other answer she made none.
"And so," said Mr. Linden, "you make the stars shine by their own light, and Miss Derrick by the light of the stars!"
"Advances constantly making in the sciences!" said the doctor with a wave of his hand. "I dare say you are a better astronomer than I am;—I haven't kept up with the latest discoveries. But Mr. Linden, may I interfere with your heaven for a moment, and persuade these stars to shine, for that length of time, upon less favoured regions? With another revolution of the earth they will rise upon you again."
"I shall not persuade the stars for you," said Mr. Linden.
"I will endeavour so far," said the doctor turning to Faith. "I had the honour to offer to shew Miss Derrick the peculiar effect of Chinese lanterns in Pattaquasset—may I hope that she will allow me to fulfil my promise?"
He took possession of Faith, and with a graceful "Au revoir!"—to Mr.Linden, led her away.
The effect of the lanterns was very pretty, and to her eyes very curious. So were the lanterns themselves, be fore one and another of which Faith stopped and looked with charmed eyes, and the doctor nothing loth gave her charming details.
"After all, it is only child's play," he said as he turned away. "Why should we want Pattaquasset to look like China?"
"For one night?" said Faith.
"Well, for one night," said the doctor. "But you haven't got little feet on, have you?" said he looking down at the edge of Faith's white dress in mock alarm;—"I shouldn't like the transformation to go too far."
Faith laughed.
"Reassure me," said the doctor. "Nothing can be more unlike the Mongol type than the pure Circassian I have before me,—yet let me see the slipper. I want to be sure that all is right."
He persisted, and to stop the absurdity of the thing, Faith shewed him, not indeed her slipper, but the most un-Chinese, un-French, neat little shoe thick enough for walking, in which she had come to Judge Harrison's party.
"Alarmingly near!" said the doctor peering at it—"but the proportions are perfect. It is not Chinese. Thank you. I have seen so many odd things in my life, Miss Derrick,—and people,—that I never know what to expect; andanythingright from head to foot, is a marvel."
They moved on again and sauntered round and round in the paths of the shrubbery, Faith hardly knew whither. In truth the doctor's conversation was amusing enough to leave her little care. Very few indeed were the words he drew from her; but with all their simplicity and modesty, he seemed to be convinced that there was something behind them worth pleasing; at least he laid himself out to please. He easily found that what she knew of life and the world was very little, and that she was very ready to take any glimpses he would give her into the vast unknown regions so well known to him. Always in his manner carelessly graceful, Faith never dreamed of the real care with which he brought up subjects, and discussed them, that he thought would interest her. He told of distant countries and scenes—he detailed at length foreign experiences—he described people—he gave her pictures of manners and customs,—all new to her ears, strange and delightful; and so easily yet so masterly given, that she took it all in an easy full flow of pleasure. So it happened that Faith did not very well know how they turned and wound in and out through the walks; she was in Switzerland and at Paris and at Rome, all the while.
She came back pretty suddenly to Pattaquasset. As they paused to watch the glitter of one of the lamps on the shining leaves of a holly tree, several of the boys, seeking their own pleasure, came sauntering by. The last of these had time to observe her, and swaggering close up under her face said, loud enough to be heard,
"You aint, neither!—I know you aint. Reuben Taylor says you aint."
The lamplight did not serve to reveal Faith's changes of face and colour, neither did Dr. Harrison wait to observe them.
"What do you mean, sir?" he said, catching hold of the boy's arm. "Why do you speak so to a lady?—whatisn't she?"
"Somebody's sweetheart," said the boy resolutely. "She aint. ReubenTaylor says she aint."
"You'll never be, my fine fellow," said the doctor letting him go,—"if you don't learn more discretion. I must tell Mr. Linden his boys want a trifle of something besides Algebra.Thatdon't give all the relative values of things."
"Pray do not! don't speak of it, Dr. Harrison!" said Faith.
He tried to see her face, but he could not.
"Hardly worth while," he said lightly. "Boys will be boys—which is an odd way of excusing them for not being civilized things. However if you excuse him, I will."
Faith said nothing. She was trying to get over the sudden jar of those words. They had not told her anything she did not believe—she thought no other; but they gave her nevertheless a keen stir of pain—a revival of the pain she had quieted at Neanticut; and somehow this was worse than that. Could Reuben Taylor talk about her so?—could Reuben Taylor have anyauthorityfor doing it? But that question would not stand answering. Faith's red oak leaves were a little AEgis to her then, a tangible precious representative of all the answer that question would not wait for. No sting of pain could enter that way. But the pain was bad enough; and under the favouring shadowy light of the lamps she strove and strove to quiet it; while the doctor went on talking.
"Indeed,"—said he—going on with the subject of Phil's speech,—"I am obliged to him for his information—which was of course incorrect. But I am very glad to hear it nevertheless. Other people's sweethearts, you know, are 'tabooed'—sacred ground—not to be approached without danger to all concerned. But now—if you will allow me, I think I shall claim you for mine."
Whateverlookthe words may have, they did not sound rude. They were said with a careless half-amused, half gentle manner, which might leave his hearer in doubt whether the chief purpose of them were not to fall pleasantly on her ear and drive away any disagreeable remainders of Phil's insolence. But Faith scarce heard him. She was struggling with that unbidden pain, and trying with all the simplicity and truth of her nature and with the stronger help she had learned to seek, to fight it down. She had never thought such an utterly vain thought as that suggested in Phil's words; in her humility and modesty she chid herself that it should have come into her head even when other people's words had forced it there. Her humility was very humble now. And in it she quietly took up with the good she had, of which her roses were even then breathing sweet reminders in her face; putting from her all thought of good that did not belong to her and she could not deserve.
The uncertain light favoured her well, or Dr. Harrison would have seen too much of her face-play. They had been going on and on, and the doctor had been as usual talking, and she had managed now and then to seem to give an answer—she never remembered to what; and her part in the conversation all along had been so modestly small that the doctor hardly knew when or whether she had ceased to comprehend him. But they emerged at last upon the lawn, where Faith was taken possession of and marched off by the old Judge, nothing loth.
The doctor casting about for another fish to throw his line at, spied Reuben Taylor, standing alone, and eying as Mr. Linden and Faith had done the gay scene about the house, now gay with the many-coloured lamps.
"Well, my man," said the doctor easily accosting him as he stood there, "you did very well this afternoon. How long have you been at the school?"
Reuben made answer with his usual respectful courtesy.
"Are you a friend of Miss Derrick's?"
"I think Miss Derrick is my friend, sir," said Reuben with a little flush.
"Is she?" said the doctor. "Well don't you think that comes to the same thing?"
"No sir."
"No? What's the difference? I'm not examining you now—I am asking for information."
"I think you must know, sir," said Reuben, respectfully but firmly, after a glance at his questioner.
"Do you?" said the doctor laughing slightly. "Well, if you are not her friend, it don't signify. I was going to remark to you, if youwere, that ladies don't generally care to have their private affairs talked about, and however much you may know, it is not always worth while to tell it."
"I neither know nor have said anything, Dr. Harrison," said Reuben, drawing himself up a little, and looking full in the doctor's face.
"You're Reuben Taylor, aren't you?"
"Yes sir—I'm not anybody else though."
"No," said the doctor carelessly. "Well, it isn't necessary you should be, for present purposes. I heard you quoted as authority just now, on something which touched that lady's affairs, whose friend you say you are not—and I think,yourfriend though she may be, she was not particularly gratified with your interference."
"Miss Faith knew it was a wrong quotation," said Reuben quietly.
"You are sure of that?"
"Quite sure, sir—if it was anything about her which ought not to have said."
"Don't know that it was," said the doctor; "it's well enough sometimes to set people right when they are wrong—what I say is, that ladies don't always thank one for it."
Reuben flushed a little.
"You don't know me, Dr. Harrison," he said—"I can't expect you to take my word; but I have nothing to add to it."
"And I have nothing to add to mine," said the doctor lightly. "I heard you quoted—that's all; I supposed you would know what for."
"Who did you hear, sir?"
"Don't know, really," said the doctor—"only he was a rude fellow—if you can tell one by such a description among your mates, it was he."
And the doctor strolled away.
Reuben on his part seemed to recognize the description, for taking a sort of intuitive bee-line through people and trees, he suddenly brought up with the question,
"Phil Davids, what have you been saying about me?"
"I s'pose you think folks have nothing to do but talk about you now.You're a long way out!"—was the careless answer.
"What did you say I said?" said Reuben.
"I never heard you say anything, as I know, that was worth tellin' over. When I do, I'll let somebody know it, I tellyou."
"I suppose that means that you won't answer my question," said Reuben."What I want to know is, not what I said, but what you say I said."
"About what?"
"About Miss Faith Derrick."
"I don't say you said nothing about her—I never heard you call her name, as I know."
"Like enough," said Reuben, with a sort of resolute patience; "but what did you say I said that had to do with her in any way?"
"Who do you think you air?" said Phil.
"I tell you what, Phil Davids," said Sam Stoutenburgh, who had heard the last question or two, "if you don't keep your tongue off Miss Derrick, I'll pitch you up into a pine tree so far that you'll see stars before you come down—or I'm not Stoutenburgh nor stout, neither!" and Sam—who was a little of a young giant—backed Phil up against the tree that was nearest in a sort of preparatory way that was rather breathless. Phil however was as tough as shoe leather.
"Suppos'n you keep eyes off her, then," said he struggling. "It's a poor rule that don't work both ways."
"What have you been about?" said Sam,—"come, own up for once—just to try how it feels."
"What haveyou?" said Phil. "I aint up to half as many shines as you,Sam Stoutenburgh."
"I should think not!" said Sam disdainfully.
"O let him alone, Sam!" said Reuben—"what's the use?"
"Little enough use—" said Sam, "or matter either,—everybody knows Phil Davids. Pity he wouldn't make his own acquaintance!" And releasing his prisoner Sam turned disdainfully and Reuben sorrowfully towards the house. But Reuben did not go very near. A wistful look or two towards the lighted front and the clustering guests, and he paused, leaving Sam to go on alone.
Sam's bashfulness was happily not of the uncompromising kind, therefore he not only found Faith, but she found him—ready to claim her promise—the very moment she was ready to go.
"But I don't know whether the wagon is here, Sam," said Faith. Other wagons were come, and driving off, and a little procession of colours was setting forth on foot, up and down the street from Judge Harrison's. The hall was full of people, getting hoods on and taking leave.
"Well, Miss Faith," said Sam, "we can walk to where it ought to be, and if it isn't there maybe you'll let me go further."
"But I can't go without seeing my mother, Sam, and I don't know where she is."
"Sam Stoutenburgh!" said Mr. Linden's voice, while the speaker laid both hands on the boy's shoulders, "what are you about?"
"Miss Faith said I might go as far as the wagon with her, sir," saidSam looking down.
"The wagon is not here," said Mr. Linden,—"Mr. Skip is probably asleep."
"Then I may see you home, Miss Faith?" was the joyous comment.
"Sam Stoutenburgh!" said Mr. Linden again, preventing Faith's reply, and giving Sam a gentle shake. "Isn't one favour a day enough for you?" he added presently.
"No sir!" said Sam boldly.
"I suppose I must give way before a blue ribband," said Mr. Linden smiling, yet as if he was much inclined to lift Sam out of the way. "Miss Faith, the matter is in your hands."
But Faith did not smile, and looked, or was it his fancy?—ever so little careworn.
"What matter, Mr. Linden?" she said simply.
"Whether you will take charge of this boy as far as his father's gate.I will try and take care of you, after that."
"Will that do, Sam?" said Faith pleasantly, as she threw her scarf over her head.
"I'm glad to go any distance with you, Miss Faith," said Sam, but half content—or a quarter! for that was the distance assigned him.
"Well behave yourself then," said Mr. Linden, removing his hands. A parting injunction Sam's dignity would have dispensed with.
The evening was very still. A little too cool for insect voices, a little too late in the season for night birds, the soft dropping of the yellow leaves scarce stirred those already fallen. Few sounds came from the houses; for all Pattaquasset had been out, and that portion which had got home was tired and thinking of bed, while the few stragglers yet abroad were far from the late scene of action, on their lonely homeward roads. Squire Deacon, with Joe for a thorn in his side, was opening his own door for Miss Cecilia, and Miss Bethia Bezac, at 'the other side of creation,' mused over the possibility of again (without eyes) embroidering waistcoats. Thus when the clock struck eight, the earth seemed asleep and the stars at watch over it.
At about that point of time, Sam Stoutenburgh and his fair companion were near the parting gate; and Sam, not supposing himself within range of other eyes, had bent down over Faith's glove in a very demonstrative manner; and she would certainly have received an unwonted proof of his devotion, if Mr. Linden—who had in truth been all the time not very far off—had not just then been very near.
"Take care, Sam—" he said,—"you are exceeding directions." A remark which sent Sam through the gate with more haste than coolness, while Mr. Linden stepped forward into his place.
"Your mother rode home with Mrs. Somers, Miss Faith, and this little shawl was requested to walk home with you," he said, wrapping it round her; for which he received a quiet little "Thank you." He put her hand on his arm, and once past the gate walked very slowly; moderating his steps to hers, and taking the most leisurely pace; perhaps to give her the full sedative effect of the night. Those faint breaths of air, that soft hush of everything, that clear starry sky,—so high, so still,—there was balm in them all.
And for a while Mr. Linden let them do their work alone,—then he spoke.
"One of my scholars is very tired to night. I'm afraid I have done wrong in letting her walk home."
"O no!" said Faith with a little start,—"I like to walk very much, Mr. Linden; it's very pleasant.—And I am not tired," she added in a soft quiet voice.
"What is the difference between being tired, and being in want of rest?"
She looked at him again, and her words did not come at once.
"I suppose the difference is, that in one case you can get what you want—and in the other, you have to wait for it."
"Till when?"
She laughed, somewhat uneasily, and asked him what he meant.
"I hardly know how to make my question plainer, Miss Faith. I suppose I am of an impatient disposition, but the idea of waiting an indefinite time for rest is not pleasant to me."
"But can you always get it as soon as you would like to have it?"—Faith asked with a kind of timid doubt, as not knowing but his power might extend so far.
"Why not?—seeing rest is like some sweet wind, which cannot blow its soft gale till there is a clear space for it, why should it linger when the space is clear?—why not rest when we are weary?"
"But can you always get the clear space for it?" Faith asked, looking at him wonderingly.
He smiled.
"I am talking of what may be done, Miss Faith—not of what I do. But I wish you would let me try my powers for you to-night. How comes there to be a demand?—how comes therenotto be a supply?"
"Of rest?" said Faith. "Oh there is! At least," she added reluctantly,—"there will be. There is now, Mr. Linden."
"Equal to the demand?"
"Why do you ask me?" she said, a little troubled.
"I believe I have a bad habit of asking questions," said Mr. Linden—and his tone was apologetic in its very gentleness, "It is partly my fault and partly Pet's."
"Partly whose? Mr. Linden," said Faith. "Idon't think it's a bad habit.Whosefault, did you say?"
"Pet's—my sister's—into whose company I hope to send you soon again."
"Oh—I mustn't thank you!"—Faith said, beginning and stopping herself somewhat comically.
"I don't know whether you will thank me for taking you past your own gate, which I was about to do," said Mr. Linden. "And I don't know whether the social and astronomical days ought to agree—but Hesperus set some time ago."
"I don't understand, Mr. Linden—" said Faith pausing.
"You must not expect to understand all astronomical things till you have studied astronomy," he said with a smile. "The practical application of my words is to sleep—
'That knits up the ravelled sleeve of care;Worn labour's bath; balm of hurt minds.'"—
With which soporific potion he bade her goodnight; and Faith went to her room marvellingwhatcould have put into Mr. Linden's head just those particular words; and whether he had a quality of vision that could see through flesh and blood; and a little in doubt whether or not in the circumstances to find the words or the surmise 'balmy.' But if she wanted rest that night, or seemed to have wanted it, she had found it the next day, for she was all like herself. To speak with her own scrupulosity, there was perhaps just a shade of quieter gravity on her face and touching her smile, than there had been the day before. And that shade she kept.
It is a notable fact, that when Pleasure with her wand has roused into lively motion the waters of some mortal lake, she straightway departs; taking with her the sparkles, the dancing foam, and leaving the disturbed waves to deposit at their leisure the sediment which she has stirred up. Withered leaves flung upon the bank, a spot here and there of discoloured froth,—these are what remain. Thus in the quiet nooks and corners of Pattaquasset were trophies not too bright of the celebration. Thus did Pattaquasset people behold some of the hidden evil in their neighbours, and likewise in themselves. The boys indeed maintained their serenity and kept Pleasure with them but in other quarters there were some heartburnings—most of all at Squire Deacon's. Relieved at first by the idea of a new rival—then by some intuitive belief thrown off that ground of comfort; the Squire was much in the condition of the man who wanted to commit an assault upon every small boy he met—for boys were to him representatives. But deprived by law of this manly way of expressing his feelings, the Squire sought some other. For the boys, they laughed at him—and at pretty much everything else; and having as I said managed to keep Pleasure with them, the faces that greeted Mr. Linden on Friday morning were unusually bright.
Yet there were one or two exceptions. Sam Stoutenburgh was a little shamefaced in broad daylight—a little afraid of being laughed at; and Reuben Taylor, the head of the blue ribbands, was under a very unwonted cloud. It even seemed as if the day (no thanks to Pleasure) had done some work for Mr. Linden: perhaps he was considering how long he should be within reach of such ceremonies; or (perhaps) how soon he could be willing to put himself out of reach. And when he came home in the afternoon, it was with the slow, meditative step which reminded Faith of his first week in Pattaquasset.
"Youare tired now, Mr. Linden," she said with a smile, but the burden of her remark in her eyes, as she met him in the porch.
"Boys are an extraordinary commodity to deal with!" he said looking at her, but answering the smile too. "I think you are bewitching all mine by degrees. Why cannot you confine your conjurations to the black cats of the neighbourhood?—like some of the real, respectable Puritan witches?"
Faith blushed very much at the beginning of this speech, and laughed at the last.
"What have I done, Mr. Linden? there are no black cats in the neighbourhood."
"Is that it?" said Mr. Linden—"I shall have to import a few. You give me a great deal of trouble, Miss Faith."
"I, Mr. Linden? I am very sorry! What have I done?"
"I don't know!—or at least but partially. There is Sam Stoutenburgh, making as much ado over his lessons as if his wits had forsaken him—which perhaps they have. There is Reuben Taylor—I don't know what is the matter with Reuben," he said, his tone changing, "but his last words to me were a very earnest entreaty that I would persuade you to see him for five minutes; and when I wanted to know why he did not prefer his own request, all I could get was that he was not sure you would let him. Which gave me very little clue to the sorrowful face he has worn all day."
Once more, and this time with the keen tinge of pain, the blood rushed in a flood to Faith's cheek and brow; and for a second she put her hands to her face as if she would hide it. But she put them down and looked up frankly to Mr. Linden.
"I am sure Reuben Taylor has done no wrong!" she said. "You may tell him so, Mr. Linden."
"Wrong!" he said—"to you?"—and the tone was one Faith did not know. Then with a manner that was like enough to the flinging of the little stone into Kildeer river, he added, "Yes, I will tell him. Miss Faith, I shall be down again directly, and then will you let me see that book?" And he passed on upstairs.
The book was on the table in the parlour when he came down, but Faith met him standing. With a little timid anxiousness, she said,
"I have done wrong now. Mr. Linden, I said I was sure Reuben hadnotdone any, and you will not speak to him as if he had? Please don't speak to him at all—I will see him myself."
The answering smile broke through some little cloud of feeling, in spite of him.
"You need not fear," he said,—"I know Reuben Taylor. But you have got something else to think of just now." Then placing a chair for her at the table, Mr. Linden took up the little book and began his work of examination. And perhaps it is not too much to say that even Dr. Harrison might have learned somewhat from the way it was carried on. A skilful and kind way of finding out what she did not know, from what she did; initiation and examining so carried on together that Faith found herself knowing where she thought she was ignorant,—more still, perhaps, a kind of separate decision what sheoughtto learn, and how; which saved her the trouble of acknowledging and confessing; and all as gently done as if he had been dealing with some delicate winged creature, whose downy plumage would come off with a touch,—such was the threatened examination. She might flutter a little under his hand, but the soft wings were unhurt.
"Tell me first, Miss Faith," he said turning over the leaves, "what you have been doing here by yourself."
"I have been all through it," she said; 'fluttering' sure enough, yet as much with pleasure as with timidity; not at all with fear.
"Will you work these out for me—" and he gave her half a dozen different tests on a bit of paper.
She coloured, and he could see her hand tremble; but she was not long doing them, and she did them well, and gave them back without a word and without raising her eyes.
"Well," said Mr. Linden, smiling a little as he looked at the paper, "if it takes half an hour to hear Charles twelfth his lesson, and Johnny gives you but one quarter the trouble, and Rob Waters about twice as much as Johnny, how much time will you spend upon them all?"
"It will be about an hour—wanting an eighth," she said without raising her eyes, but with a bit of a smile too.
"I hear you and Johnny have arranged preliminaries, Miss Faith."
"Yes," said Faith looking up brightly, "he came to shew me his ribband and to tell me last night. But I was almost sorry, Mr. Linden,—that you should sendhimaway from you."
"For Johnny's sake, or my own?"
"For his sake—certainly."
"You need not speak so assuredly—there were two parties to the question—besides you. But I have him still, you know, in a way. What has been in hand since this little book was finished?"
"Nothing—except the Philosophe,—and—"
"Well?—isn't that blank to be filled up?"
"And Shakspeare," said Faith casting down her eyes.
"I cannot let you confine yourself to the study of human nature," said Mr. Linden,—"that will never do. Charles twelfth and Shakspeare want ground to stand upon. Did you ever read anything of Physical Geography?"
She shook her head. "I don't know what that is, Mr. Linden."
"Then I will have the pleasure of introducing you. Ordinary geography is but a shell without it. And if we accidentally go deeper down than the stratum of geography, I will try and bring you back safe. But Miss Faith, you have not done with this book yet—the subject-matter of it. I want you to carry that further."
"Well," she said smiling,—"I like it. I am ready. What comes next, Mr.Linden?"
"Did you pay any attention to the algebra part of the examination yesterday?"
"Yes, I believe so. I paid attention to it all—I didn't understand what some of it was about, but I believe I know what you mean."
"How should you like to work with letters and signs instead of figures? By the way, Miss Faith, your sevens are too much like your nines, and if you drew a check for $500 with that five, you might find yourself paying out $800."
She coloured again, but bowed her head in assent, quite ignoring in her interest in the subject the extravagance of the supposition by which he illustrated it.
"You shall not say that again, Mr. Linden."
"Don't pledge yourself for me," he said smiling,—"I am a lawless kind of person, as perhaps you have found out. But if I were to spend one minute well on the first day of the year, and each succeeding day add to my well-spent minutes so many more as the year was days old—how much of December would be well spent?"
But Faith could not tell.
"You see what is before you—" Mr. Linden said; "you must work that out, Miss Faith, in more ways than one. Well tell me this—Which is nearest to us now,—my sister Pet or the Khan of Tartary,—supposing her in Rome and him in his own dominions?"
Faith coloured again, a good deal, and with some sorrow.
"I am glad you asked me," she said;—"I want you should know it,—but I don't know anything about that, Mr. Linden. I know alittle, of course," she said correcting herself, "but I couldn't answer you."
"But why can't you understand," he said looking at her, "that I am just some old, torn, dog-eared book of questions that you are looking into for the first time? I don't like to be made to feel like a bran new schoolbook."
Faith looked at him, and probably the words "old, torn, and dog-eared" made a peculiar contrast, for her eye flashed and in spite of everything she laughed, her musical little laugh.
"That sounds reasonable," said Mr. Linden. "I like to be laughed at. But Miss Faith—just suppose for a moment that there were tears in your eyes,—what could keep them from falling?"
Faith's eyes opened and she took a little time to consider this proposition.
"If I were very determined, I think I could do it," she said.
"Suppose they got so far as the tip ends of your eye lashes?" he said, with a little play of the lips.
"They must come down, I am afraid," said Faith looking and wondering.
"But why?"
"Because my determination couldn't reach them there, I suppose," she said in unmitigated wonder. "There would be nothing to keep them up."
"Unphilosophic!" he said gravely,—"I shall have to teach you both why your tears fall, and why they don't."
She smiled, as very willing to be taught, but with a face that looked as if it had had few to experiment upon either way.
"I will try and not tire you out," Mr. Linden said, "but different things go on pleasantly together. Some I should like to have you study for me when I am away, some directly with me. And—"
"And what, sir?" she said with the gentle intonation of one to whose ear every word is pleasant.
"How much time have you in the course of the day that can and ought to be spent upon all these matters—without disturbing Shakspeare and his companions?"
"I willmaketime, Mr. Linden, if I don't find it. I have a good deal. You won't tire me."
"You must not make time out of strength. Will you write me a French exercise every day, among other things? Yes Cindy," he said—"I understand,"—apparently quite aware that Faith did not.
"I will try," said Faith, with a colour again that was not ofFrenchgrowth.
"Well baint you comin'?" said Cindy, who stood still as if she liked the prospect before her.
"Yes, but I can find my own way," said Mr. Linden; at which gentle hintCindy vanished. And Faith sprang up.
"Teaching all day," she said, "and no tea either!"—And she was about to run off, then paused to say,
"That is all, Mr. Linden?—do you want to say anything more?"
"It was not tea, Miss Faith,—Reuben is at the door. Will you see him?Shall I bring him here or will you go there?"
"I will go there," said Faith hurriedly. But Mr. Linden followed her.
"Reuben," he said, "Miss Faith will hear you—and I am ready to answer for your word with my own;"—then he went back into the sitting room and closed the door.
But those words seemed to touch at least one sore spot in the boy's heart—he had to struggle with himself a moment before he could speak. Then it was low and humbly.
"Miss Faith—I don't know just what Phil has said about me,—I can't find out. But whatever it is there isn't one word of it true. I never said one word about you, Miss Faith, that I wouldn't say to you, just the same!" And Reuben looked as if he would have confronted the whole world on that point.
"I am quite sure of it, Reuben," Faith said very gently. "I didn't need you to come and tell me so."
He looked up at her with both gladness and thanks in his eyes.
"I shouldn't have troubled you with my trouble at all, Miss Faith—only he said you were displeased with me—and I was afraid it might be true."
"Who said I was displeased with you?"
An involuntary glance of Reuben's eye towards the closed door, seemed to say he did not want his words to go far.
"Dr. Harrison, Miss Faith. At least I thought he said so."
"Did he speak to you?"
"Yes ma'am—and just pushed my word out of the way when I gave it,—said it might be well enough to tell people but he didn't think you liked it. And so I got vexed. I'm so used to Mr. Linden," Reuben said—as if in excuse.
"Are you satisfied now, Reuben?" said Faith, giving him a good look of her eyes.
A little qualified his look was—perhaps because he had been too much troubled to have the traces go off at once; but there was no want of satisfaction in his,
"O yes, Miss Faith—I can't tell you how thankful I am to you!Goodnight, ma'am."
Faith went back to the parlour. And then Mr. Linden, taking from his pocket a piece of broad dark blue ribband, and laying it lightly round Faith's shoulders, told her gravely, "that she was entitled to wear that for the rest of the evening."
Faith matched the blue with red, and stood eying the ribband which she had caught as it was falling from her shoulders, seeming for a minute as if she had as much as she could bear. Rallying, she looked up at Mr. Linden to get a little more light as to what he expected of her, or what he meant. But unless she could read a decided opinion that the two 'favours' looked better together than separate, his face gave her no information. Then smiling he said,
"I don't mean that youmustwear it—merely that you have the right."
Faith gave another glance at his face, and then without more ado tied the blue ribband round her waist, where as she still wore the white dress of yesterday, it shewed to very good advantage. She said nothing more; only as she was quitting the room now in earnest to get tea, gave him an odd, pleasant, half grateful, half grave little smile. Too many things however had been at work to admit of her coming down into quietness immediately. The red left her no more than the blue for the rest of that evening.