"No," said Faith—"I think I enjoyed it better than I should in July."
"Rousseau's doctrine," said the doctor. "Or do you mean that you like the description better than the reality?"
"It was the reality I enjoyed," said Faith.
"What have you got there, Linden?"
"Various old poets, bound up together."
"What was that you read?"
"Andrew Marvell's 'Garden.'"
"It's a famous good thing!—though I confess my soul never 'glided into the boughs' of any tree when my body didn't go along. Apropos—Do you like to be on the back of a good horse?"
"Why yes," said Mr. Linden, "when circumstances place me there."
"Will you let me be a circumstance to do it? I have an animal of that description—with almost the facility of motion possessed by Andrew Marvell's soul. Will you try him?"
"Can he run?" said Mr. Linden with comic demureness.
"Fleetly. Whetheraway with youdepends, you know, on what I have no knowledge of; but I should think not."
"I should like to know beforehand—" said Mr. Linden in the same tone."However—Is it to be on simple or compound interest, doctor?"
"I never take simple interest," said Dr. Harrison. "I want all I can get."
"Well if I take your horse, what will you ride alongside of me?"
"That is easily arranged," said the doctor smiling. "This fellow is a new-comer, comparatively, and a pet of mine. I want to know what you think of him. When is your next time of leisure?"
"My daylight leisure is pretty limited now. Part of Saturday I could take."
"Then you'll hold yourself engaged to me for Saturday morning,—and I'll hold myself engaged to give you some thing pleasant to do with it. The roads hereabout are good for nothingbutriding—you can have the pleasure of motion, there isn't much to take your thoughts away from it."
"Except emotion?"
"If you're another Marvell of a man, and can send your soul into the boughs as you pass;—as good as stumbling on melons," said the doctor. "Unless your horse stumbles!"
"I see his character is coming out by degrees," said Mr. Linden smiling.
"He's as sure-footed—as you are! Here comes emotion—in the shape of my aunt Ellen. Isn't Mr. Linden a careful man?" he asked whimsically in a low voice, returning to his place by Faith. The question touched Faith's feeling of the ludicrous, and she only laughed at the doctor. Which he liked very well.
Mrs. Somers' errand was to invite the younger portion of the company to spend Christmas evening with her. And having succeeded in her mission, she made the doctor take her home.
The week thereafter passed with the usual quiet business of those days. Friday evening, however, when the lamp was lit, instead of opening her books at once, Faith took the doctor's station on the rug.
"Dr. Harrison has been here this afternoon, Mr. Linden; and asked me to go with you and him in the ride to-morrow."
"Well, Miss Faith?"
"I was afraid at first that it might hinder the good of your ride, if I went; but Dr. Harrison said no; and he put it so that at last I said I would. But I am afraid of it still."
"How did he put it?"
"I don't know," said Faith half laughing;—"in a way that left me no excuse; as if he thought it would be more pleasure both to you and to him, to have me along."
"Miss Faith, if you go, you must give me leave to keep very near you. I trust my own care better than Dr. Harrison's. You will understand why I do it?" Faith did not understand very well.
"I supposed of course, Mr. Linden, you would be very near! I knew mother would not let me go to ride with Dr. Harrison, but with you I thought she would not be afraid."
He looked at her a little doubtfully—as if he wanted to say something; but whatever it might be, it was not what he did say,—a quiet
"I will try and take care of you. Miss Faith." Which words were afterwards enlarged upon.
"Miss Faith, may I trust that you will not fall behind my 'fleet' horse to-morrow?"
"Do you mean, if he goes very fast?" said Faith, with questioning eyes.
"His speed shall not put you to any inconvenience. Indeed it may chance that he will be obliged to go slower than you like,—in which case, Miss Faith, I hope your liking will change."
The doctor came the next day in a gay mood.
"I told you," said he, "I shouldn't be content with simple interest—I wanted compound. I hope you approve of my addition to our plan?"
"So far so good," Mr. Linden said smiling.
They went out, and Mr. Linden's first move was towards the horse with the side saddle; not with the intention of mounting him, however: but a more particular, thorough, systematic examination of every buckle and strap of his harness, that particular horse had never had. Then Mr. Linden turned and held out his hand to Faith.
She gave him hers with a facile readiness that quite precluded interposition, and testified either that she had expected it or hadnotexpected it; most probably the latter. Dr. Harrison bit his lips, but that was a second's emotion; his next step was to dismiss the groom who stood at the horse's head and take that office on himself.
"You are more careful than is absolutely necessary in this case," said he smiling. "This horse, Miss Faith, is the mate, I presume, of the one Job used to take his exercise upon. I chose him for you, thinking of Mrs. Derrick.—Give 'Stranger' to Mr. Linden!"—The last words being a direction to the groom.
A very different creature was Stranger! If it had been the purpose of Dr. Harrison to give his friend so much to do with his own particular affairs that he would have no leisure to bestow on those of other people, he had chosen the horse at least well. A very fine and beautiful animal, he deserved all the praise given him for facility of motion; no feet could disdain the ground more daintily; no carriage be more absolutely springy and soft. But the mischief and spirit of both the runaways combined would not match his case. He did not indeed appear to be vicious, any further than a most vehement desire to please himself and that in all manner of eccentric ways, totally irrelevant to the purpose of getting ahead on the road or serving the will of his rider, might be called vice. It rather seemed the spirit of power in full play. However it were, there was no lack of either 'motion' or 'emotion' during the first half mile of the way; for Stranger's manner of getting over so much of the ground was continually either calling Faith's blood into her cheeks, or driving it out from them.
They were well matched, however, the horse and the rider,—and the spirit of power in equal exercise. Neither did Mr. Linden seem averse to the play—though Stranger presently found that what playheindulged in, was clearly matter of concession; his name, as regarded his rider, soon lost its point. On the whole, the performance came as near the 'Centaurship' declared impossible by Dr. Harrison, as most things have in modern times; but so far as the doctor had any stake depending upon Stranger's antics, so far he lost. Mr. Linden had never seemed more absolutely at leisure to attend to other people's affairs, and had rarely, it may be said, attended to them more thoroughly, than during that 'springy' half mile. An occasional Pas seul round the minuet of his companions, rather heightened the effect. On another score, too, perhaps the doctor lost; for whatever efforts he made, orshemade, it was simply impossible for Faith to attend to anything else whatever with any show of consecutiveness, but the said horse and his rider. An attention sufficiently accounted for in the first place by the startled changes of colour in her face; latterly the colour rose and became steady, and a little varying play of smile on lip and eye during the third quarter of a mile attested the fact that other "emotions" had displaced that of fear. Clearly the doctor had lost upon Stranger.
"How do you like him?" he said at last speaking across Faith who was not "good" for conversation.
"Very much."
"I see you do—and he likes you, which is, to be sure, a correlative position. As I see he don't fill your hands, may I impose upon you the care of my sister? We are an uneven number you are aware, and as I thought it desirable not to lookodd, I gave her permission to go with us."
Dr. Harrison did not see—if Faith did—the tiniest bit of a glance that sought her face while he was speaking; but nothing could be easier than the terms in which Mr. Linden declared himself ready to take charge of any number of ladies,—it was only equalled by Stranger's bound the next minute.
How dismayed one of the party was at this addition of Miss Harrison's company, nobody guessed. They turned in at Judge Harrison's gate, and found Miss Sophy all ready for them. But to Faith, the play was suddenly taken out of "the play." She and Dr. Harrison set forward to be sure, over a pleasant road, in delicious weather; the doctor was in one of his balmiest moods; and though quietly, she was very well mounted. It was pleasant, or would have been pleasant; but all the while, what was Stranger doing behind her that she could not see! Then in answering some kindly, graceful remark of the doctor's, Faith chid herself for ungratefulness, and roused herself to give and take what good was in her power.
The ride was pleasant after that! The air in all its calm sweetness was well tasted; the barren landscape, never barren to Faith's eyes, was enjoyed at every step. Her horse went agreeably, and the talk between her and Dr. Harrison grew interesting and enlivening.
Meanwhile Mr. Linden's horse and his companion were at the antipodes—of each other. Thoroughly good and estimable as Miss Harrison was, she never left the beaten track,—and Stranger never kept in it. Between these two opposites Mr. Linden amused himself as best he might. To do him justice he tried his best to amuse his companion.
Several miles of way had been passed over, when in a broad grassy reachof the road, the two riders ahead fell back upon the rest of the party;Faith taking Miss Harrison's side, while the doctor drew up by Mr.Linden.
"How does it go?" he said good humouredly.
"What is the impersonal in this case?" said Mr. Linden, while Stranger snorted and bounded, and by every means in his power requested the doctor to keep at a distance.
"A conglomerate, for which I found no better term. You, Stranger, and my sister, and the world generally."
"Stranger is in a sufficiently ardent mood, for his share—he gives me a fine view of the country," said Mr. Linden, as the creature brought himself to a tolerably erect position, and seemed to like it so well as to be in no hurry to come down; and when he did, took the precaution to take his hind feet off the ground before the fore feet touched. "Miss Faith—how does this agree with your ideal of Melancholy?"
Faith forgot to answer, or thought answers impertinent.
"That horse frightens me out of my wits," said Miss Harrison. "I have been jumping out of the saddle half the time, since I came out. Sometimes he'll go very quietly—as nice as anybody—and then he'll play such a caper as he did then. That was just because Julius came up alongside of him. He had been going beautifully this last mile. I wish he'd have nothing to do with such a creature!"
"I suppose he's very pleasant to ride," said Faith eying the creature.
Perhaps Stranger—with his full, wild eyes, took note of this look of partial favour, for he backed a little from the doctor, and came dancing round by Faith, and there danced along at her side for a few minutes; evidently in an excited state of mind. His rider meanwhile, gave Faith a quiet word of admonition about keeping so loose a rein, and asked, in the same half undertone, if she felt tired?
"O no!" Faith said with a look of thanks and pleasure.
"That piece of care I must trust in your hands—don't forget that Idoso trust it. How would you like to cross Quapaw creek on this piece of quicksilver?"
"I don't think you'd like to have me!" Faith said very decidedly. "I never saw anything so beautiful, quite, Mr. Linden—that I recollect at this minute," she added smiling.
"I want to dance with you to-day—more than I ever did before," he answered, smiling too. "Miss Faith, if you have not yet said the 'few sensible words,' or if you have any left, won't you please say them to me?"
"That question comes like a constable upon all my sense," said Faith laughing, "and it feels as I suppose a man does when he is clapped on the shoulder."
"But then the man cannot run away, you know."
"Nor my sense don't," said Faith,—"that I know of,—but it feels as if it hadn't possession of itself, Mr. Linden."
"Well see if it is equal to this demand—What would be the consequences if you and I were to start off and scour the country 'on our own hook,' as people say?"
"I think 'our hook' would draw two people after us," said Faith, looking very much amused and a little afraid of being overheard.
"That is a melancholy fact! And my self-indulgence needs to be kept in check. Miss Faith," he said dropping his voice still more, "Stranger regrets very much that he must now go through that figure of the cotillion called 'Ladies change'!" And with a low and laughing bow, Mr. Linden reined back his horse and returned to his former place with all the soberness that circumstances allowed.
There was no soberness whatever in the face with which Faith recommenced her tête-à-tête with Miss Harrison. The doctor was perfectly in order.
"I have been thinking," he said, "since my question of how the world went with you, what a very insignificant thing, as to extent, 'the world' of any one person is."
"Compared with the universe," said Mr. Linden.
"What sort of a world have you got into?" said Dr. Harrison somewhat impatiently. "No—the actual extent of your and my consciousness—of that field of action and perception which we magnificently call our world! What a mighty limited field it is!"
"I think you describe it correctly," said Mr. Linden: "it is both mighty and limited. A little space railed off for every man—and yet larger than that man can ever fill."
"It seems to me too insignificant to be worth filling."
"There is a little outlet on every side that makes it impossible to fill!"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, that while our action at every step touches other people, and their consequent action moves on with like effect, the limits of our power in this world can never be known."
"Will you think me impertinent if I ask once more what you mean?—or rather, ask you to enlarge a little?"
"If a man plants the first clover seed or thistle-down in some great continent," said Mr. Linden, "from whose little field is it, that in a hundred years the whole land bears thistles or clover?"
"It won't," said the doctor, "if a hundred other things are sown at the same time. And so it seems to me in life—that one action is counteracted by another, universally,—and nothing makes anything!—of any avail."
"Ifnothingis of any avail, things don't counteract each other. You are proving my position."
The doctor smiled, not unpleasantly.
"I see," he said, "you can maintain any position you choose to take,—on the ground or in the air! I must give way to you onthisground." And Dr. Harrison reined back his horse and came into Faith's neighbourhood.
"Miss Derrick, the road is getting too contracted for such a procession—will you draw bridle?"
"I don't want to ride behind, Dr. Harrison," said Faith looking laughingly back at him. "I'll go on in front." Which she did, so briskly that the doctor had to bestir himself to come up with her.
"I didn't know," he said, and he spoke somewhat in earnest,—"I didn't know that you cared anything about eminence or preëminence."
"Didn't you, Dr. Harrison?"
"Doyou?"
"I don't know—" said Faith gravely. "Eminence?—yes, I should care very much for that, in some things. Not for preëminence, I think. There's Mr. Simlins!—and I must speak to him." Faith's horse which had been on an easy canter, came to a stand; and so must the doctor. Mr. Simlins too was on horseback.
"Mr. Simlins," said Faith after giving him her hand, "will you have half a day's leisure Monday or Tuesday?"
"Leisure?" said the farmer with his best growl—"no, I sha'n't have it if you take it."
"Do you think I may take it?"
"I don't suppose there's anybody that can hinder you," said Mr. Simlins—"without excepting my own identity.Ican't. Do you want to go up yonder again?"
The doctor interposed to make offers of his father's horses, carriage, and servants; but Faith quietly negatived them all.
"How did you get home the other night?" said the farmer. "Did you get over the river?" Then shifting his ground as Miss Harrison and Stranger came up into the group, he changed his question.
"I say Mr. Linden!—I heerd Quapaw creek was choked up the other night—how did you get home?"
"The same way I expect to now," said Mr. Linden. "How didyou, Mr.Simlins."
"The harness was all right," said Mr. Simlins—"if anything else was in a disorganized state, 'twas somebody's fault besides yourn. That lynch-pin made trouble though; it didn't fit more places than one. Did you get across Quapaw creek on your horses?"
"Do you suppose I crossed on foot?" said Mr. Linden smiling. "Do you take me for a witch, Mr. Simlins?"
"I haven't just made up my mind about that," said the farmer. "I've a temptation to think you air. What's that you're on?"
"Only a broomstick in disguise, Mr. Simlins. As he belongs to Dr.Harrison, I am willing to own so much."
"He's as well-shaped a broomstick as ever I see," said the farmer consideratively. "I shouldn't mind puttin' him in harness. Well good-day! I'm glad this girl didn't have to go all round again the other night—I was afeard she had. I'll take you over creation," he sung out after her as they parted company,—"and I'll be along Monday."
"Quapaw creek?" said Dr. Harrison, as the interrupted procession took up its line of march again,—"I think I remember that. What was the matter?"
"The bridge was broken, with a loaded wagon upon it," Faith explained.
"And you crossed by fording?"
"Yes."
"Isn't it rather a difficult ford? If I remember right, the bed of the stream is uneven and rough; doesn't it require some guiding of the horses?"
"I believe so—yes. It isn't safe for an ignorant rider."
"I didn't give you credit," said he looking at her, "for being such a horsewoman. That is quite a feat for a lady."
Faith coloured high. But she was not going a second time to fight the doctor "with his own weapons." A very little she hesitated, then she said boldly, though not in very bold tones it must be confessed,—
"I am not a horsewoman—Mr. Linden carried me over."
The doctor looked very moody for a few minutes; then his brow brightened. Faith's straightforward truth had served her as well as the most exquisite piece of involution. The doctor could not very well see the face with which her words were spoken and had to make up his mind upon them alone.
"It is so!" was his settled conclusion. "She has only a child's friendly liking for him—nothing more—or she never, simple as she is, would have said that to me with that frankness!"
Moodiness returned to the doctor's brow no more. He left Quapaw creek in the distance and talked of all manner of pleasant things. And so, with no second break of the order of march, they went on and went home.
"Mr. Linden," said Faith when she was lighting the lamp for study in the evening,—"you'll never ask anything of me so hard to do as that was to-day."
"Hard?" he replied. "Why?"
"To keep in front, where I could not see you and that horse."
"Miss Faith! I am very sorry!—But you know I had you in charge—I felt bound to keep you in sight."
"I know,"—she said; and sat down to her work.
There was no more riding after that—the weather grew too cold, and Mattabeeset was put off till spring; but with walks and talks and reading aloud, Göthe's maxim was well carried out. For there is music that needs no composer but Peace, and fireside groups that are not bad pictures in stormy weather. And so December began to check off its short days with busy fingers.
There came a sudden interruption to all this, except December's part of it. For a letter arrived from Miss Delia Danforth, at Pequot, begging that Faith would come and spend a little time with her. Miss Delia was very unwell, and suffering and alone, with the exception of her brother's French wife; and she wrote with longing desire to see Faith. Mr. Danforth had been some years dead, and the widow and the sister who had lived so long together with him, since his death had kept their old household life, in a very quiet way, without him. But now Miss Danforth longed for some of her own kindred, or had a special liking or desire for Faith's company, for she prayed her to come. And it was not a call that Faith herself a moment doubted about answering. Mrs. Derrick's willingness lingered, for various natural reasons; but that too followed. It was clear that Faith ought not to refuse.
The day before she was to go, Mrs. Derrick made her self unusually busy and tired, so as to spare Faith's study-time; and thus it fell out, that when night came and prayers were over, Mrs. Derrick went straight to bed; partly from fatigue, partly to be ready for an early start next day; for she was to drive Faith over to Pequot. No such need or inducements sent Faith to bed; and the two students planned a longer evening of work than common, to anticipate lost time. But when the hours were about half spent, Cindy came to the door and called out, "Miss Faith!"—Faith left her book and went to the door, which she held open.
"There was a boy come to-night," said Cindy, "from that old starvation creatur' down by Barley point, and he says she's more in a box than ever. Haint a crumb of bread for breakfast—nor supper neither, for that."
"Is the boy here now?"
"Why sakes no!" said Cindy. "He come while you was to supper. I s'pose I might ha' telled ye before, but then again I was busy bakin' cakes—and I'm free to confess I forgot. And prayers always does turn everything out of ray head. I can't guess how I thought of it now. Mr. Skip's away to-night, too," said Cindy in conclusion. Faith shut the door behind her.
"It's too far for you to go alone. Can you find somebody to go with you, Cindy? I'll put up a basket of things for her."
"Aint a soul in sight—" said Cindy. "I'd as lieves go the hull way alone as to snoop round, hunting folks."
"Then Cindy, if you'll get ready I'll go with you. She must have something."
Cindy looked at her. "Guess you better get fixed first, Miss Faith.'Taint hardly worth my while, I reckon. Who shouldn't we have after us!"
"Just have your shawl and bonnet ready, Cindy, will you?" said Faith gravely,—"and I'll be ready in a very few minutes."
She went with business speed to pantry and cellar, and soon had a sizeable basket properly filled. Leaving that in Cindy's charge, Faith went back to the sitting-room, and came and stood by the table, and said quietly, "I can't do any more to-night, Mr. Linden. I must be busy in another way. I am going out for a little while."
"May I ask—not from curiosity—with whom?" he said looking up at her.
"With Cindy—to attend to some business she didn't tell me of in proper time." Faith had laid her books together and was going off. Mr. Linden rose from the table.
"With me, if you please, Miss Faith. I will not intrude upon your business."
"It's no business to be intruded upon!" she said with her simple look into his face. "But Cindy and I can do it. Please do not let me take you away! I am not afraid—much."
"Miss Faith, you want a great many lessons yet!—and I do not deserve this. Don't you know that in Mrs. Derrick's absence I am guardian of her house—and of you? I will go with you, or without you—just as you choose," he added smiling. "If you would rather study than walk, you shall. Is the business too intricate for me to manage?"
"It's only to carry some things to an old woman who is in great want of them. They can't wait till to-morrow. If you will go, Mr. Linden,—I'll be ready in a minute. I'd like to go."
She ran to get ready, and Mr. Linden went to the kitchen and took the basket from Cindy, and then waited at the front door till Faith came, and they went out into the moonlight together. A very bright moonlight, and dark shadows—dark and still; only one of them seemed to move; but that one made Faith glad of her change of companions. Perhaps it made the same suggestion to Mr. Linden, for his first words looked that way.
"Miss Faith, you did not do quite right, to-night. Don't you know—" with a gentle half smiling tone—"you must not letanythingmake you do wrong?"
Her look and tone were both very confiding, and touched with timidity.
"Did I, Mr. Linden? I didn't mean it."
"I know that—but you must remember for another time." And he went off to other subjects, giving her talk and information that were perhaps better than books. The walk was good, too; the air bracing, and the village sights and sounds in a subsiding glimmer and murmur. The evening out of doors was worth as much as the evening within doors could have been. Faith thought so. The way was down the road that led to Barley point, branching off from that. The distance to the poor cottage seemed short enough, but if it had seemed long Faith would have felt herself well paid—so much was the supply needed, so joyfully was it received. The basket was left there for Mr. Skip to bring home another time, and at a rather late hour in the evening the return walk began.
The night was sharp and frosty, and still, now, with a depth of silence. The moon, high and full, beamed down in silver splendour, and the face of the earth was all white or black. The cold, clear light, the sharp shadows angling and defining everything, the absolute stillness—how well they chimed!—and chime they did, albeit noiselessly. In that bracing air the very steps of the two homeward bound people seemed to spring more light and elastic, and gave little sound. They went on together with a quick even step,—the very walking was pleasant. For a while they talked busily too,—then Thought came in and claimed her place, and words ceased.
They had left the turn to the belt of woods, and were now passing one or two empty fields where low hedges made a black line of demarcation, and the moonlight seemed even whiter than before. Faith was on the side next the road, and both a little way out, for the walking was smoother and dryer.
How it was done Faith could not tell—the next two seconds seemed full of separate things which she remembered afterwards—but her hand was disengaged from Mr. Linden's arm, and he was standing before her and she behind him, almost before she had fairly seen a little flash of red light from the hedge before them. A sharp report—a powdery taint on the sweet air, came then to give their evidence—to what?
That second past, Mr. Linden turned, but still standing so as to shield her, and laid both hands on her shoulders.
"Are you hurt?" he said, in a voice lowered by feeling, not intent.
One bewildered instant she stood mute—perhaps with no breath for words; the next minute, with a motion too unexpected and sudden to be hindered, lifting both hands she threw his off, bounded to one side to be clear of him, and sprang like a gazelle towards the spot where the red flash had caught her eye. But she was caught and stopped before she reached it, and held still—that same shield between her and the hedge.
"Did it touch you?" Mr. Linden repeated.
"No—Let me! let me!"—she said eagerly endeavouring to free herself.
He was silent a moment—a deep drawn breath the only reply; but he did not loose his hold.
"My dear child," he said, "you could find nothing—for what would you go?"—the tone was very gentle, even moved. "You must walk on before me as quick as you can. Will you promise to do it? I will keep you in sight."
"Before you?—no. What are you going to do? Are you touched?"—Her voice changed as she went on.
"I am not hurt—and mean to do nothing to-night but follow you home.But give me your promise, Miss Faith,—you must not stand here."
"Why in front? will they be behind us?"
"I must have you in sight—and I will not have you near me." And letting go his hold he said, almost imperatively,
"I will trust you. Walk on before me!—Miss Faith, you must not delay a moment."
"I will go with you," she said low, and clinging to his arm.—"Your safety is in being near me. I will not delay. Come!"—
But the hand was taken off again, and held in both his while he spoke.
"I will not have you anywhere near me! If you do not walk on far in front, I shall,—and keep watch of you as best I can." And he let go her hand, and stepped back with a quick pace that soon put some distance between them. She stood still a moment, looking, and then sprang back till she reached him; speaking with a low vehemence that did not seem like Faith.
"I will not do it, Mr. Linden—I will not! I will not!—Come, come! don't stay here!"—
Whatever Mr. Linden felt at that appeal—and he was not a man to feel it lightly—his words lost none of their firmness.
"I shall not stir until you are ten yards in front of me!—unless I leave you as far behind."
She planted herself for an instant before him and looked in his face, with eyes of quiet but most eloquent beseeching.
"No"—he repeated,—"you must go on and fear nothing. Child—'there is no restraint to the Lord, to save by many or by few.'"
She did not answer, even by the little shake of the head which sometimes with her stood in place of words. She turned, went swiftly forward, with a straight, even, unslackening pace, which did not falter nor stop for a long, long piece of the way;howlong it was by the mind's measurement it would be hard to tell. It was one breathless sense of pain and fear; of which moonlight and shadows and the points of the way all made part and were woven in together. Her ears were tingling for that sound; her eyes only measured unconsciously the distances and told off the waymarks. Down the little pitch of the road where that to Barley point forked off; then by a space of clear fences where hedgerows were not, and a barn or two rose up in the moonlight; through gates where the post shadows were black and deep, by the skirting bushes that now and then gathered about the rails. She walked as fast as she could and keep her strength. That was unconsciously measured too. It had seemed to her, in her agony of pleading before the commencing of this strange walk, that it wasimpossibleshe should do it. She was doing it now, under a force of will that she had not been able to withstand; and her mind was subdued and strained beyond the power of thinking. Her very walking seemed to her mechanical; intensely alive as her senses were all the time. There was a transient relief at coming into the neighbourhood of a house, and a drear feeling of desolation and increased danger as she left it behind her; but her pace neither faltered nor flagged. She looked round sometimes, but never paused for that. Before the more thickly settled part of the village was reached her step grew a little slower, probably from the sheer necessity of failing strength; but steady it was, at whatever rate of travel. When at last they turned the sandy corner into the broad street or main way of the village, where houses and gardens often broke the range of hedgeway or fence, and lights spoke to lights in the neighbouring windows, Faith stopped and stood leaning against the fence. In another moment she was drawn away from that to a better support.
"Are you faint?" Mr. Linden said.
Her "no" was faint, but the answer was true for all the rest of her.
He drew her hand within his arm, and went on silently; but how glad he was to see her home, Faith might guess from the way she was half carried up the steps and into the hall, and the door shut and locked behind her. After the same fashion she was taken into the sitting-room and placed in the easy chair, and her wrappers unfastened and taken off with very gentle and quick hands. She offered almost as little help as hindrance, and her head sank immediately.
He stood by her, and repeated his question about faintness.
"O no, sir—I'm not faint. It's nothing," Faith said, but as if her very voice was exhausted. And crossing her arms upon the table, close to which the easy chair stood, she laid her head down upon them. Her mother might well say she had a baby face. It looked so them.
Mr. Linden's next move was to get a glass of wine, and with gentle force and persuasion to make her swallow it; that done, he stood leaning upon the back of her chair, silently, but with a very, very grave face.
She kept her position, scarcely stirring, for some length of time, except that after a while she hid her face in her hands. And sitting so, at last she spoke, in a troubled tone.
"What can be done, Mr. Linden?—to put a stop to this."
"I will try what can be done," he answered, though not as if that point were uppermost in his mind. "I think I can find a way. I wish nothing gave me more uneasiness than that!"
"Do you think there is any way that you can do it, thoroughly?"
"Yes, I think so," he repeated. "There are ways of doing most things. I shall try. Do not you think about it, Miss Faith,—I have something now to make me glad you are going to Pequot. Before, I could only remember how much I should miss my scholar."
"Why are you glad now, Mr. Linden?" Faith's voice was in as subdued a state of mind as her face.
"Change of air will be good for you—till this air is in a better state."
She made no answer. In a few minutes she rose up, gathered her wrappers into one hand, and turning to Mr. Linden held out the other to him; with a very child's look, which however was rather doubtful about meeting his. His look had lost none of its grave concern.
"Are you better?" he said. "Will you promise to go right to sleep, and leave all troublesome matters where alone they can be taken care of?"
The faintest kind of a smile flitted across her face. "I don't know"—she said doubtfully,—"I don't know what I can do, Mr. Linden."
"I have told you."
"I'll try—the last part," she said with a somewhat more defined smile as she glanced up at him. It was as grave and gentle a smile as is often known.
"You must try it all," he said, giving her hand the same touch it had had once before. "Miss Faith, I may use your words—I think you will never give me harder work to do than I have had to-night!"
She could not bear that. She stood with eyes cast down, and a fluttering quiver upon her lip; still, because the effort to control herself was at the moment as much as she could do. It was successful, though barely; and then, without venturing another look, she said her low "Good night, sir"; and moved away. She was accompanied as far as the door, but then Mr. Linden paused, with his hand on the latch.
"Shall you take any work—I meanbookwork—with you to Pequot?—or will your hands find too much else to do?"
"I meant to take some I meant to do a good deal—I hope so."
"Then can you come back to the great chair for ten minutes, and let me give you a word or two of direction?"
She came immediately and sat down. And Mr. Linden went back to where they had been interrupted early in the evening, and told her what and where and how to go on in the various books, till she should see him again; putting marks here and there to save her trouble, or pencilling some explanation which might be needed. It took but a few minutes to do this; and then Mr. Linden laid the books together, and drawing the old Bible towards him once more, he turned to the ninety-first Psalm and read it aloud. Read it with full heart-felt effect; which made the words fall like the dew they are, upon the weary little flower Faith was. Then he bade her once more goodnight.
She went refreshed; yet to become a prey to struggling thoughts which for a while prevented refreshment from having its lawful action. How much of the night and of the early morning Faith spent in these thoughts, and in the fruit of them, is uncertain; for the evening's work would sufficiently have accounted for her worn look the next day.
"Must I go to Pequot?" was the first thought that entered Faith's mind the next morning. And the advancing daylight, with its clear steadfast way of looking at things, said, "Yes, you must." "Is there anythingI—who know most about this business—can do to put an end to it?" That was a second thrilling question. The same daylight gave its frank answer,—"No, you cannot—you cannot." Faith took both answers, and then sought, in the very spirit of a child, to "leave all troublesome things where alone they could be taken care of."
"There is a faculty in this," saith Leighton, "that all persons have not." But the spirit of a child can do it; and the spirit of a Christian, so far as it is right, is none other. Faith went down stairs, in spite of inward sorrow and trembling, with a quiet brow. It was very much the face of last night, for its subdued look, and in spite of the night's rest, in its paleness too; though the colour played there somewhat fitfully. Sorrowful note of that Mr. Linden took, or the pained look of last night had not passed off from his face,—or both might be true. So far as the most gentle, quick-sighted, and careful attention could be of avail, the breakfast was pleasant;—otherwise it was but a grave affair. Even Mrs. Derrick looked from one to the other, with thoughtfulness that was not merely of Faith's going away.
There was little time however for observations. Directly after breakfast the wagon was got ready; and when they were bestowed in it and Mr. Linden's farewell had bade Faith remember all his injunctions the night before, he turned and walked on to his own place of work and the mother and daughter set forth on their journey.
In a small insignificant house, in a by street of Pequot, was the little, very odd household of the two, Miss and Madame Danforth. They kept no servant; they lived quite to themselves; the various work of the household they shared between them and made it as good as play; and no worse than play seemed all the rest of their quiet lives. But Miss Dilly was ill now and unable to do her part; and what was worse, and more, she had lost her wonted cheerful and gay way of looking at things. That the little Frenchwoman never lost; but it takes two to keep up a shuttlecock, and Faith was welcome in that house.
What work she did there for the next two or three weeks was best known—not to herself—but to the two old ladies whose hearts she cheered. And they knew not all; they did not know the leap of Faith's heart at the thought of home, whenever, morning or noon or night, it came into her head. She kept it out of her head as much as she could.
And she went about from the top to the bottom of the house, even after the first day she came, the same sort of sunbeam she was at home. She took in hand Miss Danforth's broom and duster, and did Cindy's part of setting cups and saucers; but that was a small matter. The helpful hand which made itself so busy and the voice which ran music all up and down the house, were never forgotten, even by the Frenchwoman. To Miss Danforth, feeble and ailing, Faith ministered differently, and did truly the work of an angel. More than once before the second day was done, Miss Dilly repeated, "Faith, child, how glad I am I sent for you!"—And Madame Danforth took to her mightily; opened heart and arms without reservation; and delighting to have her company, carried her down into the kitchen and initiated Faith into deep mysteries of the science and art the head quarters of which are there. Now did Faith learn new secrets about coffee, about eggs, about salads and about vegetables, that she never knew before; and for some unknown reason she was keen to learn, and liked the half hours over the kitchen fire with Madame Danforth so well, that the little Frenchwoman grew proud of her pupil.
It was the third day of Faith's being at Pequot. Faith was engaged in some gentle offices about the room, folding up clothes and putting drawers in order. Miss Danforth's eye watched her, following every movement, till Madame Danforth left the room to go out on business. Faith was summoned then to her aunt's side. It was the darkening part of the afternoon. Faith sat down at the foot of Miss Danforth's great easy chair, looked into the fire, and wondered what they were doing at Pattaquasset.
"And so, Faith, child, you're taken to new ways, I hear."
To Faith's quick ear, Miss Danforth's voice shewed a purpose. It was less brisk than its old wont. Her answer was as simple as possible. "Yes, aunt Dilly. It's true."
"You don't think you're any better than you used to be—do you?"
"No, ma'am. Yet my life is better, I hope."
"I don't believe it! How could it be?"
"In this at least, that I am the servant of God now. Before, I never thought of serving him."
"I never did," said Miss Dilly. "But"—
There was a silence. Faith's heart leapt to hear this confession, but she said nothing and sat still as a mouse.
"How's Mr. Linden getting on in Pattaquasset?"
"Well"
"You like him as well as ever?"
"Yes."
Alert questions. Rather faint answers.
"Do you remember what he said one night, about everybody being precious? Do you remember it, Faith?"
"Yes, ma'am—very well."
"I suppose I have thought of it five hundred and fifty times," MissDilly went on. "What were the words, Faith? do you know 'em?"
Faith did not move, only repeated, and if they had been literal diamonds every word would not have seemed so precious to her,—
"'They shall be mine, saith the Lord, in the day when I make up my jewels.'"
"That's it!" said Miss Dilly. "Now go on, can you, Faith, and tell me what it means."
"It is spoken of the people that fear the Lord, aunt Dilly—it goes on—
"'And I will spare them, as a man spareth his own on that serveth him. Then shall ye return and discern between the righteous and the wicked, between him that serveth God and him that serveth him not.'"
"Tell me more. Faith," said Miss Danforth presently in a subdued voice."I don't understand one thing about it from beginning to end."
In answer to which Faith turned, took a Bible, and as one did of old, preached unto her Jesus. It was very simple preaching. Faith told her aunt the story even very much as she had told it to Johnny Fax; and with the same sweet grave face and winning tongue which had drawn the children. As earnest as they, Miss Dilly listened and looked, and brought her strong sense to bear upon the words. Not with the same ease of understanding. She said little, excepting to bid Faith 'go on,'—in a tone that told the quest she was upon—unsatisfied yet.
Faith went on, but preferred to let the Bible words speak instead of her own. It brought Mrs. Custers to mind again, though this time Faith's joy of heart made her words ring as from a sweet silver trumpet. So they fell on the sick woman's ear; nor was there stay or interruption till Faith heard the hall door close below. She shut the book then; then her arm came round Miss Danforth's neck, and her kisses spoke well enough the glad sympathy and encouragement Faith spoke in no other way. One earnest return answered her.
From that time, to read the Bible to her aunt was Faith's work; morning, noon, and night, literally; sometimes far into the night. For Miss Danforth, embracing what she had never known before, as the light gradually broke upon her; and feeling that her time for study might be made short, was in eager haste and longing to acquaint herself with the broad field of duties and privileges, all new, now laid open before her. Faith could not read too much; Miss Dilly could not listen too long.
"Faith, child," she said one night, late, when they were alone,—"can't you pray for me?"
"I do, aunt Dilly."
"No, no! but I mean, can't you praywithme?—now, here. Can't you,Faith?"
Faith kissed her; hid her face in her hands and trembled; and then knelt and prayed. And many a time after that.
The Saturday before Christmas, which was moreover the day but one before, Squire Stoutenburgh went over to Pequot; and having checked off his business items, drove straight to Madame Danforth's. The door was opened to him by the Frenchwoman, who took him into a little room very like herself, and left him; and in another minute or two Faith came in. Her exclamation was with the unmistakeable tone and look of pleasure.
"My dear, I am very glad to see you!" was part of the warm reply. "How do you do?"
"I do very well, sir."
"Ah!"—said the Squire,—"I suppose so. Well I'll give you a chance to do better. My dear, I'm going to carry you off,—you're wanted."
"Am I?" said Faith with a quick change. "There's nothing the matter?"
"Nothingbad," said the Squire. "At least I hope not! Will you go home with me this afternoon?"
"O yes, sir—and very glad! But did mother send for me?"
"Sent for you if I could get you, Miss Faith. I don't suppose she'll ever really interfere with your doings—if you choose to go and live in the Moon, but she's half sick for the sight of you. That's prevalent just now," said the Squire, "and she's not the worst case. The doctor went off for fear he should take it;—but some people have duties, you know, and can't stir."
There was a tiny peachblossom tinge on Faith's cheek, which the Squire was pleased to take note of. She stood with a thoughtful face the while.
"I'll be ready, Mr. Stoutenburgh. When will you come for me?"
The time was fixed, and Faith made her explanations to her friends; promising that if need were she would some back again, or her mother, after Christmas. Miss Dilly let her go very willingly, yet most unwillingly; and Madame Danforth's reluctance had nothing to balance it. So it was that Faith's joy had its wonted mixture of gravity when she met the Squire again.
"If you're not going to be glad to get home, I'm a rich man if I'll go in with you!" he said as he put her in the sleigh and tucked her up with shawls and buffalo robes. "That's the way!—first get power and then abuse it."
"Power! Mr. Stoutenburgh. What do you mean? I am very glad to go home.Don't I look so?" She certainly did.
"I mean that I haven't seen anybody smile since you went away," saidMr. Stoutenburgh, proceeding to tuck himself up in like manner. "ExceptDr. Harrison. He kept himself in practice while he staid."
Faith was silent; eying the snowy road and the jingling horse heads, with a bounding feeling of heart that she was going home. She dared allow it to herself now.
"What do you guess made the doctor leave that fly-away horse of his for Mr. Linden to tame?" said the Squire. "Has he any particular reason for wishing to break his neck?"
"Did he do that?"
"Break his neck?—why no, not yet,—I suppose the doctor lives in hopes. You take it coolly, Miss Faith! upon my word."
"Mr. Stoutenburgh!—I meant, did he leave the horse for him. Dr.Harrison knew there wasn't much danger, Mr. Stoutenburgh."
Mr. Stoutenburgh touched up his own team.
"I guess!"—he said slowly, "the doctor don't just know how much danger there is. So Pattaquasset 'll have a chance to come down on both feet—which that horse don't do often. We've had all sorts of goings on, Miss Faith."
"Have you, sir?" The question was put quietly enough, but there was a little tinge of curiosity, too.
"Yes," said the Squire, shaking his whip. "Sam Deacon's gone away andMr. Linden's grown unpopular. Aint that news?"
"What do you mean, sir?"
"Why Sam Deacon's gone away—" the Squire repeated coolly. "He was getting rather too much of a sportin' character for our town, so a friend of mine that was going to Egypt—or somewhere—took him along. You needn't be uneasy about him—Miss Faith, he'll be taken care of. I should have sent him a worse journey, only I was overruled."
"And is he gone to Egypt?" said Faith.
"Hardly got so far yet," said the Squire. "But I thought it would be good for Sam's health—he's been a little weaker than usual about the head lately."
"That was only half of your news, Mr. Stoutenburgh," Faith said after another interval of musing.
"'Tother half's nothing wonderful. Mr. Linden's getting unpopular with everybody in town that he don't make up to on the right side; and as there's a good many of them, I'm afraid it'll spread. I've donemybest to tell him how to quiet the matter, but you might just as well tell a pepperidge which way to grow! Did you ever try to make him do anything?" said the Squire, facing round upon Faith.
The startling of Faith's eyes was like a flash; and something so her colour went and came. The answer was a very orderly, "Yes, sir."
"Hum—I s'pose he did it,—guess I'll come to you next time I want anything done. Are you cold, my dear?" said the Squire renewing his efforts at wrapping up.
Faith's desire for Pattaquasset news was satisfied. She manifested no more curiosity about anything; and so far as appeared in words, was contented with her own thoughts. That however would have been a rash conclusion. For thoughts do occupy that do not content; and Faith could willingly have spared the hints in Mr. Stoutenburgh's last speech—and indeed in several others. She by no means understood them thoroughly; yet something of the drift and air of them she did feel, and felt as unnecessary. There had been already in Faith's mind a doubtful look towards the last evening she had spent in Pattaquasset; a certain undefined consciousness that her action that night might have said or seemed to say—she knew not what. She could find no fault with it, to herself; there had been nothing that she could help; but yet this consciousness made her more tender upon anything that touched the subject. She had thought of it, and put it out of her head, several times in these last weeks; and now Mr. Stoutenburgh's words had just the effect to make her shy. Faith's mind however had been full of grave and sweet things of late, and was in such a state now. The principal feeling, which the Squire's words could not change, was of very deep and joyous happiness; she was exceeding glad to go home; but at the same time in a mood too quiet and sober for the wine of joy to get into her head.
Squire Stoutenburgh too seemed satisfied,—perhaps with the uncold hue of Faith's cheeks; and now drove on at a rapid rate, talking only of indifferent matters. The horses trotted quick over the smooth snow, and the gathering lead colour overhead was touched with gleams of light here and there, as the sun went down behind the Pattaquasset outlines. Swiftly they jingled along, crossing the ferry and mounting the hill; past trees and barns and village houses—then into the main street: down which the horses flew with a will, thinking of oats and their good stable, and unwillingly reined in at Mrs. Derrick's door.
It was dark by that time—Faith could see little but the lights glimmering in the windows, and indeed had no time to see much; so suddenly and softly was she lifted out of the sleigh the moment it stopped. Then Mr. Linden's voice said,
"Thank you, Mr. Stoutenburgh!"
"That's one way of thanking me!" said the Squire. "However—I suppose it's all right,"—and gave his impatient horses their way.
"Why Mr. Linden," said Faith half laughing, but with a little of the old timidity in her voice,—"how could you see me before I saw you?"
"For various reasons, Miss Faith. How do you do?" He led her on, into the house and into the tea-room, there to delight her mother's heart and make her mother's eyes overflow.
"Pretty child!" Mrs. Derrick said,—"I never will let you go away again for anybody!"
Faith laughed, and kissed her and kissed her; but did not take that moment to say what she thought—that Mrs. Derrick would have to let her go again in a few days perhaps, and for Miss Danforth herself. Then her eye glanced at the tea-table, as it might at an ungoverned kingdom—or a vacated sphere; and the fulness of her heart broke out.
"Mother!—I'm glad to be home again!" The tone said it yet more than the words. And then with a sudden movement, she went off a step to Mr. Linden and held out her hand to him, albeit ever so little shyly. The hand was taken and kept, his eyes taking a quiet survey of her the while.
"Miss Faith, you want to be set to work! Some people will neglect themselves if they have a chance."
"I haven't done much work since I have been away, Mr. Linden."
He smiled—what was he reading in her face? "You don't know what you have done, child," he said. "But she looks glad, Mrs. Derrick,—and we are very glad to have her." Whereupon Faith was conducted to the tea-table without more delay; Mrs. Derrick feeling sure that she was starving both with cold and hunger.
Faith had no appearance of being cold; and though she certainly did eat her supper as if she was glad to be at home, it was not with the air of a person with whom his bread and butter is the first thought. Gladness shone in every look and movement; but at the same time over all the gladness there was a slight veil; it might be gravity, but it might not be all gravity, for part of it was very like constraint; the eyes were more ready to fall than to rise; and the words, though free to come, had a great facility for running in short sentences. But Mrs. Derrick was too happy to notice such light streaks of mist in the sunshine, and talked away at a most unusual rate,—telling Faith how Mr. Linden had ridden that 'wild horse,' and had found time to teach her little class, and in general had done everything else—for everything seemed to hinge upon him. Mr. Linden himself—with now and then a word to qualify, or to make Faith laugh, took a somewhat special and quiet care of her and her wants at the table; all which seemed to Faith (in her mood) very like little gentle suggestions at that vail;—otherwise, he was rather silent.
Then followed prayers, with all the sweet warm influences of the time; and then Faith might sit and talk or be silent, as she liked; rest being considered the best work for that evening. It would seem that she liked to be silent,—if that were a fair conclusion from her silence. Her eye took happy note of the familiar things in and about the room; then she sat and looked into the fireplace, as glad to see it again maybe,—or doubtful about looking elsewhere. As silently, for a few minutes, Mr. Linden took note of her: then he spoke.
"Miss Faith, will you let me give you lessons all through the holidays?"
She gave him a swift blushing glance and smile. "If you like to do it,Mr. Linden—and if I am here."
"Where do you find those two 'ifs'?"
"I thought, perhaps, when I came away from Pequot to-day, that I might go back again after Monday. I am afraid aunt Dilly will want me."
"How much must people want you, to gain a hearing?"
"There are different kinds of wanting," Faith said gravely. "Aunt Dilly may miss me too much."
"And the abstract 'too much,' is different from the comparative. What about that other 'if'?"
"The other 'if'?—I don't know that there is anything about it, Mr.Linden," Faith said laughing.
"Whence did it come?—before it 'trickeled,' as Bunyan says, to your tongue?"
"I don't know, sir!"—
"Miss Faith!—I did not think you would so forget me in three weeks. Do you want to hear the story of a very cold, icy little brook?" he said, with a sort of amused demureness that gave her the benefit of all his adjectives. She looked up at him with earnest eyes not at all amused, but that verged on being hurt; and it was with a sort of fear of what the real answer might be, that she asked what he meant.
"Miss Faith, I mean nothing very bad," he said with a full smile at her then. "When I really think you are building yourself an ice palace, I shall spend my efforts upon thawing, not talking. What have you been doing all these weeks?"
With a little bit of answering smile she said, in a deliberate kind of way,—"I have been running about house—and learning how to cook French cookery, Mr. Linden—and most of all, I've been reading the Bible. I haven't had time to do much else."
"Do you know," Mr. Linden said as he watched her, "that is just what I thought?—And so you have been going step by step 'up the mountain'! Do you see how the road improves?—do you find the 'richer pastures' and the purer air?"
"O sir," said Faith looking up at him,—"I was reading to aunt Dilly."
"I know,—I understood that. Are not my words true still?"
Gravity and shyness, all except the gravity that belonged to her and to the subject, broke away from Faith. She rose up and stood beside Mr. Linden, moved, happy, and glad with the gladness of full sympathy.
"It has been a pleasant two weeks, Mr. Linden!—though I would have liked to be at home. Aunt Dilly has wanted the Bible, morning, noon, and night;—and it was wonderful to read it to her! It has been my business, all these days."
"My dear child! I am very glad!" he said, taking her hand."Wonderful?—yes, it is wonderful to read, to one who wants it."
"She wanted it so much,"—Faith said, catching her breath a little. "And understood it, Mr. Linden. Very soon it was all—or mostly—clear to her. I read to her sometimes till twelve o'clock at night—and sometimes began at four in the morning."
Mr. Linden looked at her with a mingling of expressions.
"I am afraid that was not good for you,—if one dare say it of any work done in that service. Do you know how much the Bible is like that pillar of fire which guided the Israelites, but to those who were not of Israel became a pillar of cloud,—from which 'the Lord looked out' but 'to trouble them'?"
Faith's eye watched him as he spoke, and caught the power and beauty of the illustration; but she did not speak. Until after thinking and musing a while she said softly, "It don't trouble aunt Dilly."
Mr. Linden drew up a chair for her near his own, but made no other comment upon her or her musings at first,—then abruptly—"And you think she will want you again?"
"There is nobody else to do this for her," said Faith; and again was silent. "How do you suppose it all began with aunt Dilly, Mr. Linden?"
"As to means?—I cannot tell."
"It began from a few words, which I dare say you have forgotten, but which she and I remember,—words that you said one evening when she was here last summer, about everybody's being precious in one sense.—You repeated that passage—'They shall be mine, saith the Lord,'—you know."
Faith did not know what a soft illumination was in her eyes, or she would probably not have turned the light of it so full upon Mr. Linden as at one or two points of her speech she did. It was a grave, sweet look that answered her; but then his eyes went off to the fire without further reply.
Faith did not again interrupt the silence; a silence that to judge by the faces of both was pleasant to both. Till Mrs. Derrick came in, who indeed could not be very long absent. Then Faith left her place, sat down on a low seat by her mother and caressingly took possession of her hands and arms. She made no more startling propositions that night of going back to Pequot again; and the minutes of the evening flowed on—as such minutes do.
The Sunday which followed was one as quietly happy as is often known in this world. And the next day was Christmas.