Say and Seal Volume Ii Part 49

"I am not quite satisfied with the paper and type, for your eyes--by firelight and twilight. Shall I break up any train of old a.s.sociation if I send you another?"

She gave him a look of what Dr. Harrison might have called "compound interest"; but a.s.sured him at the same time with sedate earnestness that the one she had would do very well.

This was but a day or two before Mr. Linden's leaving Pattaqua.s.set. He had paid his many farewell visits before the last week came, and before that, too, had given up his weekday scholars,--those last days were all given to Faith. Given to her in every possible way--out of doors and within; in that fair summer weather the open air was the best of all places for talking, and the least liable to intrusion. It was a great relief to get away from village sights and sounds to the still woods, or the fresh sh.o.r.e,--it was a great help towards cheerfulness. And the help was needed. Wherever Mr. Linden went, among people, he met nothing but sorrow for his going away,--wherever he went, to house or woods, he carried the deep-hidden double sorrow in his heart, which no one guessed of all who so loudly bewailed his departure. Faith herself perhaps hardly realized what his part of that sorrow was; but he knew hers, and bore it--as one bears the trials of the dearest friend one has on earth.

He was to go very early in the morning, but when the late evening talk had impinged upon the night as much as it could be allowed to do, he gave Faith the unexpected promise of coming down to read with her just as usual next day.

It was very, very early this time, in the summer twilight dawn, when the kildeers were in their full burst of matins, and all the other birds coming in one by one. Faith did not say many words, but she was as quiet as the hour. Then she went to the breakfast-room to arrange and hasten matters there; and Mr. Linden followed, and stood watching her--she did not know how,--she only knew how he talked.

But he took her into the sitting-room the moment breakfast was over and stood by her, giving her the mute caresses he could not put in words.

And for words there was little time. The morning light came up and up into the sky, the candles burned dim, as they stood there; and then he bade her "'be perfect, be of good comfort,'" and so went away.

CHAPTER XVII.

When Mr. Linden was out of sight from the porch, Faith went to the deserted room.

It was in the latter end of summer. The windows were open, and the summer wind blowing the muslin curtains flutteringly in. The maple shaded Faith's old reading window, the leaves not changing yet; one cupboard door a little open, shewed the treasures of books within. The chintz couch stood empty, so it always stood when Faith saw it, except only in those days of Mr. Linden's confinement with his wound. But now her mind leaped back to that time; and the couch and the table and the books, the very windows and fireplace, looked deserted. The red maple leaves floating in--the dancing flames in the chimney--her lessons by the side of that couch--her first exercise, which she had been sent to do at that table;--all that and everything beside seemed to make its pa.s.sage through Faith's mind in tumultuous procession. She sat down on the couch and leaned her head on the back of it; but only a few nervous tears came, and oppressed sobbing breaths took the place of them. For a little while then Faith fell on her knees, and if she could not speak connectedly, nor think connectedly, she yet poured out her heart in the only safe channel; and grew quiet and self-possessed. After an hour she left the couch and turned to go down and join her mother.

Pa.s.sing the table on her way out, with a glance which had been called off by other things as she came in, Faith's eye was caught and stayed.

There was no exercise left there for her, but the very gold pen with which she had written that first one--and which she had used so many times since, lay there; and by the pen a letter. The blood rushed to Faith's heart as if Mr. Linden had come back again, or rather as if he had not taken quite all of himself away. In a flood of gladness and thankfulness and sorrow, Faith took up the letter and standing there by the table read it.

MY OWN LITTLE PRECIOUS MIGNONETTE,

I have a love for this sheet of paper, because it will be in your hands when I cannot touch them nor see them,--how often they have ministered to me just where I am writing this! just where you will find it. I know _you_ will find it, Faith--I know where you will go as soon as I am out of sight,--but dear child, do not let any sight or a.s.sociation in this room make you anything but glad: they are all very dear to me. That first day when you came in here to see me--and all the days that followed,--and all the sweet knowledge I gained of my little Mignonette, while she was learning other things. Faith, I can even forgive Dr. Harrison his questions that day, for the delight it was to me to shield you. Dear child, you must let me do that now whenever I can,--it is one of the griefs of this separation that I cannot do it all the time.

I must go back to our Bible verses!--Do you remember that first 'ladder' we went up together? 'The Lord G.o.d is a sun and a shield; the Lord will give grace and glory.'--In that sunlight I shall think of you as abiding,--I will remember that you are covered by that shield. I know that the Lord will keep all that I have committed to him!

Now darling, if I could leave you 'messages,' I would; but they must wait till I come and deliver them myself. Take, in the mean while, all possible love and trust; and all comfort from the cause of my absence, from our mutual work, from my expected coming home now and then--from the diamonds on your finger and what they betoken! The diamonds stay with you, Faith, but their light goes with me.

My child, I have too much to say to write any longer!--I shall be drawn on too far and too long,--it is not far from daybreak now. Take the best possible care of your self, and 'be strong and of a good courage,'

and 'the Lord that made heaven and earth, bless thee out of Zion'!

Precious child, you do not know how deeply I am

Always your own--

ENDECOTT."

The first lines of the letter wrung some tears from Faith's eyes, but afterwards the effect of the whole was to shake her. She sat down on the couch with the letter fast in her hand, and hid her head; yet no weeping, only convulsive breaths and a straitened breast. Faith was wonderful glad of that letter! but the meeting of two tides is just hard to bear; and it wakened everything as well as gladness. However, in its time, that struggle was over too; and she went down to Mrs.

Derrick looking much like her wonted self.

She went about so, all the day; nervously busy, though never more orderly about her business. In the kitchen and dairy and storeroom, and with her mother, Faith seemed as usual, with a very little of grave thoughtfulness or remembrance thrown over her natural pleasantness; only she gave books a wide berth, and took care to see no face that came to the house. One would have thought her--perhaps Mrs. Derrick even did--quietly composed and patiently submitting to trial, as if Mr.

Linden had been already weeks away. Perhaps Faith herself thought so. A little thing shewed how much this quiet was worth.

The day had been gone through; the tea was over, as it might, with the two alone; and mother and daughter had gone into the other room. Faith lit the lamp, and then began a sentence to her mother about laying the Bible in its place for prayer--when she stopped short. For a moment she stood still with the revulsion; then she fell on her knees and hid her face in Mrs. Derrick's lap, and the tears that had kept back so long came in a stormy flood; clearing the sky which had not been clear before. She was quiet really after that; she had no more fear of her books; and the first thing Faith did was to take pen and paper and pour out an answer to her morning's letter; an answer in which she gave Mr.

Linden the history of her whole day, with very little reservation.

Her mother watched her,--sat and looked at her as she wrote, with eyes very glistening and tremulous in their fond admiration. Indeed that had been their character all day, though Mrs. Derrick had followed Faith in her busy work, with no attempt to check her, with no allusion to what they both thought of uninterruptedly. Now, however, that Faith's tears had made their own way, her mother's heart was easier; and she watched the pretty writer by the lamp with all sorts of sweet and tender thoughts.

A day or two pa.s.sed, in great quiet and tender ministering to each other of the mother and daughter. Faith had taken deep hold of her studies again and every minute of the day was filled up as busily as ever. So the sitting-room wore in all things minus one its wonted aspect, when, the third evening, it received Dr. Harrison.

He came in looking remarkably well, in his light dainty summer dress, and with that gentle carelessness of movement and manner that suited the relaxing persuasions of a hot summer day. He came in, too, a little like a person who through long absences has forgotten how wonted he used to be in a certain place or how fond he was of what he found there. Nothing further from the truth!

He accosted both ladies after his usual gay fashion, and talked for a while about nothings and as if he cared about nothing. He could make nothing of Faith, except perhaps that she was a trifle shy of him. That did not mean evil necessarily; it was natural enough. He wouldn't disturb her shyness!

"I have a sympathetic feeling for you, Mrs. Derrick," he remarked. "I miss Mr. Linden so much in Pattaqua.s.set, I can't think how you must do in the house."

"No, doctor, you can't," was Mrs. Derrick's quiet rejoinder.

"How do you?"

"Why I can't tell you, either," said Mrs. Derrick.

"Mrs. Derrick," said the doctor, "I shouldn't like to be a lawyer and have to examine you as a witness. Unless it wasn't August!"

"Well I suppose we should agree upon that, doctor," said Mrs. Derrick.

"I don't know what August has to do with it."

"My dear madam, it would be too much trouble!--Apparently it isn't August everywhere!"--A very peremptory rap at the front door came in the train of footsteps that were loud and brisk as by authority, and that had quite survived the enervating effects referred to by the doctor.

"Miss Faith," said Cindy appearing at the parlour door, "here's a man's got something--and he won't give it to me without I'll take oath I'm you--which of course I dursn't. I'm free to confess, I can't even get sight of it. Shall I fetch him in--thing and all?"

Faith went to the door. It was n.o.body more terrific than an express-man, who seemed to recognize "Miss Faith Derrick" by instinct, for he asked no questions--only put a package into her hands, and then gave her his book to sign. Faith signed her name, eagerly, and then ran up stairs with her treasure and a beating heart, and struck a light.

There was no need to ask where it came from--the address was plain enough; nor much need to ask what it was--she knew that it must be her Bible. Yet that only heightened the pleasure and interest, as she took off one wrapping paper after another, till its own beautiful morocco covers appeared. Within was the perfection of type and paper, with here and there a fine coloured map; in size and shape just that medium which seems to combine the excellencies of all the rest. There was no letter in the package, but a slip of paper with a new "ladder of verses"

marked the place where they began; and on the fly leaf, below the inscription, was written the first verse of the ninety-first psalm.

This was the leading reference on the slip of paper.

Has any one--with any heart--ever received such a package? To such a one there is no need to tell the glow of pleasure, the rush of affection and joy, which filled Faith's heart and her face; to anybody else it's no use. She had to exercise some care to prevent certain witnesses of the eyes from staining the morocco or spotting the leaves.

The paper of references she left, to be enjoyed more leisurely another time; and went on turning over the pages, catching glimpses of the loved words that she had never seen so fairly presented to the eye before; when after a good deal of this sort of delectation, through half of which she was writing a letter to Mr. Linden, Faith suddenly recollected Dr. Harrison! Softly the paper wrappers enfolded her treasure, and then Faith went down stairs with the high colour of pleasure in her cheeks. The doctor took several observations.

He had not been profiting by any opportunity to "examine" Mrs. Derrick.

On the contrary, he had talked about everything else, somewhat August fashion, in manner, but yet so cleverly that even Mrs. Derrick confessed afterwards she had been entertained. Now, on Faith's reappearance, he went on with his subject until he came to a natural pause in the conversation; which he changed by remarking, in a simple tone of interest,

"I haven't learned yet satisfactorily what took Mr. Linden away?"

"His own business," said Mrs. Derrick. "You must have heard what he is about now, doctor?"

"I have heard--but one hears everything. It is true then?"

"O yes, it's true," said Mrs. Derrick with an even play of her knitting-needles.

"But then follows another very natural question," said the doctor.--"Why did he come here at all?"