Say and Seal Volume Ii Part 68

What a twitter of birds was in Faith's ears as she awoke next morning!

Perhaps they were not really more noisy than usual, but she seemed to hear them more; and then it was a soft balmy morning, with a joyous spring sunshine and a dancing spring air, which gave full effect to all the bird voices. Faith listened to the chorus, the choir, the concert, the solos, with a charmed ear. The minute's hush; the low twitter--answered softly from bush and tree; the soft chiming in of other notes; the swelling, quickening, increasing song--till every sparrow and kildeer in all Pattaqua.s.set drew his bow and clattered his castanets with the speed and the eagerness of twenty fiddlers. Only in this orchestra the heads turned gracefully on swelling throats, and for the angular play of elbows there was the lifting flutter of joyous wings; and the audience of opening leaves "clapped their little hands"

for an encore.

Such were the sounds that came to Faith from without;--within her room, Mrs. Derrick moved silently about, lighting the fire, arranging the window curtains, the table and couch, laying out Faith's dressing gown to air, but not saying a word to her yet, lest she might be asleep.

Faith could see the relief and gladness in every step her mother took--and well knew why. On the white spread before her lay a glowing little bunch of spring flowers, the last night's dew yet hiding in the depths of the violets, and sprinkling the leaves of the May roses, and making the windflowers look at her with wet eyes. Faith grasped these and held a considerably long conversation with them; then found it in her heart to speak otherwise.

"Mother," said she, with a little smile upon the contented languor of convalescence,--"you feel better!"

Mrs. Derrick came quick to her side, and kissed her and stroked her face. "Pretty child," she said, "so do you."

Which fact Faith confirmed by setting about the business of dressing with more energy and good will than she had for many a day brought to it. The pale cheeks were not quite so pale this morning. The white dress was tied round the waist with _that_ blue ribband of long ago--never yet spoiled with wearing; and in it the roses and violets made a spot of warmer colour. When at last she was ready, and had stepped out into the hall, Mr. Linden met her there as he had done the night after the fire; and as then, stayed her for a minute and scanned her face: with a different look from then, with a different sort of gravity, which gladness did not quite cover up. He asked no questions but with his eyes, and did not say much but with his lips; then carried her down to the breakfast-room.

"Mignonette," he said, "what time to-day will it please you to take a drive?"

The pleasure of the idea brought the colour to Faith's cheeks. "I suppose I had better ask Dr. Harrison first whether I may go," she said gravely.

"Not at all. He has nothing whatever to say about it."

"Then as soon as he is gone, I am ready."

"We will not wait for him," said Mr. Linden.

"But Endy, later will do just as well, won't it?"

"No, love--not half so well."

"Why?"

"Princ.i.p.ally, because I want you to be out when Dr. Harrison comes."

And quitting that subject, Mr. Linden wheeled her round to the nearer consideration of biscuits and coffee; leaving Dr. Harrison, for the time, quite out of sight. Out of his own sight, that is; for Faith plainly did not forget him. She was a delicious thing to take care of this morning; in that delicacy of bodily condition to which the strong love to minister, and a tenderness of spirit which grew out of other things and which to-day she had no force to hide. And there was an apprehension which Mr. Linden could see behind her eyes every time they came to his face. Faith was gathering her powers for a struggle. Yet she had no mind to begin it, and waited after breakfast till Mr. Linden should bring up the subject again. He seemed in no haste to bring it up. For some reason or other, he was in a mood that could not do enough for her. It was a mood Faith must try.

As the morning had worn on and she saw some preliminary movement on Mr.

Linden's part, which looked like action, she put her hand in his and lifted her eyes to his face, with a gentle plea in them, speaking in musical softness. "Endy, will you let me wait till Dr. Harrison has made his visit?" The little hand was clasped and held fast.

"He would not wish to see you with me, Mignonette--and I certainly will not let him see you without."

"O why, Endy?"

"Because--Mignonette I cannot tell you. Don't ask me."

Faith flushed and looked troubled but somewhat timid too, and asked no more. She puzzled over the subject.

"Then, Endy, suppose we don't go out to drive to-day?"

"Suppose we do. What are you rouging your cheeks for?" he added smiling. "Faith, I know I have no legal right to control your actions--and yet in this case you must let me say for you what I should for my sister or my wife."

How Faith wished to know why. The rouge grew bright; but forbidden to ask, she dared not ask. "Would you care if we did not go out to-day?"

she said with some timid hesitation.

"Very much."

She was silenced. That Mr. Linden had some strong reason it was plain; not the less the thought of Dr. Harrison grieved her. But she said nothing. Nor did he, upon that subject,--threw it to the winds apparently. The first move was to take her up stairs again and bestow her daintily among cushions, then to sit by her and spice her cup of chicken broth with pepper and talk, till both it and Faith were warm, and Mrs. Derrick in a state of delight. The good, sweet effect of which mode of treatment, was shewn in the way "the fringed curtains" of Faith's eyes were by and by dropped by sleep herself. When she awoke Mr. Linden was gone; and Mrs. Derrick sat there keeping watch.

"Has the doctor been here, mother?"

"Why child," said her mother, "he's slipped off Stranger, in some of his capers, and hurt his ancle,--so Reuben says he won't come till to-morrow. Shall I tell Mr. Linden he may come up?"

"Yes." Faith felt it a relief.

Mr. Linden came to tell her the carriage was ready.

It seemed to Faith as if Jerry knew his old driver, with such good will did he set forth, with such little snorts of high spirit and tossings of head and mane. Down the old farm road, among fields of fresh grain and fresh ploughing, where blue birds sat on the fences, and jocund dandelions sunned themselves by the wayside. The breeze came fresh into Faith's face, tossing back her hair; and presently with the scent of buds and flowers and ploughed land came a mingling of the sea breeze, for Mr. Linden was driving that way. He was right to make her come!--Faith felt it in her heart, and so did he. There had been few words spoken hitherto, but now he turned to her with a smile of great satisfaction, saying,

"Mignonette, this breeze is telling upon your cheeks."

"It is going all through me!" said Faith, drawing an eager breath of appreciation. Mr. Linden gave her shawls and cushions some arranging touches, and to her a glad word or two of answer, then drove on down to the sh.o.r.e. Not at their usual bathing and picnic place, but at the further out Barley Point; where the breeze came in its full freshness and the waves rolled in white-crested. There he made Jerry stand still for a while, and made Faith lean upon him and so rest.

They were somewhat elevated above the sea, where the barren face of the land broke down suddenly some twenty feet. With what a sweet dash the waves broke upon the beach, chasing up the wet sand and laying down a little freight of seaweed here and there: how the water sparkled and glittered, and was blue and white and green and neutral tint,--how the gulls soared and stooped and flapped their wings in the gay breeze, before which the white-winged vessels flew on a more steady course.

Jerry pawed the turf, and shook his head in approbation, and Faith's head lay very still. Perhaps Mr. Linden thought she had done talking enough that day, for he was rather silent; only watching her lest she should be tired, or have too much of the air. What he watched her for all the rest of the time, was best known to himself. Her brow had its old quiet again now, though her face was grave beyond its old wont; and the eyes, as he could see them, were softly grave and softly glad together, intently going from the white-tipped water to the white-winged gulls and the clouds grey and white that sailed above them. Suddenly, after a long roaming over the fresh life that was abroad there, the eyes were lifted to his face.

"Endecott--if I don't say anything, it is because I can't say anything good enough!"

"Faith," he said with that same glad look at her, "your face says that you are getting better every minute. Not tired yet?"

"I feel as if I was in a grand dream."

"Do you?" said Mr. Linden,--"I am glad I do not. It brings me out of a dream to see you begin to look like yourself. I have not felt so real before since I came home."

"You are real enough," said Faith; "and so is everything else. It is only my feeling that is dreamy. And this air will wake me up, if I stay here a little while longer. How good it is!"

"Do you see that dark rock out in the midst of the waves? and how the waves half cover and then leave it bare?"

"Yes."

"I was thinking of what Rutherford says of the changing, swaying, unsteady tide of life-joys and sorrows,--'Our rock doth not ebb and flow, but our sea.'"

Faith thought her own life had not been much like that changing tide; then remembered his had, in nearer measure. The next question was not far off; she put it, looking up anxiously and regretfully. "Endecott, what are you working so hard for?"

A very gay change of face answered her.

"So hard as what?"

"As you do."

"What makes you think I am working 'so hard,' little Mignonette?--have I given you that impression? I did not mean it. Do I look overworked?"

"No--" said Faith--"I think not,--but that is not the thing. Why do you, Endecott?"