CHAPTER XIII.
It seemed to Faith as if the little shadow which February had brought and left did not pass away—or rather, as if it had stretched on till it met another; though whence that came, from what possible cloud, she could not see. She was not the cloud—that she knew and felt: if such care and tenderness and attention as she had had all winter could be increased, then were they now,—every spare moment was given to her, all sorts of things were undertaken to give her pleasure, and that she was Mr. Linden's sunbeam was never more clear. Yet to her fancy that shadow went out and came in with him—lived even in her presence,—nay, as if she had been a real sunbeam, grew deeper there. And yet not that,—what was it? The slight change of voice or face in the very midst of some bright talk, the eyes that followed her about the room or studied her face while she studied her lesson—she felt if she did not see them,—even the increased unwillingness to have her out of his sight,—what did they all mean? So constant, yet so intangible,—so going hand in hand with all the clear, bright activity that had ever been part of Mr. Linden's doings; while the pleasure of nothing seemed to be checked, and yet a little pain mingled with all,—Faith felt puzzled and grieved by turns. She bore it for a while, in wondering and sorrowful silence, till she began to be afraid of the shadow's spreading to her own face. Nay, she felt it there sometimes. Faith couldn't stand it any longer.
He had come in rather late one evening. It was a bleak evening in March, but the fire—never more wanted—burned splendidly and lit up the sitting-room in style. Before it, in the easy-chair, Mr. Linden sat meditating. He might be tired—but Faith fancied she saw the shadow. She came up behind his chair, put both hands on one of his shoulders and leaned down.
"Endecott"—she said in some of her most winning tones,—"may I ask you something?"
He came out of his muse instantly, and laying his hand on hers, asked her "what she thought about it herself?"
"I think I may, if you'll promise not to answer me—unless you have a mind!"
"Do you suppose I would?" Mr. Linden said laughing. "What trust you have in your own power!"
"No, not a bit," said Faith. "Then shall I ask you?"
"You are beginning to work upon my timid disposition!—of which I believe I once told you. What are you going to ask me?—to challenge Dr. Harrison?—or to run for President?"
"Would you like to do either of those two things?"
"I was only putting myself at your disposal—as I have done before."
"Would you do either of 'em if I asked you?" said Faith softly.
"I suppose I am safe in saying yes!" said Mr. Linden smiling. "Little bird—why do you keep on the wing?"
"I wanted to make sure of lighting in a right place," said Faith. "Endy"—and her voice came back to the rich softness of the tones of her first question, a little dashed with timidity,—"has anybody been putting 'nonsense' into your head?"
He lifted her hand from its resting place, bringing it round to his cheek and lips at first in silence,
"Do you know," he said, "that is just the point over which I thought you were hovering?"—But the certainty had changed his tone. And rising up quick and suddenly, he drew her off to the sofa and seated her there, keeping his arm still about her as if for a shield.
"Faith," he said, "do you remember that I promised some time to tell you a long story?"
She looked up into his face gravely and affectionately, reading his look. "But you won't have time for it now, Endecott—tea will be ready directly. We must wait till by and by."
"My little Sunbeam," he said, looking at her and gently pushing back her hair, "do you know I love you very much!—What made you think there was anything in my head but the most profound and abstract sense?"
Faith shook her head with a little bit of a smile.
"I saw that you were growing either more sensible of late—or less,—and I wanted to know which it was."
"Please to explain yourself! How could I grow more sensible?—and in what way did I grow less?"
"I am talking nonsense," said Faith simply. "But if it was sense in your head, Endy, there was a little too much of it; and I had seen nonsense look so—so I wanted to know."
"Faith," Mr. Linden said, "you remind me often of that Englishman
Madame D'Arblay tells about,—who to the end of his life declared that
his wife was the most beautiful sight in the world to him! Do you know
I think he will have a successor?"
Her colour rose bright, and for a minute she looked down at her diamonds. Then looked up demurely, and asked who Madame D'Arblay was?
"She was an English woman, an authoress, a maid of honour to the Queen.
Do you wish to know anything about the other two persons I alluded to?"
One sparkling flash of Faith's soft eye, was all she gave him. "No, I don't think I do," she said.
"You know enough already?—or too much? Faith—are Christmas roses to be in season all the year round?"
"I don't know,—but tea is. Suppose I go and see about it—Monsieur?"
"Eh bien—Mademoiselle," he said gravely but holding her fast,—"suppose you do!"
"Then we should have it."
"Undoubtedly, Mademoiselle! Vous avez raison."
"And what have you?" said Faith laughing.
"I have you!—Love and Reason did meet once, you know."
"Did they?" said Faith looking up. "How should I know?"
"You never found it out in your own personal experience?"
"You say it's a fact," said Faith. "I thought you referred to it as a former fact."
"Like tea—" said Mr. Linden.
"Like tea, Endecott!—what are you talking of?"
"Former facts."—
"I wonder what I shall get you to-night, Endecott"—she said merrily twisting round to look at him,—"you must want something! Is a thing properly said to be former, as long as it is still present?"
"What is present?"
"Tea isn't past"—said Faith with another little flash of her eye.
"If you are going to set up for Reason," said Mr. Linden, "there is no more to be done; but as for me, I may as well submit to my fate. Shakspeare says, 'To love, and to be wise, exceeds man's might.'"
"I don't think I set up for reason," said Faith,—"only for tea; and you obliged me to take reason instead. I guess—Shakspeare was right."
"Unquestionably!" said Mr. Linden laughing. "Faith, did you ever hear of 'Love in a Cottage'?"
"I believe I have."
"I hope you don't think that includes tea?"
"I never thought it included much good," said Faith. "I always thought it was something foolish."
"There spoke Reason!" said Mr. Linden,—"and I shall not dare to speak again for ten minutes. Faith, you will have time to meditate." And his eyes went to the fire and staid there. Faith meditated—or waited upon his meditations; for her eyes now and then sought his face somewhat wistfully to see if she could read what he was thinking of—which yet she could not read. But her exploring looks in that direction were too frequent to leave room for the supposition that Reason made much progress.
"Faith," Mr. Linden said, suddenly intercepting one of these looks, "now let us compare results—before we meditate any further. What have you to shew?"
"Nothing"—said Faith frankly.
"I on my part have made a great discovery, which will perhaps answer for us both. It is very simple, as most great discoveries are, being merely this: that I prefer other things than reproofs from the lips of Reason. Will you have an illustration?"
"Can't I understand without?" said Faith laughing, but with also a little rising colour. And very smilingly she had her answer—the only answer she could expect.
"I believe you are principled against saying yes!" said Mr. Linden.
"The most encouraging thing you ever said to me was 'Oh no!'"
What swift recollection, what quick sympathy with that time, spoke in the crimson of Faith's cheeks! It was something to see "the eloquent blood." Eyes were not to be seen. Mr. Linden smiled, touching his hand softly to her cheeks.
"O Mignonette!" he said—"or I should rather say, O Roses! or O
Carnation! Is there anything beyond that in your Flora?"
In the emergency Faith took possession of the hand that invaded her carnations and turning the full display upon him asked if he would not like to have something more substantial. Apparently "the display" was approved, though there were no words to that effect.
"I suppose I must let you go," he said, "because if we are to study all the evening after tea, it will not do to talk away the whole evening before. You shall choose your own time for hearing my story, dear child—only let me know when the time comes."
There was no shadow upon the tea hour, on Faith's part, nor on the hours of study that followed. The wind swept round the house, March fashion, but the fire and the open books laughed at him. There seemed even a little more than usual of happy gayety in Faith's way of going through her work; she and the fire played at which should get ahead of the other; and between whiles she was obliged to use a little caution to obviate Mr. Linden's surprise at finding how far she was getting ahead of herself. For Faith's early morning studies were not now by any means confined to the lessons he set for her and expected her to do; her object and endeavour was to prevent his requirements, and so prepare the ground before his teachings that without finding out how it came to be so ready, he should simply occupy more of it and cultivate higher. It was rather a nice matter! not to let him see that she had done too much, and yet to make him know that he might take what harvests he pleased off the ground; with such keen eyes too, that knew so well all the relative forces of soil and cultivation and could estimate so surely the fruits of both. Faith managed by not managing at all and by keeping very quiet, as far as possible shewing him nothing he did not directly or indirectly call for; but sometimes she felt she was grazing the edge of discovery, which the least lifting of the veil of Mr. Linden's unsuspiciousness would secure. She felt it to-night, and the fire and she had one or two odd little consultations. Just what Mr. Linden was consulting with himself about at those times, she did not know; but she half fancied it was something. Once the fire called her off at the end of a lesson, and when she came back to the table he had the next book open; but it was not till this set of questions and answers and explanations was half through, that Faith discovered he had opened the book at a different place from the one where it had been closed the day before,—then it suddenly flashed upon her; but whether it had been by accident, or of intent, she did not know.
One last consultation Faith held with the fire while Mrs. Derrick was gathering her work together to go to bed. Then she brought a low seat to Mr. Linden's feet. "Now, Endy,—I am ready." A little smile—a soft, lingering touch upon her forehead, came with his words.
"My little Mignonette, what do you suppose I came to Pattaquasset for?"
She looked rather wondering at him, and then said, "I supposed—to teach the school."
"Yes, but to what end?—I mean in my intent. I know now what I came for, in one sense," he said, securing one of her hands.
"Why—Endecott, do you want me to tell you?"
"If you know or guess."
"I don't know nor guess anything. I supposed merely that you did that as other people do other things—and for the same reason."
"It was for a very commonplace reason," Mr. Linden said, watching her face with two or three things at work in his own: "it was to get money to finish my studies for your favourite profession."
"My favourite profession!—Which do you mean?"
"Have you forgotten Miss Essie's question? I have not—nor the dear child who was so unwilling to answer it."
Faith's mind went back to Miss Essie, the question and answer,—and took the round of the subject,—and even as she did so her face changed, a sort of grave light coming into it,
"Do you mean that, Endy?" she said half under her breath.
"I mean that, and no other."
The light brightened and deepened—her colour flushed like a morning sky,—till at last the first sunbeam struck athwart her face, in the shape of a smile. It was not a lip smile—it was on eye and brow and lip and cheek together. Mr. Linden bent down by her, lifting her face to meet his eyes, which through all their intentness smiled too.
"Faith, I want to hear every word of that."
"Of what?"
"Of all that is in your mind and face just now."
Her two little answering sentences evidently only gave the key of very deep tones.
"I think it is good, Endy. I am glad."
"I thought you would be. But that does not satisfy me, dear Faith—I want you to say to me all the different things that your thoughts were saying to you. You are not afraid of me at this time of day?" he said bringing her face closer.
"I have nothing to say I need be afraid to say," Faith answered slowly,—"but it is hard to disentangle so many thoughts. I was thinking it is such great and high work—such happy work—and such honour—and then that you will do it right, Endecott—" she hesitated.—"How could I help but be glad?"
"Do you like your new prospective position, little Sunbeam?"
A deep colour came over her face, and the eyes fell Yet Faith folded her hands and spoke.
"I was glad to think—" She got so far, but the sentence was never finished.
"Glad to think what, dear child?"
Faith glanced up. She did not want to answer. Then she said with the greatest simplicity, "I am glad if I may do something."
"Glad that I should realize my ideal?" Mr. Linden said with a smile, and softly bringing her face round again. "Faith, do you know what a dear little 'minister's wife' you will make?—Mignonette is so suitable for a parsonage!—so well calculated to impress the people with a notion of the extreme grave propriety which reigns there! For is not Mignonette always sweet, demure, and never—by any chance!—high coloured?"
She would not let her face be held up. It went down upon her lap—into her hands, which she pressed close to hide it.
"Oh Endecott!—" she said desperately.—"You'll have to call me something else."
"O Faith!" was his smiling reply,—"I will, just so soon as I can.
Don't you want to come over to the sofa and hear the rest of my story?"
"Your story! Oh yes!"—
And first having a sympathizing interview with the fire, Faith went over to the sofa and sat down; but hid her face no more. Much as he had done before tea, Mr. Linden came and sat down by her,—with the same sort of gentle steadiness of manner, as if some strong thread of feeling had wrapped itself round an equally deep thread of purpose,—his gay talk now as then finding always some contrast in his face. But of this Faith had seen little or nothing—her eyes had not been very free to look. She did notice how silently he stood by her as she put the fire in order, she did notice the look that rested on her as she took her seat, but then he began his story and she could thing of nothing else.
"It was given to me, dear Faith," he said, "to spend my boyhood in an atmosphere more like the glow of that firelight than anything I can compare it to, for its warmth and radiance; where very luxurious worldly circumstances were crowned with the full luxury of earthly love. But it was a love so heaven-directed, so heaven-blessed, that it was but the means of preparing me to go out into the cold alone. That was where I learned to love your diamonds," he added, taking the jewelled hand in his,—"when I used to see them not more busy among things of literature and taste, than in all possible ministrations to the roughest and poorest and humblest of those whom literature describes and taste shrinks from!—But I used to think," he said speaking very low, "that the ring was never so bright, nor so quick moving, as when it was at work for me."
Faith's eye fell with his to the diamonds. She was very still; the flash all gone.
"That time of my life," Mr. Linden presently went on, "was passed partly in Europe and partly here. We came home just after I had graduated from a German University, but before I went away again—almost everything I had in the world went from me." He was silent for a little, drawing Faith's head down upon his shoulder and resting his lightly upon it, till she felt what she was to him. Then he looked up and spoke quietly as before.
"Pet and I were left alone. A sister of my father's was very anxious to take her, but Pet would not hear of it, and so for a year we lived together, and when I went to the Seminary she went too,—living where I lived, and seeing what she could of me between times. It was not very good for her, but it was the best we could do then. I suppose there was some mismanagement on the part of my father's executors—or some complication in his affairs, I need not trouble you with details; but we were left without much more than enough to give her the income I wished her to have for her own private use. Of course I would not touch that for our joint expenses. But until a year ago we did still live together—by various means. Then this sister of my father's set her heart upon taking Pet with her to Europe—and I set mine almost as much; I could better bear to live alone, than to have her; and her life then amounted to that. And so between us both she consented—very unwillingly; and she went to Italy, and I studied as long as I had ways and means, and then came here to get more. So you see, dear child," Mr. Linden said with a smile, "it is not my fortune I have asked you to share, but my fortunes."
She gave him a smile, as bright and free as the glancing of a star; then her look went away again. And it was a good little while before perhaps she dared speak—perhaps before she wanted to speak. So very steady and still her look and herself were, it said that they covered thoughts too tender or too deep to be put into words. And the thoughtfulness rather deepened as minutes rolled on—and a good many of them rolled on, and still Faith did not speak. Mr. Linden's watch ticked its remarks unhindered. Words came at last.
"Endecott—you said something about 'means' for study. How much means does it want?—and how much study?" The interest at work in the question was deeper than Faith meant to shew, or knew she shewed.
He told her the various expenses, ordinary and contingent, in few words, and was silent a moment. But then drawing her close to him, with that same sort of sheltering gesture she had noticed before, he went on to answer her other question; the voice and manner giving her a perfect key to all the grave looks she had mused over.
"Do you remember, dear Faith, that I once called you 'a brave little child'?"
"Yes."
"You must be that now," he said gently,—"you and I must both be brave, and cheerful, and full of trust. Because, precious child, I have two years' work before me—and the work cannot be done here."
She looked in his face once, and was silent;—what her silence covered could only be guessed. But it lasted a little while.
"It must be done at that place where you were with your sister?"
"Yes, little Mignonette, it must be done there."
"And when must you begin the work, Endecott?" If the words cost her some effort, it only just appeared.
"I came for a year, dear Faith—and I ought not to stay much beyond that."
Faith mentally counted the months, in haste, with a pang; but the silence did not last long this time. Her head left its resting place and bending forward she looked up into Mr. Linden's face, with a sunny clear look that met his full. It was not a look that could by any means be mistaken to indicate a want of other feeling, however. One might as soon judge from the sunshine gilding on the slope of a mountain that the mountain is made of tinsel.
"Endecott—is that what has been the matter with you?"
She needed no answer but his look, though that was a clear as her own.
"I could easier bear it if I could bear the whole," he said. "But you can understand that Dr. Harrison's proposal tried, though it did not tempt me."
She scarce gave a thought to that.
"There is one thing more I wanted to ask. Will there be—" she paused, and went on,—"no time at all that you can be here?"
"Dear Faith!" he said kissing her, "do you think I could bear that? How often I shall be able to come I cannot quite tell, but come I shall—from time to time, if I live. And in the meanwhile we must make letters do a great deal."
Her face brightened. She sat quietly looking at him.
"Will that shadow come any more,—now that you have told me?"
"I will give you leave to scold me, if you see it," Mr. Linden said, answering her smile,—"I ought not to be in shadow for a minute—with such a sunbeam in my possession. Although, although!—do you know, little bright one, that the connexion between sunbeams and shadows is very intimate? and very hard to get rid of?"
"Shall I talk to you about 'nonsense' again?"—she said half lightly, resting her hand on his arm and looking at him. Yet behind her light tone there was a great tenderness.
"You may—and I will plead guilty. But in which of the old classes of 'uncanny' folk will you put me?—with those who were known by their having no shadow, or with those who went always with two?"
"So I suppose one must have a little shadow, to keep from being uncanny!"
"You and I will not go upon that understanding, dear Faith."
Faith did not look like one who had felt no shadow; rather perhaps she looked like one who had borne a blow; a look that in the midst of the talk more than once brought to Mr. Linden's mind a shadowy remembrance of her as she was after they got home that terrible evening; but her face had a gentle brightness now that then was wanting.
"I don't know"—she said wistfully in answer to his last words.—"Perhaps it is good. I dare say it is, for me. It is a shame for me to remind you of anything—but don't you know, Endecott—'all things are ours'? both 'things present and things to come?'" And her eye looked up with a child's gravity, and a child's smile.
Bear it alone?—yes, he could have done that—as he had borne other things,—it tried him to see her bear it. It touched him to see that look come back—to see any tempering of the bright face she had worn so long. Faith hardly knew perhaps with what eyes he had watched her through all the conversation, eyes none the less anxious for the smile that met hers so readily; she hardly guessed what pain her bright efforts at keeping up, gave him. To shelter and gladden her life was the dearest delight of his; and just now duty thwarted him in both points. And he knew—almost better than she did—how much she depended on him. He looked down at her for a moment with a face of such grave submission as Faith had never seen him wear.
"My dear little child!" he said. But that sentence was let stand by itself. The next was spoken differently. "I do know it, dear Faith,—and yet you do well to remind me. I need to be kept up to the mark. And it is not more true that each day has sufficient evil, than that each has sufficient good—if it be only sought out. There cannot much darkness live in the light of those words."
"How far have you to go," she said with demure archness,—"to find the good of these days?"
"You are quick at conclusions"—said Mr. Linden,—"how far do you think it is between us at present?"
"Endecott"—she said gravely—"it will never be further!"
He laughed a little—with a half moved half amused expression, wrapping her up like some dainty piece of preciousness. "Because every day that I am away will bring us nearer together? I suppose that is good measurement."
"You know," she said, "you have told me two things to-night, Endecott; and if one makes me sorry, the other makes me glad."
"I was sure of that!—And it is such great, great pleasure to think of the times of coming back—and of leaving you work to do, and of writing to you about it,—and then of finding out how well it is done! You must keep my books for me, Mignonette—mine, I say!—they are as much yours as mine—and more."
"Your books?"—she said with a flush.
"Yes—there are but a few of these that I shall want with me,—the most of my study books I did not bring here."
"But won't you want these with you?"
"As far from that as possible. Do you think you could make up your mind to let me tell Reuben a secret?—and give him a reason for being even more devoted to you than he is now?"
She coloured very brightly again. "I am willing—if you wish it. Why,
Endecott?"
"The chief reason is, that I do not wish to lose any of your letters, nor have you lose any of mine. And small postoffices are not so safe as large ones, nor are their managers proverbially silent. I should like to make Reuben a sort of intermediate office."
"And send your letters to him?"
"Yes. Would you mind that?"
"And my letters?"
"And yours in like manner, little Mignonette. He could either enclose them to me, or put them in some neighbouring office,—I think Reuben would enjoy an eight miles walk a day, taken for me. Or you could hide your envelope with another, and let him direct that. You need not be afraid of Reuben,"—Mr. Linden said smiling,—"you might give him forty letters without his once daring to look at you."
"But I thought—you said—he was going to college next summer?"
"That was talked of, but I think he will stay another year at home, and then enter a higher class. It will save expense, and he will be longer with his father. Reuben and I hope to be brother ministers, one day, Faith."
"Do you! Does he!"—said Faith astonished. "That is good! I am glad of it. But what will he do for money, Endecott?"
"We shall see—part of the way is clear, so we may hope the rest will be. Perhaps I may let him do some of his studying with me. Do you think you would object to that?"
"Object to it! How could I? What do you mean, Endecott?"
"O little Mignonette!" he said smiling, "how sweet you are!—and what joy it would be to see you wear the only title I can give you! Don't you know, pretty child, that if I gave Reuben Hebrew you might be called upon to give him—tea!"
Faith's eyes went down and her colour mounted, and mounted. But her next remark was extremely collected. "How good it was Dr. Harrison's money came!"—
"I believe you stipulated that we were to have tea ourselves," said Mr. Linden, "but the question remains whether you would dispense it to any one else."
Faith was only restrained from covering her face again by the feeling that it would be foolish; and withal a little laughter could not be prevented. She did shield one side of her face with her hand, and leaning upon it looked into the fire for suggestions. Finally answered sedately, "I should think you and he might have it together!"
"Have it—yes, if we could get it; but I am ignorant of any but the chemical properties of milk and sugar."
"I thought you said you knew cream when you saw it!" said Faith from behind her shield.
"That is knowing its appearance—not its properties, Miss Reason."
"What does reason want to know more, for a cup of tea?"
"But you have declared once to-night that I am not Reason," said Mr. Linden laughing. "For instance—I once made the sudden acquaintance of a particular person, who made as sudden an impression on my mind,—after those three minutes I should have known her by sight (like cream) to the end of my life. But I went on trying experiments—(as one might taste successive drops of cream) finding out more and more sweetness each time; until (like cream again) I discovered that she was perfectly indispensable to my cup of tea!"
Faith bowed her glad little head, laughing, though feeling much deeper was at work.
"After this," she said, "I shall always be greatly at a loss what you are thinking of when you are looking at me."
"Will your reflections be carried on with such a face?" said Mr. Linden. "Do you remember that afternoon, Faith?—when I so nearly laid hold of you—and you wanted to laugh, and did not dare?"
"What afternoon?"—
"The one wherein I first had the pleasure of seeing you. How demurely you eyed me!—and wondered in your little sensible heart what sort of a person I could possibly be!"
"How did you know I wondered?" said Faith colouring.
"By your very gentle, modest, and fearful examinations, your evident musings over my words, and the bright look now and then that told of progress."
Faith laughed.
"You made me begin to think and wish immediately," she said.—"It was no wonder I wondered."
"Yes, and how I longed to give you your wish, so far as I could,—and how afraid I was to offer my services,—and how you would persist in thanking me for pleasing myself, do you remember, little Sunbeam?—and your fright when I asked about Prescott?"
She looked up with the prettiest, rosiest remembrance of it all; and then her face suddenly changed, and turning from him she shielded it again with her hand, but not to hide the rosy colour this time. Mr. Linden drew her close to him, resting his face upon her other cheek at first without words.
"Dear child!" he said,—"my own little Mignonette!—you must not forget what you said to me,—and you must not forget that I hope to come home quite often. There was a time, when I thought I might have to go away and never have the right to come and see you again. And you must think to yourself—though you will not speak of it to me—that after this bit of time, all our life will be spent together. You need not expect me to wait for anything—not even the cottage you like so much."
She did not answer immediately, as was natural, his last suggestions not being very word-provoking with her. But when she did speak, it was in a clear, cheerful tone.
"I'll bear my part, Endy—I should be very ungrateful if I couldn't. And you can bear your part—I am glad to think of that!—for you are working for a Master that always gives full pay."
"We can always bear God's will," he said, a little gravely,—"it is only our own that points the trial and makes it unbearable."