CHAPTER XL.
It was the pretty time of a summer afternoon. The sun, in the last quarter of almost his longest journey of the year, but high yet, sent warm rays to rest in the meadows and dally with the tree tops and sparkle on the Mong and its salt outlet. The slight rustle of leaves now and then was as often caused by a butterfly or a kildeer as by the breeze; sometimes by a heavy damask rose that suddenly sent down its rosy shower upon the ground. It was the very pastime of birds and insects and roses,—with that slight extra stir which told the time of day and that the afternoon siesta was at an end.
Gathering roses as he went along, fastening them in her belt or her bonnet, Mr. Linden led Faith down the farm road by which he had driven her to the shore that first day after her illness. There was small danger of meeting any one,—it was not the time for loads of hay and grain, and little else passed that way: the labourers in the fields were seen and heard only at a distance Mr. Linden himself was in as gay and gladsome a mood as the day,—more lively indeed, and active—taking the "dolce far" without the "niente;" witnessing what "the year of exile" had been, by his joy in being at home, with June and Mignonette. The afternoon's talk had added something even to both their perfections—he could not forget it though he talked of other things. Neither did Faith forget it. Yet she laughed at Mr. Linden and with him; though as far as conversation was concerned she took a secondary part. She started no subject whatever, of the least moment.
Subjects started of themselves—in numbers somewhat like the little butterflies that roused out of the clover as the intruding feet came by,—about as airy, about as flitting, not quite so purposeless. And thus in a way more summery than summary, Mr. Linden and Faith arrived at the shore. He found a shady seat for her, and with no "by your leave," except in manner, transferred her bonnet to an airy situation on a wild thorn.
"Mignonette, do you know what I mean to do with you after Thursday?"
"No, Endecott."—
"I shall put you before me on the wooden horse spoken of in the fairy tale, turn the pin under his right ear, and be off."
"What's that story!"—said Faith, looking round at him (he was standing behind her) with the prettiest of bright flushed faces.
"An authentic account of how a prince carried off a princess."
"How did he?"
"Got her consent first—(couldn't get anybody's else, but that did not matter)—ordered some one to bring the wooden horse to the front of the palace, placed her and himself as aforesaid, turned the pin, and disappeared from the curious eyes of the whole court. The story goes on to state that they both enjoyed the ride."
"Was that what you meant when you asked me if I liked travelling in cars?—" said Faith, a very little laugh speaking her sense of the application.
"Quick witted little princess!" said Mr. Linden. "The horse that refuses to carry double for your service, shall be dismissed from mine."
"But I don't see much, yet," said Faith. "I don't understand the story nor you. I think you have taken me a great many rides on that horse."
"Not en princesse," said Mr. Linden smiling. "The story is very simple, my dear. After shewing his wife various places of interest, and letting his friends see her, the prince arrives at home. It is said that he then finds his fortune—but I think that part of the story is fabulous, so don't set your heart upon it."
"That's the story—but what do you mean, Endy?"
"To give you such a ride. I mean that I am the prince, and that you (will be) the princess, who shall do all these things."
Faith jumped up. "Do you!"—
"Truly I do, dear Mignonette."
Faith's face was changing. The undoubted joy in her eye had yet a check somewhere.
"But Endecott—"
"Qu'est-ce que c'est, Mademoiselle?"
"You haven't a wooden horse!"—she said with a delicious and most delicate mixture of frankness and timidity.
"Are you sure of the fact?—and after all, Mademoiselle, what then?"
The same look almost answered him without words. "I am not sure—" she said. "I thought so."
"What is the point of the remark?"
She hesitated between the two feelings. But frankness, or duty, carried it. "Because, Endy—if that were so,—I don't want to go!"
"How did your royal pride get turned about?—that you will look at none but a wooden horse?"
She smiled at him, a little puzzled as of old, and not choosing to venture any further.
"I suppose I know what you mean, my dear one," Mr. Linden said, taking both her hands in his, and smiling too; "but as I do not intend to be John Gilpin, you need not be his wife,—not yet. Besides, the horse—of whatever sort—will require less than you suppose; and for the prince and princess, they,
Being in the air,
Will not care
How they fare!"—
Which words had an overcoming effect not only upon Faith's nascent scruples, but upon Faith herself; and a perfect series of little laughs of the most musical description rolled along a very limited extent of the shore, kept company by flushing colours as fair as the lights which were just then playing in the clouds overhead. Mr. Linden holding her hands still, watched his princess with the most perfect satisfaction.
"Is your mind at rest?" he said. "You know I threatened to keep you all to myself for six months—though I'm afraid four will be as near as I can come to it."
"But where are you going, Endy?"
"That waits partly on your choice. In general, to hills, cities, and rivers,—the Falls, the White Mountains, Washington, and the pictured rocks of Lake Superior. Then to some shore where you can see real surf—and to delight the eyes of some of my old friends by the way."
Faith's eye went gravely over to the sunny Long Island shore, but her mind had made a perfect leap. The only outward token of which was the unconsciously playing line of her lips. Such a journey!—with him! The breeze from the White Mountains seemed to blow in her face already, and the capital of the country rose before her in a most luminous cloud-view. With Mr. Linden to guide her and to tell her everything!—She did not see the eyes that were watching her, but when she suddenly noticed the silence and turned towards Mr. Linden, the smile was on his lips too.
"I thought I should go right to work," she said,—"to study—to make up for lost time. Can't I do that too?"
"As much as you like! But don't you know there is a lost holiday to be made up, as well?"
"It is made up,"—she said gently, after a minute's hesitation.
"How that grieved me when I went away!" said Mr. Linden,—"to take from you what I might never be able to replace. But sit down, dear child—I want to consult you about various things."
Faith sat down and looked—like a grave child indeed. Her journey for the present forgotten, and all her mind bent on something more weighty and worthy.
"I told you I had three letters for you to read," said Mr. Linden. "One reached me in Germany, two I found waiting for me here. They are all about the same subject, Mignonette: where you and I shall establish ourselves."
A flush rose, but she looked steadily.
"You told me once," Mr. Linden went on, "that in such a case I should choose the place where I was most needed—where there was most work for me to do. Now you shall judge. The pastor of a large manufacturing town in Pennsylvania (I may say of the town—it is so in effect) has accepted a call to Baltimore. I knew him formerly, and I suppose it is through his influence that the people have applied to me." Faith thought it very likely.
"How large is the town, Endy?"
"Ten or fifteen thousand—I do not know precisely."
"And no other churches?"
"Yes, but this is so much the leading one that the others hardly hold their ground; and by the way, I think I would rather have a call from one of them. Apparently the churchgoers are in the minority."
Faith thought there must be work enough to do in that place; but she only listened more gravely.
"An old friend of my father's writes the second letter. He lives at Newport, and has pleased himself with building a new church in a part of the island not much adorned with spires. Climate and society are good, scenery picturesque, and he is quite sure if I will only bring—Mrs. Linden!—to his house, she will decide in favour of Newport at once."
Faith's eyes went down, and rouge of the richest and frankest coloured her cheeks.
"Do you think she will?" said Mr. Linden demurely.
"What is the other, Endy?—You said three."
"The other, love, is from those very White Mountains you are going to see. Another friend writes the letter,—one who has built himself a nest there for summer migrations. It is a strange place, Faith, by all accounts—I have never been to that part of the mountains. A scattered population, sprinkled about on the hills like their own dewberries, and to be found in much the same manner. Neither church nor chapel, but only an unused schoolhouse—of which Mr. Olyphant prays I will come and take possession. Snow and frost, the valleys and the everlasting hills—that would be your society."
Faith's eyes were raised now and met Mr. Linden's. Grave, as one who felt the weight of the question to be settled; but with a brow unshadowed, and eyes unfearing. A child's look still!
"Mr. Olyphant says there could not be better air for my bird to sing in," he went on with a smile,—"there was one great objection to the place in Pennsylvania. How does this seem to you, dear Faith?—it is rather on a spur of the mountains—not absolutely shut in. Then I am not sure how much society you would have but mine,—what do you think of it, in comparison with Newport?"
She answered at first with a rare little smile, so happy in its grave trust, and which withal a little significantly deferred the question.
"I know you will go where you think you ought to go. Endy—I don't know about places."
"I doubt whether I shall grant more than half of Mr. Alcott's request," said Mr. Linden. "I suppose if George has not got home I may venture to grant that. Faith, it is a very singular fact that everybody falls in love with you."
To judge by Faith's blush, it was a somewhat painful "fact." "Whom are you talking of?" she said doubtfully.
"The present occasion of my remark is George Alcott—said to be absent on a crusade of search after a pair of eyes he saw in Pattaquasset."
"I don't know him," said Faith laughing a little; but instantly recurring to business she asked very earnestly, "Then, Endy, you think you will go to that place in the mountains?—or haven't you made up your mind?"
"I am inclined to that one, of the three—I cannot say my mind is absolutely made up. It has had so much else to do since I came home! Faith, do you mean to have any bridesmaids?"
Faith jumped up off her rock. "Endy, I want to run down and look at these little fish. And it's growing late, besides!"—
"Yes, but, you must answer me first," said Mr. Linden laughing and holding her fast. "It is needful I should know beforehand, because they will want supporters, if I do not."
"I don't want any, Endy," said Faith with cheeks like two pink roses, but standing very still now.
"Then come and shew me the fish. Don't you think it would be gladsome work to seek out those untaught and uncared for people up in the mountains?"
They had come down to the rocks between and among which at low tide the shell fish played in an inch or two of water; and sitting on one of the mossy stones Faith was watching the mimic play of evil passions which was going on among that tribe of Mollusca below her; but her mind was on something else.
"I read the other day," she said, "those words of Paul, where he says to the Thessalonians 'we were allowed of God to be put in trust with the gospel'.—They made me very happy—they make me happy now. What I thought of in connexion with them, I mean."
"And what was that?"
"That they are your words too,"—she said after looking up as if she thought her meaning must be known.—"And that even I—have something to do," she added lower.
Mr. Linden stood by her, looking off at the rippling waves, then down at his fair little helper. "Yes, Faith—it is a glorious thing to have any part of that work in trust,—and the part which makes least show may be no less in reality. 'In trust'!" he repeated, looking off again. "Such beautiful words!—such terrible."
"No!"—she said with a smile,—"I don't think so."
"Nor I, dear, from your point of view. But in the world, Faith, where you have been so little, I have seen the words of the trust to be boundless—the faithfulness of the trustees within very narrow limits. And to be always ready to 'sow beside all waters'—who is? 'Freely ye have received, freely give,' is the command—but what Christian sees with half perception what he has received!"
Faith paused and looked thoughtful, and then smiled again. "I always think of the words you read to me one day,—'Only be thou strong and very courageous,—for the Lord, thy God is with thee, whithersoever thou goest.'"—
The answering look told that if Mr. Linden's words had not been said for the purpose of drawing her out, they had at least served that purpose.
"You are a dear little Sunbeam!" he said. "Acting out your name, as I told you long ago. There is nothing needful to get you ready for the White Mountains but a fur cloak. Now come—it is growing late, as you say."
It was a late tea-time when they got home. They sat down to tea and Faith had not told her mother yet! which she remembered with a somewhat uneasy mind. There was nothing uneasy about the third member of the family!—the poise and balance of the white strawberries upon each other was not more complete than the resting adjustment of all his thoughts.
"Mrs. Derrick," he said as she handed him his cup of tea, "what do you consider the prettiest time of day?"
"The prettiest time of day?" Mrs. Derrick repeated,—"do you mean when the day looks best—or the people? I'm sure I don't know, Mr. Linden,—I never watch anybody from morning to night but Faith."
"I am talking of Faith—or what concerns her."
"O well all times of day are alike to her," said her mother fondly,—"she's just as pretty one time as another,—and one day as another. Only the days when she used to get letters."
"Mignonette," said Mr. Linden, "when should I have heard such a piece of news from you?"
"I never knew it before," said Faith.
"How many hours does she need for a morning toilette?" said he, pursuing his researches.
"Hours!" said Mrs. Derrick—"you'd better say minutes. It's less than an hour, commonly."
"But I mean uncommonly."
Mrs. Derrick looked thoroughly puzzled. But Faith had got the key, and hopeless of stopping Mr. Linden she thought the next best thing was to expedite matters.
"When I take longest, mother,"—she suggested in a low voice.
"How long would she need to arrange orange flowers to her satisfaction—" said Mr. Linden,—"or white muslin?"
"O!—" said Mrs. Derrick setting down the teapot with her cup half filled. "I didn't know what you were talking about."
"I am talking about next Thursday," said Mr. Linden, with a gay gentleness of manner. "Because we have decided—or I have—that Thursday is to be the prettiest day of the week, and now we want to choose the prettiest time of day."
A little flush came into Mrs. Derrick's quiet face,—she said not a word.
"You are willing it should be then?" Mr. Linden said.
The mother's "yes" was very firm and clear, and yet not in just her usual tone. That came back a minute after with the relief which a thought of business always brings.
"That dress isn't made!" she said. Mr. Linden's "Faith!—" was expressive.
"I knew that it could be done in a day at any time, Endecott,"—said
Faith, very grave and flushed. "It is up stairs in my drawer, mother."
"Kept there by what piece of superstition?" he said smiling. "Did you think if you made it up that I would never come back?"