CHAPTER XXII.
Mrs. Stoutenburgh got well. And it was in Faith's mind then, by some means to see very little more of Dr. Harrison till Mr. Linden should be in Pattaquasset again. So much for human intentions. Faith fell sick herself; and instead of being kept at a distance Dr. Harrison saw her twice at least in the twenty-four hours.
It was a doubtful privilege to see those soft eyes lustrous with fever and a steady glow take place of the changing and flitting hues which were as much a part of Faith's language, at times, as the movements of a horse's ears are part of his. But as after a few days it became evident that there was nothing dangerous about Faith's attack, it is probable that the doctor rather enjoyed his position than otherwise. The freedom and authority of his office were a pleasant advance upon the formalities of ordinary intercourse; and to see Faith and speak to her and touch her hand without any ceremonial but that of friendship, was an advantage great enough to desire the prolonging thereof. Faith was a gentle patient; and Dr. Harrison's care was unbounded; though it was not alarming, even to Mrs. Derrick, as he assured her there was no cause.
For a week however Faith kept her bed, and even Dr. Harrison was glad when at the end of a week she was able to be up again. Especially perhaps as it was only in her wrapper and an easy chair; his office was not at an end; the fever, in a remittent or intermittent form, still hung about her and forbade her doing anything but taking care of herself.
Not precisely in this category of duty were the letters Faith had written all that week. She had written them, how was best known by an aching head and burning fingers and feverish vision. But an interruption of them would have drawn on Mr. Linden's knowing the reason; and then Faith knew that no considerations would keep him from coming to her. It was towards the end of the study term; he was working hard already; she could not endure that any further bar should be placed in his way. None should for her. And so, bit by bit when she could do but a bit at a time, the letters were written. Exercises had to be excused. And Faith was at heart very thankful when at the end of a sick week, she was able to get up and be dressed and sit in the easy-chair and see the diamonds sparkling against her brown wrapper again.
It was April now, and a soft springy day. A fire burned gently in the chimney, while a window open at a little distance let in Spring's whispers and fragrances; and the plain old-fashioned room looked cosy and pretty, as some rooms will look under undefinable influences. Nothing could be plainer. There was not even the quaint elegance of Mr. Linden's room; this one was wainscotted with light blue and whitewashed, and furnished with the simplest of chintz furniture. But its simplicity and purity were all in tone with the Spring air and the cheer of the wood fire; and not at all a bad setting for the figure that sat there in the great chintz chair before the fire; her soft hair in bright order, the quiet brown folds of the wrapper enveloping her, and the flash of the diamonds giving curious point and effect to the whole picture. Faith was alone and looking very happy.
It wanted but a few weeks now of Mr. Linden's coming home,—coming home for a longer rest and sight of her; and Faith had not seen him since January. Mrs. Stoutenburgh's illness and Faith's consequent fatigue had in part accounted to him for the short letters and missing French exercises, but she could see that such excuse would not long be made for her,—his last one or two letters had been more anxious, more special in their inquiries: how glad she was that he need have no further cause for either. Partly musing on all this, partly on what she had been reading, Faith sat that afternoon, when the well-known single soft knock at her door announced Reuben Taylor. He came in with a glad face—how sad it had lately been Faith had seen, sick as she was,—and with both hands full of pleasant things. One hand was literally full, of cowslips; and as he came up and gave her his other hand, it seemed to Faith as if a great spot of Spring gold was before her eyes.
"Dear Miss Faith," Reuben said, "I wonder if anybody can ever be thankful enough, to see you better! You feel stronger than yesterday, don't you, ma'am?"
"I can't be thankful enough, Reuben—I feel that to-day. How good you are to bring me those cowslips! O yes,—I am stronger than I was yesterday."
That Faith was not very strong was sufficiently shewn by the way her hands lay in her lap and on the arm of the chair, and by the lines of her pale quiet face. Bodily strength was not flourishing there. Reuben looked at her wistfully, with a half-choked sigh, then knelt down beside her chair, as he often did.
"I didn't bring them all, Miss Faith—I mean, I didn't pick them all. Charlie and Robbie saw me in the meadow, and nothing would do but they must help. I don't think they always knew which to pick—but I thought you wouldn't mind that," he said as he laid the cowslips on the table, their fair yellow faces shewing very fair in the sick room. Faith's face was bright before, but it brightened still.
"They look lovely to me—tell Charlie and Rob I will thank them when I can. I don't thank you, Reuben,"—she said turning from the flowers to him.
"No, ma'am, I should hope not," he said, answering her smile gratefully. "But that's not all, Miss Faith—for Ency Stephens sent you one of her rosebuds,"—and Reuben took a little parcel carefully from his pocket. "It's only wrapped up in brown paper, because I hadn't time to go home for white. And she told me to tell you, Miss Faith," he added, both eyes and cheek flushing—"that she prays every day for you to get well and for Mr. Linden to come home."
The smile died on Faith's face and her eyes fell. "He ought to have this," she said presently, with a little flush on her own cheek. "I don't feel as if it should come to me. Reuben, does she want anything?" It was very rare, even now, for Faith to speak directly to Reuben of Mr. Linden, though she was ready enough to hear Reuben speak of him.
"No, ma'am, I think not," he said in answer to net question. "You know—did you ever hear, Miss Faith?—that when Mr. Linden first went there she was kept in the house the whole time,—nobody knew how to take her out—or took the trouble; and Mr. Linden carried her half a mile down the lane that very first day. And you can guess how he talked to her, Miss Faith,—they said she looked like another child when she came back. But is there anything I can do for you, ma'am, before I go to the post-office?—it's almost time."
"If you'll fill that glass with water for me, Reuben—that I mayn't let my sweet cowslips fade—that's all. They'll do me good all to-morrow."
Reuben went off, his place presently supplied by Mrs. Stoutenburgh; who against all persuasion had insisted upon coming down to see Faith. And then Faith was left to the calm companionship of her cowslips till Reuben came back from the post-office.
He came up to Faith's chair, and taking out the letter broke the outer seal, (a ceremony he generally performed in her presence) and was just removing the envelope when the doctor came in for his evening visit. The doctor saw a tableau,—Faith, the cowslips, and Reuben,—Mrs. Derrick by the window he hardly saw, nor what the others were about. But that he had interrupted something was clear—the very atmosphere of the room was startled; and though Reuben's position hid both letter and hands, it was certain the hands were busy. What was in them, and what became of it, the doctor could not tell. Before he was fairly in the room the letter had retreated to Reuben's pocket, and Reuben stepped back and stood behind Faith's chair.
The doctor laid a hand on his shoulder with a "How do you do" as he passed; and accosted Faith with all the free kindliness which his office of physician permitted him to add to the friend. The doctor took all his advantage; he did not take more; and not Faith herself could see that there was any warmer feeling behind his pleasant and pleased eye and smile. But it is true Faith was a simpleton. She did not see that his pleasantness covered keen scrutiny. The scrutiny found nothing.
"How do you do?" he said.
"I don't suppose I need say a word to tell you," Faith answered smiling. "I am well enough to enjoy cowslips."
The doctor's eye fell slightingly upon them, which was not wonderful.
"I think you must be very well!" he said with some trifle of addenda from lip and eye. "You see you are mistaken. I shouldn't have known how well, except from your words."
"You are mistaken now, Dr. Harrison," said Faith in the slow quiet way in which she spoke to-day. "You think these are not splendid—but they are bits of spring!"
"They are not Spring's best bits, I hope," said the doctor.
"What do you think of that?"
The doctor took the rosebud and looked at it.
"If I were to tell you what I think of it," he said with a sort of grave candour, "you would dismiss me, and I should come here no more!"
"Reuben brought me that, Dr. Harrison, from the little lame girl you sent the rosebush to, in the winter. I wish you knew how much good that rosebush has done!"
"I sometimes wish," said the doctor, "that I had been born in a cottage!"
"Why, in the world?"
"It would be so pleasant to have people come and bring me rosebushes!"
"Or cowslips?" said Faith. "Then you would have a taste for cowslips."
"But then the people might get sick," said the doctor, waiving the "bits of spring;"—"so I am content. How are you to-day?" He took Faith's hand and felt it, and looked at her. The result did not seem to be unsatisfactory on the whole.
"You mustn't read too much in that book," said he, glancing over at it.
"Why not?"
"You must keep quiet."
"For how long?"
"It depends. There is a little enemy of fever hanging about your skirts, that I will oppose with something else; but all you can oppose to him is quietness."
Faith thought of the words—"The rock of my defence and my refuse"—what quietness was like that of their giving; but she said nothing to the doctor.
Dr. Harrison gave Mrs. Derrick her directions on various points; then taking his old-fashioned stand on the rug, surveyed the easy-chair and its occupant and Reuben still behind it.
"By the way, Mrs. Derrick," said he carelessly,—"I have heard a pretty story of your friend Mr. Linden." He noticed, but only that Faith had glanced at him and was to all appearance quietly looking down at her cowslips.
"I dare say, doctor," said Mrs. Derrick placidly. "I've heard a great many."
"Have you heard it?"
"Heard what?" said Mrs. Derrick. "It's an old pretty story that everybody loves him."
"I heard this only the other day," said the doctor. "It's not of that kind. But stories will be stories—and people will tell them."
How the colour flushed and paled in Reuben's cheek!—he stood resting his hands lightly on the back of Faith's chair, looking down. The colour on Faith's cheek did not change.
"Who told this?" said Mrs. Derrick.
"People that have known the family. They say, he has managed to run through a very large property, and that he leaves his sister now to live upon charity."
It was impossible to tell from the doctor's manner whether he put any faith in his story himself. It was as much like delivering a report as bringing a charge. It might have been either! He saw Reuben's colour become fixed and very high, but though the doctor could almost have sworn that there was a rush of hid tears under the boy's drooping eyelids, yet the lines about the mouth took the curl of an irrepressible smile. Mrs. Derrick picked up two stitches, made a third—then answered.
"So that's what you call a pretty story! It was hardly worth remembering to tell us, doctor,—you and I, and Reuben, and Faith, know better." Now could not the doctor tell for the life of him, whether the words were simply innocent, or—simply malicious! Mrs. Derrick was so imperturbable there, at her knitting! Neither did the doctor much care. It sounded to him just like Mrs. Derrick. He looked at Faith; and remarked lightly that "he didn't know anything!"
Faith was very quiet; he could not see that her colour had risen more than a little, and a little was not enough to judge by in her face. But in an instant more after he had spoken, she looked full and gravely up at him.
"Do you believe everything about everybody, Dr. Harrison?"
"On the contrary! I don't believe anything of anybody—Except you," he added with a little smile.
"Do you believe such a story?"
Her steady soft eyes, which did not move from him, gave him an uncomfortable feeling—perhaps of undefined remembrance. "I don't believe it," he said returning her gaze. "I don't do anything with it. Such things are said of everybody—and of almost everybody they are true. I take them as they come. But about this particular case," he said with one of his gentle looks, "I will do just what you say I must do."
Faith smiled.
"I don't say you must do anything. I am sorry for you, Dr. Harrison."
"I am glad you are sorry!" he said sitting down by her. "And there is reason enough; but what is this one?"
"You lose a great pleasure."
"What one?"—
"You don't know how to trust."
"Do I not?" said the doctor, looking at the rosebud still in his hand. "Well—you shall teach me!" And springing up he bowed to Mrs. Derrick and went off—rosebud and all.
Reuben stood still for about half a minute—then came round, and silently gave Faith her letter.
"Reuben Taylor!"—said Faith, as he was going after the doctor. "You have been standing so long—suppose you sit down for a minute?"
Whatever Reuben thought of the request, he said nothing, but obeyed her, bringing a foot cushion to her chair and bestowing himself upon it. Faith smiled at him as she spoke again, though there was an unwonted fire in her owe eyes; and the blood came fast now to her face.
"Reuben, I wanted to ask you what all that colour is in your cheeks for?"
Reuben hesitated—there seemed a stricture across his breast which made speaking hard work; but at last he said frankly, though in none of the clearest tones,
"Because I'm angry, Miss Faith—and hurt too."
Faith's next words fell like pearls—
"It isn't worth the while."
"No, Miss Faith," he answered without looking up.
"It's too much honour to something that doesn't deserve it,—and—Reuben—it's too little to something that does."
"O no, ma'am! it's not that!" Reuben said, raising his eyes to her face with the old earnest look. "But Miss Faith, there are some things he can't bear to hear said—and said so," he added a little lower, and looking down again. "And then—he's Dr. Harrison, and I'm only a poor boy and mayn't answer him—and that fretted me; and it isn't the first time, neither," Reuben said, as if he were making a clean breast of it. "Oh Miss Faith! I'd rather have had him knock me down, than speak such words!" Tears were getting the upper hand in the boy's voice.
"Dear Reuben," said Faith, very quietly, though her cheeks were two carnations,—"what I am most sorry for is Dr. Harrison."
Reuben drew a long breath, with his "Yes, ma'am—I'm sorry for him too, very often—when he talks about other things. But I don't believe even you know just—just how false that was." Reuben spoke as if the words choked him. "It's maybe never come in your way to know all he did here for everybody, and—for me."
There was a quick pulsation at that instant from Faith's heart to the hand that held her letter,—but she only said, "Tell me!"
"I couldn't begin to tell you all, ma'am," Reuben said, a smile coming over his face now,—"nobody could but himself—and he wouldn't remember. I couldn't even tell you all he's done for me; but one thing"—Reuben's eyes and voice fell and he spoke very low. "You know, Miss Faith, the rate of schooling here is fixed by the trustees. And the first day I came father told me to say he didn't know that he could find the money for more than one quarter, but he had so much all ready, and he wanted me to have so much. I thought it would be hard to ask, but it was so easy—of him," Reuben said with that same smile. "Mr. Linden didn't say much about it—only yes—but then he spoke to father (that very day we were at the shore Miss Faith) and told him I should come all the time—for the pleasure of teaching me." (Reuben thought the compliment went all to Mr. Linden, or he would not have told it.) "But father wouldn't do that,—he said Mr. Linden should have the money as fast as he could get it; and if he didn't take it I shouldn't come. And it was paid all the year, regularly. But then, Miss Faith——" there was a pause.
"What, Reuben?" she whispered.
"Then instead of keeping it for himself, he put it all in the bank for me.—And I never knew it till I opened the letter he gave me when he was going away."
The brightness of the hidden diamonds danced in Faith's face for a minute—half hidden too, but it was there.
"Reuben," she whispered, as he was starting up to go,—"what we have to do is to pray for Dr. Harrison."
"Miss Faith, how do people live who do not pray?"
"I don't know!"
But Faith's voice did not speak the thanksgiving which bounded in her heart to Reuben's words. She sat back in her chair looking tired, with her letter clasped fast in her hand. Reuben stepped forward and arranged the fire softly—then giving her another wistful look he bowed and went lightly out of the room. With gentle step Mrs. Derrick came up to Faith, to kiss her and ask how she felt. Faith's eyelids unclosed.
"Very happy, mother,—and tired too. Don't you think I could have a light presently?"
"This minute, pretty child. But lie down on the couch, Faith, and I'll bring up the little table."
That was done, and then Faith read her letter, with first a rapid and then a slow enjoyment of it, making every word and sentence do more than double duty, and bring the very writer near. And then she lay with it clasped upon her bosom, thinking those flowing trains of half feverish thought which are so full of images, but which in her case flowed with a clear stream over smooth channels, nor ever met a rough break or jar. Even Dr. Harrison did not make an exception, for Faith's thought of him was constantly softened by her prayer for him. Her mother drew near when the letter was at last folded up, and watched her from the other side of the stand; but though mind and heart too were full enough, she rightly judged that Faith needed no more excitement; and so never mentioned Dr. Harrison's name, nor even asked how he came to carry off the rosebud.
Faith's trains of thought ended at last in a sleep which lasted till past her tea-time. Mrs. Derrick was still by her side when she awoke, and Faith opening her eyes as quietly as she had shut them, remarked,
"Mother!—letters are great things."
"Why child," said her mother smiling, "what have you been dreaming about?"
"Nothing.—That isn't a dream; it's a reality."
Blessing in her heart the sender of the reality which gave such pleasure, Mrs. Derrick answered, "Yes, child, it's real—and so's he."
Faith said nothing to that except by her smile. She only spoke the hope that she might be stronger the next day; a sentiment which though at first sight it might seem to have nothing to do with the former subject, was really in very close connexion with it.
But Faith was not stronger the next day. The fever was not driven away and strength was in the grip of it yet. The doctor gave her no new directions, but insisted very much on quietness and care. There was nothing to be apprehended of the fever but tediousness, and the further and prolonged loss of strength; but that was quite enough to have to avoid. For that she must take all sorts of care. He also said that the case might go on without his oversight for a day or two, and that for that space of time in the middle of the week he should be absent from Pattaquasset, having a very urgent call of business elsewhere.
And whether for that reason or needing no fresh one, the doctor having stated so much went on to tell about other things, and made a long visit. The talk came upon the Bible again, Faith didn't know how, and grew very animated. Dr. Harrison had brought with him this morning one of his pleasantest moods, or manners; he thought yesterday that Faith's eyes had given him a reproof for slander, and he had no intent to offend in the like way again. He was grave, gentle, candid, seemingly—willing to listen, but that he always was to Faith; and talked sense or feeling in a most sensible and simple way. Yet the conversation ended with giving Faith great pain. He had asked her to read something confirmatory or illustrative of the statement she was making, out of the Bible; and Faith had complied with his wish. That was nothing strange. She had often done it. To-day the reading had been followed by a little observation, acutely put, which Faith felt raised a barrier between him and the truth she had been pressing. She felt it, and yet she could not answer him. She knew it was false; she could see that his objection was foundationless—stood on air; but she did not see the path by which she might bring the doctor up to her standing-point where he might see it too. It was as if she were at the top of a mountain and he at the bottom; her eye commanded a full wide view of the whole country, while his could see but a most imperfect portion. But to bring him up to her, Faith knew not. It is hard, when feet are unwilling to climb! And unskilled in the subtleties of controversy, most innocent of the duplicities of unbelief, Faith saw her neighbour entangled, as it seemed, in a mesh of his own weaving and had not power to untie the knot. It distressed her. Other knots of skepticism or ignorance that he had presented to her she had cut easily with the sword of truth if she could not untie; he had offered her one to-day that she could cut indeed as easily for herself,—but not for him. To do that called for not better wits, but for far greater controversial acumen and logical practice than Faith knew. He did not press his point, not even for victory; he gave the objection to her and left it there; but while to her it was mere rottenness of reasoning, she knew that for him it stood. It grieved her deeply; and Mrs. Derrick saw her worn and feverish all the day, without knowing what special reason there had been. She tried to stop Faith's working; but though not fit for it, Faith would not be stopped. She dared not trust Mr. Linden with any more excuses or put-offs; and a feverish cheek and hand that day and the next went over her exercise and letter. And enjoyed both, in spite of fever. But when they were done, late in the next day, Faith lay down wearily on the couch and consoled herself with the thoughts of the letter to come; it was the evening for one.
It was the evening for one and yet one came not. Other letters came—the great leather bag was tossed out on the station-house steps, and thence borne off to the post-office, where five minutes later Reuben Taylor came to wait for his share of the contents. But when with the assurance which has never yet known disappointment, Reuben applied at the window, Mintie gave him a rather coquettish—
"No, Mr. Taylor—you're not in luck to-day,—there's nothing for you."
In his surprise Reuben tried every means to make himself and her believe that she was mistaken; and urged a new examination of all the letters, till Mintie made—or feigned to make—it, with the same success.
Reuben turned away from the office in real sorrow of heart. He had not now to learn what store was set by those letters—especially now, when Faith was sick,—he had noticed her holding of that very last one which had come. And then, not merely to lose the pleasure, but to have the disappointment!—Then too, what had hindered the letter? One sometimes came out of time, but the expected one had never yet failed. Was Mr. Linden sick?—and what would Miss Faith think?—the letter might fail from other causes (hardly, Reuben thought) but what would she think?—herself so far from well. And then, should he go at once and tell her—or let her find it out from his non-appearance?
That last idea was promptly rejected,—she should at least not be in suspense, and Reuben was soon at her door, as soon admitted. But he came in very quietly, without that spring of step which had so often brought a letter, and standing by her chair said gently,—
"Miss Faith, I didn't find anything to-night—but I thought I'd come and tell you, for fear you'd be expecting."
"Not find anything!"—said Faith raising herself half up, with the start of colour into her pale cheeks.
"No, ma'am,—they said at the office there was nothing. Maybe it will come to-morrow."
It hurt him to see the little patient droop of each feature as Faith laid herself down again.
"Thank you, Reuben," she said. "O yes, maybe it will."
Words of consolation Reuben did not presume to offer, but there was a great deal in his face and quiet low-spoken "Can I do anything to-night, Miss Faith?"
"No," she said cheerfully. "There's nothing. Isn't it time Mr. and Mrs.
Roscom had some fresh eggs, Reuben? Mother will give you them."
Reuben only said he would stop there and see them.
The letter did not come next day. Reuben came, as usual, in the afternoon, but only to tell his bad success. He had not the heart to bring cowslips again, and ventured no words to Faith but about some of her poor people. That subject Faith went into fully. After Reuben was gone she lay quiet a while; and took her indemnification in the evening by getting Mrs. Derrick to read to her one or two of those strings of passages which Faith called ladders. Whether she could mount by them or not just then, her mother might; and hearing them Faith went to sleep. She said nothing about her letters, except to tell Mrs. Derrick they had not come.
That day and the next were quiet days, being the days of Dr. Harrison's absence. And if some accident had befallen Wednesday's letter, there was good hope of one Friday. And as Friday wore away, Faith did not know that she was counting the hours, and yet could at any time have answered any question as to the time of day. It was one of those calm days, within doors and without, which ebb away so noiselessly, that only the clock tells their progress. Faith's little clock—(Mr. Linden had amused himself with sending her one about as big as a good-sized watch on a stand)—ticked musically on the table, suggesting a good many things. Not merely the flight of time—not merely that the train would soon be in, not merely that she might soon have a letter; nor even that it, the clock, had seen Mr. Linden since she had. All these thoughts mingled, but with them something else. They would tick on, those minutes, relentlessly, no matter what they were to bring or take away,—steady, unalterable, unchecked,—like the old idea of Fate. She tried to be steady too—tried to have that fixedness of heart which says confidently, "I will sing and give praise." But she was weak yet, with the effect and even the presence of fever, and through all her thoughts she seemed to feel those minutes tracking with light steps across her breast. She lay with her hands clasped there, to still them.
The sun began to slant his beams in at the window, and then with one long screeching "Whew!"—the afternoon train flew through Pattaquasset, tossing out the letter bag on its way. Then Faith waited—watching intently for Reuben's step on the stairs.
Reuben on his part had watched the letter-bag from the moment it was thrown out, had followed it to the office, and there posted himself near the window to have the first chance. But his prize was a blank.
Sick at heart, Reuben drew back a little, giving way before Mintie's rather sharp "I tell you no, Mr. Taylor," and other people's earnest pressing forward to the window. But when the last one had gone—those happy people, who had got their letters!—Reuben again presented himself, and braved Mintie's displeasure by further inquiries; which produced nothing but an increase of the displeasure. He turned and walked slowly away. It might have been any weather—he might have met anybody or heard anything; but when Reuben reached Mrs. Derrick's the whole walk was a blank to him. What was the matter—how would Miss Faith bear it—these two questions lay on his heart. In vain he tried to lay them down,—for the very words which told him that "the Lord doth not afflict willingly," said also that he doth afflict; and Reuben's heart sank. He stood for a moment in the porch, realizing "how people live who do pray"—then went in and straight upstairs, walked up to Faith's couch when admitted, and without giving himself much time to think, told his news.
"Dear Miss Faith, you must wait a little longer yet. May I write by to-night's mail and ask why the letter hasn't come?—it may have been lost."
Faith started up, with first a flush and then a great sinking of colour, and steadying herself with one hand on the back of the couch looked into her messenger's face as if there she could track the missing letter or discern the cause that kept it from her. But Reuben's face discovered nothing but his sorrow and sympathy; and Faith sank back on her pillow again with a face robbed of colour beyond all the power of fever's wasting to do.
"Yes—write!" she said.
Reuben stood still, his hands lightly clasped, his heart full of thoughts he had perhaps no right to utter, if he could have found words.
"I wish you'd write, Reuben," she repeated after a moment.
"Yes, ma'am," he said, "I will. Only—dear Miss Faith! you know 'the darkness and the light are both alike to Him.'" Reuben was gone.
Faith lay for a few minutes as he had left her, and then slipped off the couch and kneeled beside it; for she felt as if the burden of the time could be borne only so. She laid her head and heart down together, and for a long time was very still; "setting her foot on the lowest step" of some of those ladders, if she could not mount by them. A foot-hold is something.
She was there yet, she had not stirred, when another foot-step in the passage and other fingers at the door made her know the approach of Dr. Harrison. Faith started up and met him standing. The doctor looked at her as he came up. So pale, so very quiet, so purely gentle, and yet with such soft strength in her eye,—he had not seen her look just so, nor anybody else, before.
"How do you do?" he said reverentially as he took her hand.
"I am—well,"—said Faith.
"Are you?" said the doctor gravely, eyeing the mark of unconquered fever and its wasting effects even on her then.—"I am very glad to hear it, indeed!"
"I mean, that I feel—well," said Faith correcting herself.
"You will feel better if you will take a more resting position," said the doctor putting her into the chair. And then he stood and looked at her; and Faith looked at her little clock, with her foot on that step of her "ladder."—"He knoweth thy walking through this great wilderness."
"What have you been doing to yourself these two days?" said the doctor.
"Nothing—" she said;—"more than usual."
He laid her appearance all to the account of the fever, she was so quiet; and proceeded to a new examination of the state of her hand, and to give her various professional orders.
"Miss Faith, can you do anything in the way of eating?"
Her very face as well as her tongue seemed to answer him, "Not much."
"Do you think of anything you could fancy?"
"No."—
"I brought some birds home with me that I believe I can answer for. Try to demolish the pinion of one of them—will you? It is a duty you owe to society."
"I will try,"—she said gravely.
The doctor wondered whether she had laid up against him any of his former conversation.
"What do you think," he said with a kind of gentle insinuation,—"of that argument I ventured to advance the other day, on the matter we were speaking of?"
"I don't like to think of it at all, Dr. Harrison."
"May I know why not?"
"Because I know it is false, and yet I cannot make you see it."
"Can you make yourself see it?"
"I don't need to take any pains for that. I see it very well."
"Perhaps you will find the way to make me see it," said the doctor pleasantly.
"That would be easy," said Faith, "if—"
"If what? May I not know the difficulty?"
"If you really cared about it."
"I do care about it. You mistake me when you think that. But you must not think about anything now. Did you know I carried off your rosebud the other night?"
"Yes."
It was impossible to tell from the doctor's accent how he viewed the transaction, and equally impossible from Faith's answer to tell what she thought of it. Extremes meet—as Mr. Linden had once remarked.
"I'll endeavour to atone for that presumption to-morrow," said he rising, for Mrs. Derrick now entered the room. To her Dr. Harrison repeated his orders and counsels, and to Faith's relief took himself away. Her mother came up to the easy-chair with a smothered sigh on her lips, and laid her gentle hand on Faith's forehead and wrist.
"Child," she said, "has that man talked you into a fever again? I've a great mind not to let him come any more—I guess I could cure you better myself. If you'd send word to somebody else, Faith, we'd have you well in no time."
"I haven't heard from him to-night, mother." Faith felt the little start of her mother's hand.
"Maybe he's coming then," said Mrs. Derrick,—"he might have meant to come yesterday and been hindered." Faith did not think that.
"We shall know," she said to her mother. "We have only to wait and be quiet." And she carried out both parts of her stated duty to perfection.
There is a strange sort of strength in a certain degree of weakness—or it may be that weakness runs sooner to its refuge, while strength stands outside to do battle with the evil felt or feared. Faith's gentle and firm temper was never apt for struggling, with either pain or fear; it would stand, or yield, as the case called for; and now, whether that her mind had been living in such a peaceful and loving atmosphere, both earthly and heavenly, that it could settle upon none but peaceful views of things, or that bodily weakness made her unable to bear any other, she did mount upon one of those "ladders" and left her burden on the ground. She thought she did. She was as quiet outwardly as before; she told Mrs. Derrick, who looked at her in misery,—and told her with a steady cheerful little smile, that "she dared say the letter would come to-morrow." But it is true that Faith had no power to eat that night nor the next day; and that she did not know the hidden slow fever—not of disease—which was running through all her veins and making the other fever do its work again, bright in her cheek and eye and beating at her temples and wrist. But she was as still and quiet through it all—quiet in voice and brow—as if letters had been full and plenty.