CHAPTER XXIII.
It was about midday of Saturday, when Reuben Taylor, proceeding up the main street of Pattaquasset on some business errand for his father, was joined by Phil Davids—no wonted or favourite associate or companion. But Phil now walked up the street alongside of the basket which had come "into town" with fish.
"I say, Reuben," said Phil after some unimportant remarks had been made and answered,—"does Mr. Linden ever write to you?"
Reuben started—as if that touched some under current of his thoughts, and answered "yes."
"I wish he'd write to me," said Phil. "I know I'd like it. I say,
Taylor, what does he send you such thick letters about?"
"Such thick letters!" Reuben repeated, with a quick look at his companion. "People put a great many things in a letter, Phil."
"I guess likely. That's what I say. What does he write to you about?"
"Maybe I'll bring up one of 'em for you to read," said Reuben. "You've heard him talk, Phil—he writes just so."
"Does he? I guess you wouldn't like to miss one of his letters then,
Reuben,—would you?"
"No."
"I s'pose it would be a worse job yet to miss two of 'em—wouldn't it?" said Phil with a perfectly grave face.
"Phil Davids!" Reuben exclaimed, facing round upon him, with such a flash of joy and hope and surprise and eagerness, as made Phil wonder. "What do you mean?" he added checking himself. "Just turn your pockets inside out, Phil, before we go any further."
"When were you at the post-office?"
"Last night—and this morning." Reuben forced himself to be quiet.
"Well look here,—when you go there, don't you ask for letters?"
"Ask!—I've asked till they were all out of patience."
"Suppose you come to the right shop next time!" said Phil, importantly producing the missing papers.
"Phil! Phil!—" was all Reuben said. He caught the letters—and stood looking at them with a face that made Phil look. "Mr. Linden will love you all his life for this. But how in the world did you get them?"
"That's exactly what I'd like somebody to tell me!" said Phil. "I know who put the monkey's paw in the fire—but how the chestnuts got there, I'm beat!"
"What do you know?" said Reuben,—"where did you get these? Oh Phil! I never can thank you enough!"
"It was because they were his letters I did it," said Phil bluntly. "I wasn't going to let Mintie Tuck have 'em. But I say, Reuben! what have you done to spite her? or has she a spite against Mr. Linden? or who has she a spite against?"
"I don't know. Did she give 'em to you, Phil?"
"Not by a precious sight nor to anybody else. Dromy saw 'em in her drawer, and for all the gumph he is, he knew the writing; and I made him get 'em for me this morning while they were at breakfast. Now Taylor," said Phil settling his hands further down in his pockets as they rapidly walked along,—"what bird's on that nest?"
Reuben listened—with an intentness that spoke of more than wonder. "In her drawer?" he repeated,—"what, down in the office?"
"Not a bit of it! Stowed away with her earrings and ribbands upstairs somewhere."
"Phil," said Reuben when he had pondered this strange information in silence for a minute, "will you be in the office when the mail comes in for a night or two?—and don't tell this to any one till Mr. Linden sends word what should be done."
"You expect more letters?" said Phil, with a not stupid glance at his fellow.
"Yes," Reuben said, too frankly to increase suspicion; "and if one should come it's very important that I should get it. And of course I can't watch."
"She sha'n't get it!" said Phil. "I'll be there. I'll be Sinbad's old man of the mountain for Mintie. I won't sit on her shoulders, but I'll sit on the counter; and if there's a scratch of Mr. Linden's in the mail-bag, I'll engage I'll see it as fast as she will. I know his seal too."
"Could she have done it to tease me?" Reuben said,—"I've never had the least thing to do with her but through that post-office window."
"What did you ever give her through the post-office window?" Phil asked half laughingly.
"Questions enough—" Reuben said, his thoughts too busy to notice any underhand meaning,—"and lately she's given me rather cross answers. That's all."
"Well what do you suppose she stole your letters for?"
"I don't know enough about her to guess," Reuben said frankly.
"Well," said Phil, "I guess Dr. Harrison won't appoint the postmaster of Pattaquasset when I am President. I rather think he won't."
"I wish you'd make haste and be President," Reuben said. "But if he didn't know anything about Mrs. Tuck, Phil, other people did—and thought she was honest at least. And you know she's postmaster, by right."
"She—is the female of Dromy!" said Phil with intense expression. "But Mintie aint a fool, and it's she's post-master—anyhow Dromy says it's she that's Dr. Harrison's friend;—so that makes it. But that don't tell why she wants the letters."
"Dr. Harrison's friend?" said Reuben,—"what does she have to do with him?"
"I aint a friend of either of 'em, so I don't know," said Phil. "But girls with pretty faces will make friends with anybody!"
A very high degree of masculine charity and correctness of judgment was expressed in Phil's voice and words. Reuben made no reply—his charity, of any sort, was not in a talkative mood, and the two parted kindly at Phil's cross road.
Not home to dinner now, for Reuben! The minutes of talk had seemed long to his impatience; he had borne them, partly to get information, partly to keep down suspicion. But now with Phil out of sight, he turned short about and took the way to Mrs. Derrick's with almost flying steps. True, he was not dressed for "Miss Faith's" room—but Reuben Taylor was always neat and in order, and she must not wait. He hurried into Mrs. Roscom's—there to leave his basket and every removable trace of his work,—then on!
Faith had spent the early morning upon her couch;—no need to ask if she felt stronger than yesterday,—every line and feature shewed prostration—and patience. Breakfast had been passed over nominally. What Mrs. Derrick could do for her was done; what she could not, lay heavy on the hearts of both as the one went down to make the days arrangements, and the other lay still to endure. Reuben had not come after the morning train—there was nothing even to expect till night, and Faith lay listening to her little clock and watching the passage of the April sunbeams through her room.
Suddenly a loud startling rap at the front door. But she was powerless to go and see, and after that one sound the house seemed to sink into perfect stillness. Then the door of her room opened, and Mrs. Derrick came in bearing a large basket. A heavy one too, but Mrs. Derrick would have spent her last atom of strength before she would have let any one else bring it up. Her face looked quite radiant.
"Pretty child!" she said, "here's something for you!"
It was needless to ask questions,—Mrs. Derrick's face could have but one meaning. Faith neither asked nor answered, except by the sudden start of the blood into cheeks which were pale enough before. Slipping from the couch she was on her knees by the basket, pulling out the ends of the knots by which it was tied, with just a tiny beautiful smile at work on her changed lips. Her mother went softly away (she thought the first sight of anything in that line belonged to Faith alone) and the April sunbeams took a new view of things.
The knots gave way, and the basket cover swung round, and the white wrapping paper came off; and within lay something for her truly!—most appropriate! A great stem of bananas and another of plantains, thick set with fruit, displayed their smooth green and red coats in very excellent contrast, and below and around and doing duty as mere packing, were sunny Havana oranges, of extra size, and of extra flavour—to judge by the perfume. But better than all, to Faith's eye, was a little slip of blackmarked white paper, tucked under a red banana—it had only these words—
'Sweets to the sweet.'
"Faith, I should put in more, but the basket refuses. It is the measure of only one part of the proverb—do you understand?"
Faith knew oranges, she had never seen bananas or plantains before. It was all one; for the time being they were not bananas or oranges but hieroglyphics; and the one fruit looked as much like Mr. Linden's handwriting as the other. She sat with her arm resting on the couch supporting her head, and looking at them. Not the finest picture that Goethe ever viewed, or bade his friends view as part of their "duty," was so beautiful as that basket of red and yellow fruit to Faith's eye. And all the more for that foreign look they were like Mr. Linden; for the common things which they said, it was like him to say uncommonly. How very sweet was the smell of those oranges! and how delicious the soft feeling of peace which settled down on all Faith's senses. Very different from the sort of quiet she was in a quarter of an hour ago. She did not trouble herself now about the missing letters. This told that Mr. Linden was well, or he could hardly have been out to buy fruit and pack it and pack it off to her. So Mrs. Derrick found her—reading not words, but oranges and bananas; with a face it was a pity Mr. Linden could not see.
It may be remarked in passing that the face was not lost upon the one who did see it. Mrs. Derrick came and stooped down by Faith and her basket in great admiration and joy and silence for a moment—the sight almost put everything else out of her head; but then she exclaimed, "Child, the doctor's coming!—I saw him driving up to the door."
Faith put the cover on the basket, and while Mrs. Derrick set it out of sight, she received the doctor as yesterday, standing. But with a nice little colour in her cheeks to-day, in place of yesterday's sad want of it. Dr. Harrison came up with one hand full of a most rare and elegant bunch of hothouse flowers.
"My amends-making—" he said as he presented it.
It was not in Faith's nature not to look pleasure and admiration at such bits of kindred nature. They were very exquisite, they were some of them new to her, they were all most lovely, and Faith's eyes looked love at them. Dr. Harrison was satisfied, for in those eyes there was to-day no shadow at all. Their gravity he was accustomed to, and thought he liked.
"How do you do?" he said.
"I am—a great deal better. O mother—may I have a glass of water for these?"
"You said yesterday you were well, Miss Faith."
"You saw I wasn't," said Faith as she put her flowers in the glass.
"That is very true. And I see also that your statement to-day is not of much juster correctness. How came you to say that?"
"I said, it without knowing—what I said," Faith answered simply. "What is this, Dr. Harrison?"
The doctor puzzled over her answer and could make nothing of it.
"That is a Fuchsia—and that is another."
"How beautiful!—how beautiful. They are not sweet?"
"You cannot always have sweetness in connexion with everything else," he said with a slight emphasis. Faith's mind was too far away from the subject to catch his innuendo; unless other lips had spoken it.
"Mrs. Derrick," said the doctor, "I should like as a professional man, to know what portion of the wing of a robin this lady can manage for her breakfast?"
"Some days more and some days less," said Mrs. Derrick. "She was not very hungry this morning." (A mild statement of the case.)
"Some days less than the wing of a robin!" said the doctor. "The robin himself is a better feeder. Mrs. Derrick, what fancies does this bird live upon?"
The allusion drew a smile to Faith's face, which Mrs Derrick did not understand.
"She don't tell all her fancies,—she has seemed to live on tea and toast, for eatables."
The doctor smiled, and went back to Faith who was busy with the flowers; or as Mrs. Derrick said, seemed to be busy with them.
"Are those better than cowslips?" he asked lightly.
"They are more wonderfully beautiful—they are not better in their place."
"How is that?"
"I told you cowslips were bits of spring," said Faith smiling. "These are not that. I think everything in the world—I mean, the natural world—has its place, that it fills."
"Better than any other would?"
"I suppose so. Yes."
"That is admirable philosophy," said the doctor. "Excellent to keep one contented. Three feet of snow is then as good as May zephyrs! Daisies and dandelions are fair substitutes for geraniums and cacti! And these barren granite fields, where the skeleton rock has hardly covered itself skin deep with soil, are better than flowery prairies of rolling land, and fertile wildernesses of roses!"
"Well," said Faith; "you needn't laugh. I think they are."
"By what transmutation of philosophy?"
Faith's philosophy was put to the test by certain sounds which just then came to her ear; the hall door opened and shut quick though softly, and Reuben came lightly upstairs—two stairs at a time!—but his knock at Faith's door was almost as quiet as usual. Whatever spirit of energy was at work in him, however, calmed itself down at sight of Dr. Harrison—whom he did not then stay to greet, but coming up with a swift steady step to Faith's chair, knelt down there and gave her his hand with, "Miss Faith, are you better to-day?"
If a rosebud yesterday shut up in the cold had opened all its beams to the sun,—that was Faith to-day, as she took Reuben's hand and held it.
"That is a very devoted servant of yours, Miss Faith," said the doctor pointedly. "I notice he gives you homage in true chivalric style. Does the transmuting philosophy extend thus far also?"
Faith turned the light of her face upon him as she answered, "I shouldn't be worthy of one of those knights or of this, Dr. Harrison, if I would change one for the other."
Reuben had risen to his feet as the doctor spoke, and as he quitted Faith's hand laid his own, with the slightest possible gesture, upon the left breast of his coat; which did not mean (as it would with Sam Stoutenburgh) that there was his heart—but that there were the letters! Then stepping back with a bow acknowledging Dr. Harrison's presence, Reuben went over to the window to speak to Mrs. Derrick. The doctor had seen him before that morning from the window, as with some ordered fish Reuben entered Judge Harrison's gate, and his dress was the same now as then,—how the different offices could be so different and so reconciled—or what this office was, were matters of study. But clearly Faith was as strong for her knight as her knight was for her.
"I didn't understand the transmuting philosophy in the former case," the doctor remarked.
"It is not that," said Faith with rising colour, for she had seen
Reuben's hand gesture. "It is just taking things as they are."
"That is a philosophy deeper than that of transmutation!" said the doctor. "I give it up. But what is the philosophy in this case?—" and he nodded slightly towards Reuben.
"If you ever know him, you'll know, Dr. Harrison," Faith said softly.
"Is he so trustworthy?" said the doctor thoughtfully looking at him; but then he gave his attention to Faith, and talked of herself and what she was to do for herself; until seeing no prospect of the doctor's being out of his way, Reuben was again passing them on his way out. The doctor arrested him by a slight but pleasant gesture.
"What are you doing now, Taylor?"
"Nothing new, sir,—a little for my father and a little for myself."
"I saw you doing something for your father, I think to-day. Doesn't that hinder your studies?"
"Mr. Linden used to say that one duty never really hinders another, sir."
"Pleasant doctrine!" said the doctor. "I am tempted to try it now. If you bestow a little time upon me, it will not perhaps interfere with your going to dinner afterwards. Does Mr. Linden continue to hold some of his supervision over you? Do you hear from him sometimes?"
"Yes sir—both,"—was Reuben's prompt answer.
"Then you have something to do with the post-office occasionally?"
"Yes sir."
"And know pretty well what everybody in Pattaquasset says of every other body,—don't you?"
"I don't need to go to the post office for that, sir," Reuben said quietly.
"No—I mean by virtue of another office—that which you exercise for your father. But it is true, isn't it?"
"Not quite, sir. Some people do not talk to me—and some I never stop to hear."
The doctor smiled a little, along with an acute look of approving intelligence.
"Well—do you happen to know what is said or thought of the people I was the means of putting into the post-office, half a year ago?"
"Not very well, sir. I haven't heard much said about them."
"As far as your knowledge goes, they seem to be doing their duty?"
"I make no complaint, sir."
Dr. Harrison glanced at Faith with a not pleased expression, and back again. "Does that mean that you have none to make, or that you will make none? I am asking, you surely must know, not officially nor judicially; but to gain private information which it is desirable I should have; and which I ask, and expect to receive, confidentially."
"Sir," Reuben said gravely, though with a manner perfectly respectful, "why do you ask me? The gentlemen of Pattaquasset should know more about their own post-office, than the poor fishers of Quapaw. There is a clannishness among poor people, sir,—if I had heard anything, I should not like to tell you."
The doctor got up and took his old position on the carpet rug, a very slight air of haughty displeasure mixing with his habitual indolent gracefulness.
"This is your knight, Miss Derrick! Apparently the proverb of 'friends' friends' does not hold good with him. When you are a little older, sir, you will know—if you grow correspondingly wiser—that the fishers of Quapaw or of any other point are precisely the people to know in such a matter what the gentlemen whom it more nearly concerns, cannot get at; and you have yourself given the reason."
Faith looked at Reuben with a little inquiring wonder. But he made no answer, either to her look or the doctor's words; indeed perhaps did not see the former, for his own eyes were cast down. He stood there, the fingers of both hands lightly interlaced, his face quiet to the last degree of immovability. The doctor's first words, to Faith, had brought a moment's flush to his cheeks, but it had passed with the moment; gravity and steadiness and truth were all that remained. The doctor recognized them all, but all as adverse or opposition forces.
"I will not detain you longer, sir!—I told you, Miss Faith," he said sitting down and changing his tone, "that I did not know how to cut up cake—still less how to administer it. I found this family—very poor—over at Neanticut, on some of my excursions;—and somewhat carelessly thought they could perform the duty of taking papers out of a bag, as well as wiser people. There is a girl too, the daughter, who seemed clever enough. But I have had reason to doubt my own wisdom in the proceeding, after all."
Faith heard the door close after Reuben with the first of the doctor's words to her. She listened to the rest with a divided interest. Her mind had gone off to her basket of bananas, and was besides occupied with a little lurking wonder at Reuben's impracticability. But with nothing strongly, the feeling of weakness and lassitude was so taking the upper hand of every other. The relaxing now began to tell of the great tension she had borne for a day or two; the relaxing was entire, for what the basket had begun Reuben's appearance had finished. Faith was sure he had a letter for her, and so sat and looked at the doctor like one whose senses were floating away in a dream—one of those pleasant dreams that they do not wish to break.
"You are faint!" said the doctor suddenly. "Mrs. Derrick, have you any wine in the house? I should like some here."
But Mrs. Derrick's first step (it seemed but that) was to Faith—taking her out of the easy-chair and putting her on the couch before any one had time to say ay or no. There she left her while she opened the closet and got out the wine; bringing it then to Faith and setting the doctor aside most unceremoniously. Faith had not quite reached the fainting point, though she was near it from mere inanition. She drank the wine, and smiled at them both like one who had a secret wine of her own that she was taking privately.
"What will she eat, Mrs. Derrick?" said the doctor in real concern.
"Tea and toast won't do!"
"I will take something presently," Faith said with another of those childlike satisfied looks. They made Dr. Harrison very unlike himself, always. He stood so now.
"Doctor," said Mrs. Derrick, in her odd, free, rather blunt and yet kindly way, "you are a very good doctor, I dare say, but you're not much of a nurse. Now I am—and I'll find her something to eat,—you needn't be uneasy."
He looked at her with one of the best smiles that ever came over his face; bright, free and kindly; then turned to Faith.
"What made your knight so cross with me?" he said as he bent over her to take her hand.
"I don't know—" said Faith. "I am sure he had some good reason."
"Reason to be cross!"—
"He didn't mean to be cross. You don't know Reuben Taylor."
The doctor was inclined to be of a different opinion, for his brows knit as soon as he had closed her door.
"Now mother!" said Faith half raising herself,—"please let me have my basket. I am going to try one of those queer things. That is what I want."
"Do you know what I want?" said Mrs. Derrick as she brought up the basket. "Just to have Dr. Harrison find Mr. Linden here some day!" Which severe sentence was so much softened down by the weight of the basket, that it sounded quite harmless.
Faith was too eager to get the cover off to pay present attention to this speech. There they were again! the red and yellow strange, beautiful, foreign-looking things which she was to eat; too handsome to disturb. But finally a red plump banana was cut from the stem, and Faith looked at it in her fingers, uncertain how to begin the attack. Looking back to the little empty space where it had been, Faith became "ware" of an end of blue ribband beneath said space. Down went the banana and down went Faith. The loop of ribband being pulled gently suggested that it was not able to contend with an unknown weight of bananas; but when Faith partly held these up, the ribband yielded to persuasion, and tugged after it into the daylight a tiny package—which being unwrapped revealed a tiny oval case; wherein lay, last of all, a delicate silver knife. Faith's face of overflowing delight it was good to see.
"O mother!—how just like him!—Mother!" exclaimed Faith,—"this is to eat those with!"
Could anything more be wanting to give bananas a flavour? They happened moreover to hit the fancy the doctor had been so anxious to suit. Faith liked her first one very much, and pronounced it very nearly the best of all fruits. But being persuaded to try one, Mrs. Derrick avowed that she could not eat it and wondered how Faith could; declaring that in her judgment if a thing was sweet at all, it ought to be sweeter.
If Dr. Harrison could have seen the atmosphere of peace and delight his knit brows had left behind them!
As soon as he was gone, Reuben brought up the letters. And with sunshine all round her, Faith read them and went to sleep, which she did with the little case that held her knife clasped in her hand. Sleep claimed her while fever took its turn and passed away for the day. Faith woke up towards evening, weak and weary in body, unable to make much lively shew of the "merry heart" which "doeth good like a medicine".
"My studies don't get on very fast at this rate, mother," she remarked as she sat in the easy-chair at her tea, unable to hold her head up.
"This has been a hard day," her mother said sadly as she looked at her. "Faith, I won't let Dr. Harrison pay any more such long visits! he tires you to death."
"It wasn't that. Mother—I think I'll have one of those things out of my basket—I wish Mr. Linden had told me what to call them."
Mrs. Derrick brought the basket and looked on intently.
"When is he coming, child?" she said.
Faith did not certainly know. Under the influence of a plantain and the silver knife she revived a little.
"Mother—what made you wish Dr. Harrison might meet Mr. Linden here?"
"It would save him a world of trouble," said Mrs. Derrick kindly. "And besides, child, I'm tired seeing him buzz round you, myself. Faith, Mr. Linden would say that he ought to be told you're sick."
"I can judge for him once in a while," Faith said with a little bit of a triumphing smile.
"Well—" said her mother,—"you'll see what he'll say. I guess he'd rather you'd judge for him about something else."
From that time letters went and came through the Patchaug post-office.