CHAPTER XXXIV.
Faith put her roses in water and listened half a minute to their strange silent messages. But after that she did a great deal of thinking. If all went well, and Mr. Linden got home safe from abroad,—and this year were all she had to take care for, it was a very little matter to keep the year afloat, and very little matter, in her estimation, whatever she might have to do for the purpose. But those "ifs" no mortal could answer for. Faith did not look much at that truth, but she acted upon it; prayed over her thoughts and brought her plans into shape in very humble consciousness of it. And at the early breakfast the next morning she began to unfold them; which as Mrs. Derrick did not like them, led on to a long talk; but Faith as usual had her way.
After some preliminary arrangements, and late in the day, she set off upon a long walk to Miss Bezac's. The slant beams of the summer sun were again upon the trim little house as Faith came up towards it. Things were changed since she was there before! changed a good deal from the gay, joyous playtime of that visit. Mr. Linden in Europe, and she—"It is very well," thought Faith; "it might not have been good for me to have too much of such a time. Next year"—
Would if it brought joy, bring also an entering upon real life-work. Faith knew it; she had realized long before with a thought of pain, that this summons to Europe had perhaps cut short her last time of absolute holiday pleasure. Mr. Linden could hardly now be more than a few days in Pattaquasset before "next year" should come—and Faith did not stop to look at that; she never thought of it three minutes together. But life-work looked to her lovely;—what did not? Even the little pathway to Miss Bezac's door was pleasant. She was secretly glad of that other visit now, which had made this one so easy; though yet a sympathetic blush started as she went in.
"Why Faith!" said Miss Bezac,—"you're the very person I was thinking of, and the very one I wanted to see! though I always do want to see you, for that matter, and don't often get what I want. Then I don't generally want much. But what a beautiful visit we had last time! Do you know I've been conjuring ever since how your dress should be made? What'll it be, to begin with?—I always do like to begin with that—and it's bothered me a good deal—not knowing it, I mean. I couldn't arrange so well about the making. Because making white satin's one thing, and muslin's another,—and lace is different from 'em both—and indeed from most other things except spider's webs." All which pleasant and composing sentiments were uttered while Miss Bezac was clearing a chair for Faith, and putting her in it, and laying her various pieces of work together.
"I shouldn't be the least bit of help to you," said Faith who couldn't help laughing. "Can't it wait?"
"Why it'll have to," said Miss Bezac; "he said it must,—but that's no reason I should. I always like a reason for everything. It took me an age and a quarter to find out why Miss Essie De Staff always will wear aprons. She wears 'em out, too, in more ways than one, but that's good for me. Only there's so many ways of making them that I get in a puzzle. Now this one, Faith—would you work it with red flowers or green?—I said black, but she will have colours. You've got a good colour to-day—O don't you want some bread and milk?" said Miss Bezac, dropping the apron.
"No, thank you!" said Faith laughing again,—"not to-day. I should work that with green, Miss Bezac."
"But I'm afraid green won't do, with black above and black below," said Miss Bezac. "Two sides to things you know, Faith,—aprons and all the rest. I'd a great mind to work it with both, and then she couldn't say she'd rather have had 'tother. What things I have worked in my day!—but my day's twilight now, and my eyes find it out."
"Do you have more to do than you can manage, generally?" said Faith.
"Why no, child, because I never take any more,—that's the way not to have things—troubles or aprons. I could have my hands full of both, but what's the use?—when one hasn't eyes—for sewing or crying. Mrs. Stoutenburgh comes, and Mrs. Somers, and Miss Essie—and the landlord, and sometimes I let 'em leave me a job, and sometimes I don't,—send 'em, dresses, and all, off to Quilipeak."
"Then I'll tell you what you shall give me to-day—instead of bread and milk;—some of the work that you would send off. Don't you remember," said Faith, smiling quietly at Miss Bezac's eyes,—"you once promised to teach me to embroider waistcoats?"
"Why yes!" said Miss Bezac—"and so I will. But, my dear, are you sure he would wear it?—and after all, isn't it likely he'll get everything of that sort he wants, in Paris? And then the size!—who's to tell what that should be? To be sure you could do the fronts, and have them made up afterwards—and of course he would wear anything you made.—I'll go right off and get my patterns."
Faith's confusion was startled. It was Miss Bezac's turn to look at her. She caught hold of the seamstress and brought her back to listening at least.
"Stop!—Miss Bezac!—you don't understand me. I want work!—I want work. I am not talking of making anything for anybody!—" Faith's eyes were truthful now, if ever they were.
"Well then—how can you work, if you won't make anything for anybody? Want work, Faith?—you don't mean to say all that story about Sarn Deacon's true? Do you know," said Miss Bezac, dropping into a chair and folding her hands, "when I heard that man had gone out of town, I said to myself, it would be a mercy if he never came back!"—which was the severest censure Miss Bezac ever passed upon anybody. "I really did," she went on,—"and now he's come, and I s'pose I've got to say that's a mercy too—and this,—though I wouldn't believe it last night."
"Then you have heard it?"
"My ears did, and they're pretty good ears too,—though I do get out of patience with them now and then."
"It's true," said Faith, "and it's nothing very dreadful. Mother and I have nothing to live upon but what I can make by butter; so I thought I would learn and take work of you, if you had it for me. I could soon understand it; and then you can let people bring you as much as they will—what you cannot do, I will do. I could think of nothing so pleasant;—no way to make money, I mean."
For a minute Miss Bezac sat quite still,—then she roused up.
"Nothing to live upon but butter!"—she said,—"well that's not much,—at least if there's ever so much of it you want something else. And what you want you must have—if you can get it. And I can get you plenty of work—and it's a good thing to understand this sort of work too, for he might carry you off to some random place where they wear calico just as they can put it on—and that wouldn't suit you, nor him neither. I don't believe this'll suit him though—and it don't me, not a bit. I'm as proud as a Lucifer match for anybody I love. But I'll make you proud of your work in no time. What'll you do first? embroider or stitch or cut out or baste or fit?"
"What you please—what you think best. But Miss Bezac, what are you 'proud' about?"
"O I've my ways and means, like other folks," said Miss Bezac. "And you can do something more striking than aprons for people that don't need 'em. But I'm not going to give you this apron, Faith—I sha'n't have her wearing your work all round town, and none the wiser. See—this is nice and light and pretty—like the baby it's for,—you like green, don't you? and so will your eyes."
"I'd as lieve have Miss Essie wear my work as eat my butter," said Faith. "But," she added more gravely,—"I think that what God gives me to do, I ought to be proud to do,—and I am sure I am willing. He knows best."
"Yes, yes, my dear—I believe that,—and so I do most things you say," answered Miss Bezac, bringing forth from the closet a little roll of green calico. "Now do you like this?—because if you don't, say so."
"I'll take this," said Faith, "and the next time I'll take the apron. I must do just as much as I can, Miss Bezac; and you must let me. Would you rather have the apron done first? I want Miss Essie's apron, Miss Bezac!"
"Well you can't have it," said Miss Bezac,—"and what you can't, you can't—all the world over. Begin slow and go on fast—that's the best way. And I'll take the best care of you!—lay you up in lavender,—like my work when it's done and isn't gone home."
So laughingly they parted, and Faith went home with her little bundle of work, well contented.
A very few days had seen the household retrenchments made. Cindy was gone, and Mr. Skip was only waiting for a "boy" to come. Mother and daughter drew their various tools and conveniences into one room and the kitchen, down stairs, to have the less to take care of; abandoning the old eating-room except as a passage-way to the kitchen; and taking their meals, for greater convenience, in the latter apartment.
Faith did not shut up her books without some great twinges of pain; but she said not one word on the matter. She bestowed on her stitching and on her housework and on her butter the diligent zeal which used to go into French rules and philosophy. But Mrs. Stoutenburgh had reckoned without her host, for there was a great deal more of the butter than she could possibly dispose of; and Judge Harrison's family and Miss De Staff's became joint consumers and paid the highest price for it, that Faith would take. But this is running ahead of the story.
Some days after Faith's appeal to Mr. Stoutenburgh had passed, before the Squire presented himself to report progress. He found both the ladies at work in the sitting-room, looking very much as usual, except that there was a certain not inelegant disposition of various pieces of muslin and silk and ribbon about the room which carried the appearance of business.
"What rent will Mr. Deacon have, Mr. Stoutenburgh?" said Faith looking up from her needle.
"My dear, he'll have what he can get," said the Squire, "but what that'll be, Miss Faith, he and I haven't just made up our minds."
"How much ought it to be, sir, do you think?"
"Nothing at all," said the Squire,—"not a cent."
"Do you think not, sir?" said Faith doubtfully.
"Not a cent!" the Squire repeated,—"and I told him so, and said he might throw the barn into the bargain and not hurt himself."
"Will he agree to that, Mr. Stoutenburgh?—I mean about the house. We can pay for it."
"My dear, I hope to make him agree to that, and more too. So just let the hay stand, and the house, and the barn, and everything else for the present. I'll tell you time enough—if quarter day must come. And by the way, talking of quarters, there's one of a lamb we killed yesterday,—I told Tim to leave it in the kitchen. How does your ice hold out?"
"Do you want some, sir?" said Faith, in whose eyes there shone a soft light the Squire could be at no loss to read.
"No my dear, I don't—though Mrs. Stoutenburgh does tell me sometimes to keep cool. But I thought maybe you did. Do you know, Miss Essie De Staff never sees me now if she can help it—what do you suppose is the reason?"
"I don't think there can be any, sir."
"Must be!" said the Squire,—"always is a reason for every fact. You know what friends we used to be,—it was always, 'Hush, Mr. Stoutenburgh!' or, 'How do you know anything about it?' Ah, he's a splendid fellow!—My dear, I don't wish to ask any impertinent questions, but when you do hear that he's safe across, just let me know—will you?" And the Squire bowed himself off without waiting for an answer.