Faith said nothing. She was trying to get over the sudden jar of those words. They had not told her anything she did not believe—she thought no other; but they gave her nevertheless a keen stir of pain—a revival of the pain she had quieted at Neanticut; and somehow this was worse than that. Could Reuben Taylor talk about her so?—could Reuben Taylor have any authority for doing it? But that question would not stand answering. Faith's red oak leaves were a little AEgis to her then, a tangible precious representative of all the answer that question would not wait for. No sting of pain could enter that way. But the pain was bad enough; and under the favouring shadowy light of the lamps she strove and strove to quiet it; while the doctor went on talking.
"Indeed,"—said he—going on with the subject of Phil's speech,—"I am obliged to him for his information—which was of course incorrect. But I am very glad to hear it nevertheless. Other people's sweethearts, you know, are 'tabooed'—sacred ground—not to be approached without danger to all concerned. But now—if you will allow me, I think I shall claim you for mine."
Whatever look the words may have, they did not sound rude. They were said with a careless half-amused, half gentle manner, which might leave his hearer in doubt whether the chief purpose of them were not to fall pleasantly on her ear and drive away any disagreeable remainders of Phil's insolence. But Faith scarce heard him. She was struggling with that unbidden pain, and trying with all the simplicity and truth of her nature and with the stronger help she had learned to seek, to fight it down. She had never thought such an utterly vain thought as that suggested in Phil's words; in her humility and modesty she chid herself that it should have come into her head even when other people's words had forced it there. Her humility was very humble now. And in it she quietly took up with the good she had, of which her roses were even then breathing sweet reminders in her face; putting from her all thought of good that did not belong to her and she could not deserve.
The uncertain light favoured her well, or Dr. Harrison would have seen too much of her face-play. They had been going on and on, and the doctor had been as usual talking, and she had managed now and then to seem to give an answer—she never remembered to what; and her part in the conversation all along had been so modestly small that the doctor hardly knew when or whether she had ceased to comprehend him. But they emerged at last upon the lawn, where Faith was taken possession of and marched off by the old Judge, nothing loth.
The doctor casting about for another fish to throw his line at, spied Reuben Taylor, standing alone, and eying as Mr. Linden and Faith had done the gay scene about the house, now gay with the many-coloured lamps.
"Well, my man," said the doctor easily accosting him as he stood there, "you did very well this afternoon. How long have you been at the school?"
Reuben made answer with his usual respectful courtesy.
"Are you a friend of Miss Derrick's?"
"I think Miss Derrick is my friend, sir," said Reuben with a little flush.
"Is she?" said the doctor. "Well don't you think that comes to the same thing?"