But the words were spoken with difficulty, and Faith did not try any more.
They stood there till the twilight began to fall, and then turned their faces homewards with a strange mingling of joy and sorrow in their hearts. How many times Mr. Linden went there afterwards Faith did not know—she could only guess.
There was no school for the next two days. Tuesday was white with snow,—not falling thick upon the ground, but in fine light flakes, and few people cared to be out. Mr. Linden had been, early in the morning,—since dinner he had been in his room; and now as it drew towards three o'clock, he came down and left the house, taking the road towards that of Jonathan Fax. Other dark figures now appeared from time to time, bending their steps in the same direction,—some sturdy farmer in his fearnought coat, or two of the school-boys with their arms round each other. Then this ceased, and the soft falling snow alone was in the field.
The afternoon wore on, and the sun was towards the setting, when a faint reddish tinge began to flush along the western horizon, and the snowflakes grew thinner. Then, just as the first sunbeams shot through their cloudy prison, making the snow a mere white veil to their splendour, the little carriage of Mr. Somers came slowly down the road, and in it Mr. Somers himself. A half dozen of the neighbouring farmers followed. Then the little coffin of Johnny Fax, borne by Reuben Taylor and Sam Stoutenburgh and Phil Davids and Joe Deacon, each cap and left arm bound with crape; followed by Johnny's two little classmates—Charles Twelfth and Robbie Waters. Then the chief mourners—Jonathan Fax and Mr. Linden, arm in arm, and Mr. Linden wearing the crape badge. After them the whole school, two and two. The flickering snowflakes fell softly on the little pall, but through them the sunbeams shot joyously, and said that the child had gone—
"Through a dark stormy night,
To a calm land of light!"—
"Meet again? Yes, we shall meet again,
Though now we part in pain!
His people all
Together Christ shall call,
Hallelujah!"
"Child," said Mrs. Derrick in a choked voice, and wiping her eyes, when the last one had long passed out of view, "it's good to see him and Jonathan Fax walking together! anyway. I guess Jonathan 'll never say a word against him again. Faith, he's beautiful!"
CHAPTER XIII.
It seemed to Faith as if the little shadow which February had brought and left did not pass away—or rather, as if it had stretched on till it met another; though whence that came, from what possible cloud, she could not see. She was not the cloud—that she knew and felt: if such care and tenderness and attention as she had had all winter could be increased, then were they now,—every spare moment was given to her, all sorts of things were undertaken to give her pleasure, and that she was Mr. Linden's sunbeam was never more clear. Yet to her fancy that shadow went out and came in with him—lived even in her presence,—nay, as if she had been a real sunbeam, grew deeper there. And yet not that,—what was it? The slight change of voice or face in the very midst of some bright talk, the eyes that followed her about the room or studied her face while she studied her lesson—she felt if she did not see them,—even the increased unwillingness to have her out of his sight,—what did they all mean? So constant, yet so intangible,—so going hand in hand with all the clear, bright activity that had ever been part of Mr. Linden's doings; while the pleasure of nothing seemed to be checked, and yet a little pain mingled with all,—Faith felt puzzled and grieved by turns. She bore it for a while, in wondering and sorrowful silence, till she began to be afraid of the shadow's spreading to her own face. Nay, she felt it there sometimes. Faith couldn't stand it any longer.
He had come in rather late one evening. It was a bleak evening in March, but the fire—never more wanted—burned splendidly and lit up the sitting-room in style. Before it, in the easy-chair, Mr. Linden sat meditating. He might be tired—but Faith fancied she saw the shadow. She came up behind his chair, put both hands on one of his shoulders and leaned down.