It was very, very early this time, in the summer twilight dawn, when the kildeers were in their full burst of matins, and all the other birds coming in one by one. Faith did not say many words, but she was as quiet as the hour. Then she went to the breakfast-room to arrange and hasten matters there; and Mr. Linden followed, and stood watching her—she did not know how,—she only knew how he talked.
But he took her into the sitting-room the moment breakfast was over and stood by her, giving her the mute caresses he could not put in words. And for words there was little time. The morning light came up and up into the sky, the candles burned dim, as they stood there; and then he bade her "'be perfect, be of good comfort,'" and so went away.
CHAPTER XVII.
When Mr. Linden was out of sight from the porch, Faith went to the deserted room.
It was in the latter end of summer. The windows were open, and the summer wind blowing the muslin curtains flutteringly in. The maple shaded Faith's old reading window, the leaves not changing yet; one cupboard door a little open, shewed the treasures of books within. The chintz couch stood empty, so it always stood when Faith saw it, except only in those days of Mr. Linden's confinement with his wound. But now her mind leaped back to that time; and the couch and the table and the books, the very windows and fireplace, looked deserted. The red maple leaves floating in—the dancing flames in the chimney—her lessons by the side of that couch—her first exercise, which she had been sent to do at that table;—all that and everything beside seemed to make its passage through Faith's mind in tumultuous procession. She sat down on the couch and leaned her head on the back of it; but only a few nervous tears came, and oppressed sobbing breaths took the place of them. For a little while then Faith fell on her knees, and if she could not speak connectedly, nor think connectedly, she yet poured out her heart in the only safe channel; and grew quiet and self-possessed. After an hour she left the couch and turned to go down and join her mother.
Passing the table on her way out, with a glance which had been called off by other things as she came in, Faith's eye was caught and stayed. There was no exercise left there for her, but the very gold pen with which she had written that first one—and which she had used so many times since, lay there; and by the pen a letter. The blood rushed to Faith's heart as if Mr. Linden had come back again, or rather as if he had not taken quite all of himself away. In a flood of gladness and thankfulness and sorrow, Faith took up the letter and standing there by the table read it.
MY OWN LITTLE PRECIOUS MIGNONETTE,
I have a love for this sheet of paper, because it will be in your hands when I cannot touch them nor see them,—how often they have ministered to me just where I am writing this! just where you will find it. I know you will find it, Faith—I know where you will go as soon as I am out of sight,—but dear child, do not let any sight or association in this room make you anything but glad: they are all very dear to me. That first day when you came in here to see me—and all the days that followed,—and all the sweet knowledge I gained of my little Mignonette, while she was learning other things. Faith, I can even forgive Dr. Harrison his questions that day, for the delight it was to me to shield you. Dear child, you must let me do that now whenever I can,—it is one of the griefs of this separation that I cannot do it all the time.
I must go back to our Bible verses!—Do you remember that first 'ladder' we went up together? 'The Lord God is a sun and a shield; the Lord will give grace and glory.'—In that sunlight I shall think of you as abiding,—I will remember that you are covered by that shield. I know that the Lord will keep all that I have committed to him!
Now darling, if I could leave you 'messages,' I would; but they must wait till I come and deliver them myself. Take, in the mean while, all possible love and trust; and all comfort from the cause of my absence, from our mutual work, from my expected coming home now and then—from the diamonds on your finger and what they betoken! The diamonds stay with you, Faith, but their light goes with me.