It was curious, how the power of character, the power of influence, had borne down passion and jealousy—even smothered mortification and pride—and made the man of the world speak truth. Mr. Linden rose—yet did not immediately begin the walk; for laying one hand on the doctor's shoulder with a gesture that spoke both regard and sorrow and entreaty, he stood silently looking off at the colours in the west.
"Dr. Harrison," he said, "I well believe that your mother and mine are dear friends in heaven—God grant that we may be, too!"
Then they both turned, and together began their walk. It lasted till they were summoned to tea; and from that time till they got in there was no more avoidance of his old friend by the doctor. His manner was changed; if he did not find enjoyment in Mr. Linden's society he found somewhat else which had value for him. There was not again a shade of dislike or of repulsion; and when they parted on landing, though it might be that there lay in Dr. Harrison's secret heart a hope that he might never see Mr. Linden again, there lay with it also, as surely, a secret regret.
Now all that Faith knew of this for a long time, was from a newspaper; where—among a crowd of unimportant passengers in the Vulcan's list—she read the names of Dr. Harrison and J. E. Linden.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
Faith and her mother sat alone at breakfast. About a fortnight of grave quiet had followed after the joyous month that went before, with little enlivening, few interruptions. Without, the season had bloomed into greater luxuriance,—within, the flowers now rarely came; and Faith's flowerless dress and belt and hair, said of themselves that Mr. Linden was away. Roses indeed peeped through the windows, and thrust their heads between the blinds, but no one invited them in.
Not so peremptorily as the roses—and yet with more assurance of welcome—Reuben Taylor knocked at the door during breakfast time; scattering the abstract musings that floated about the coffee-pot and mingled with its vapoury cloud.
"Sit down, Reuben," said Faith jumping up;—"there's a place for you,—and I'll give you a plate." To which Reuben only replied, "A letter, Miss Faith!"—and putting it in her hands went off with quick steps. On the back of it was written, up in one corner—"Flung on board the Polar Bear, by a strong hand, from steamship Vulcan, half way across."
There was no need of flowers now truly in the house, for Faith stood by the table transformed into a rose of summer joy.
"Mother!" she exclaimed,—"It's from sea—half way across."—