"Not when they are carried!"
Faith's laugh rolled down the rocks; and then as they reached the top she grew timid and quiet, a mood which came over her whenever she remembered her new position and name in the world.
There is no room to tell all the seaside doings of those days; the surf bathing, and fishing beyond the surf. A week passed there, or rather more; then, Mr. Linden having business in New York, the "wooden horse" went that way. We cannot follow all its travels. But we must stay with it a day in the city.
CHAPTER XLV.
Everybody who has travelled on the great route from Pattaquasset to New York, knows that the scenery is not striking. Pleasant it is, and fresh, in fresh seasons of the year; cornfields and hayfields and sparkling little rivers always make up a fair prospect: but, until the towers of Quilipeak rise upon the sight, with their leafy setting of green, there is nothing to draw much notice. And less, afterwards. The train flies on, past numberless stopping-posts, over bridges, through towns; regaling its passengers with hay, salt water, bony fish, and (in the season) dust; until the matchless flats, marshes, pools, sights, and smells crowd thick about Haarlem river, and lure the traveller on through the sweet suburbs of New York. Hither, business demanded that the "wooden horse" should come for a day or two; here they were to be received by one of the many old friends who were claiming, all over the country, a visit from Mr. Linden and his bride. Through the dark tunnel the train puffed on, the passengers winking and breathing beneath the air-holes, dark and smothered where air-holes were not; then the cars ran out into the sunlight, and, in a minute more, two of the passengers were transferred to the easy rolling coach which was in waiting for them, and drove away. Past warm brick fronts and pavements; past radish boys and raspberry girls; past oranges, pineapples, vegetables, in every degree of freshness except fresh. Of all which, even the vegetables, Faith's eyes took most curious and intent notice—for one minute; then the Avenue and fruit stalls were left behind; the carriage had turned a corner, and, in another minute or two, drew up before an imposing front in Madison Square. And there, at the very steps, was a little raspberry girl. How Faith looked at her!
"Raspberries to-day, ma'am?" said the child, encouraged by the look, or the sweet face.—"No, dear, I don't want any."
Faith went gravely up the steps. It was her first introduction to New York. But Mr. Linden's face wore a smile. There was no time to remark on it, for the door opened and a second introduction awaited her. An introduction to another part of the world. A magnificent house, every square yard of which, perhaps, taken with its furniture and adornments, had cost as much as the whole of Faith's old home. A palace of luxury, where no want of any kind, material, could be known or fancied. In this house they were welcomed with a great welcome by a stately lady, Mr. Linden's old friend and his mother's; and by her family of sons and daughters, who were in another style, and whose vivacious kindness seemed disposed to take up Faith bodily and carry her off. It was a novel scene for Faith, and she was amused. Amused too with the overpowering curiosity which took the guise, or the veil, of so much kindness, and beset her, because—Mr. Linden had married her. Yet Faith did not see the hundredth part of their curiosity. Mr. Linden, whose eyes were more open, was proportionably amused, both with that and with Faith's simplicity, which half gratified and at least half baffled it. The young ladies at last took Faith up to her room; and, after lavishing all sorts of attentions upon her, and making various vain efforts to understand her, gave her the information that a good deal of company was expected to dinner, and left her, baffled and attracted almost in an equal degree.
They did not seem to have as puzzling an effect on Faith; for when Mr. Linden came out of his own dressing-room, he found her ready, and looking as fresh and cool as if she had just come up from the sands at Bankhead. She was dressed in a light muslin, but no more elaborately than she used to be at Pattaquasset; only that this time her ruffles were laces. She was a little more dainty for the dinner-party. Mr. Linden came with a knot of glowing geraniums—"Jewess," and "Perfection," and "Queen of the Fairies;" which, bound together as they were with white ribband, he first laid against her dress to try the effect (well deserving his smile of comment) then put in her hand to make fast. They set off all the quiet elegance of her figure after their own style, which was not quiet.
"Now, Mignonette," he said, "I suppose you know that I am to have the pleasure of introducing my wife to sundry people?"—"I heard they were coming," said Faith.
"If you will only stand by and look on, it will amuse you very much."