"It will amuse me anyway," said Faith, "if,"—and what a rose colour came up into her face—"if, Endy, you are satisfied."
Mr. Linden folded his arms and looked at her. "If you say anything against my wife, Mrs. Linden, her husband will not like it—neither will yours."
"That is all I care about, not pleasing those two gentlemen," said
Faith, laughing.
"Is that all? I shall report your mind at rest. Come, it is time this little exotic should appear." Faith thought as she went with him, that she was anything but an exotic; she did not speak her thoughts.
There was a large dinner company gathered and gathering; and the "pleasure" Mr. Linden had spoken of—introducing his wife—was one enjoyed, by him or somebody, a great many times in the course of the evening. This was something very unlike Pattaquasset or anything to be found there; only in Judge Harrison's house little glimpses of this sort of society might be had; and these people seemed to Faith rather in the sphere of Dr. Harrison than of his father and sister. People who had rubbed off every particle of native simplicity that ever belonged to them, and who, if they were simple at all—as some of them were—had a different kind of simplicity, made after a most exquisite and refined worldly fashion. How it was made or worn, Faith could not tell; she had an instinctive feeling of the difference. If she had set on foot a comparison, she would soon have come to the conclusion that "Mr. Linden's wife" was of another pattern altogether. But Faith never thought of doing that. Her words were so true that she had spoken, she cared so singly to satisfy one person there, and had such an humble confidence of doing it, that other people gave her little concern. She had little need, for no word or glance fell upon Faith that did not show the eye or the speaker won or attracted. The words and glances were very many, but Faith never found out or suspected that it was to see her all this party of grand people had been gathered together. She thought they were curious about "Mr. Linden's wife;" and though their curiosity made her shy, and her sense of responsibility gave an exquisite tenderness to her manner, both effects only set a grace upon her usual free simplicity. That was not disturbed, though a good deal of the time Faith was far from Mr. Linden's kelp or protection. A stranger took her in to dinner, and among strangers she made her way most of the evening. But though she was shy, Faith was afraid never but of one person, nor much of him.
For him—among old acquaintances, beset with all manner of inquiries and congratulations—he yet heard her voice whenever it was possible, and knew by sight as well as hearing all the admiration she called forth. He might have said as at Kildeer river, that he found "a great deal of Mignonette." What he did tell her, when the evening was over, was that people were at a loss how to name the new exotic.
"How to name me, Endecott?"—"As an exotic."
"I don't wonder!" said Faith with her merry little laugh. "Don't philosophers sometimes get puzzled in that way, Endecott?"—"Scientific philosophers content themselves with the hardest names they can find, but in this case such will not suit. Though Dr. Campan may write you in his books as 'Lindenethia Pattaquassetensis—exotic, very rare. The flower is a double star—colour wonderful.'"
Faith stopped to laugh.
"What a blunder he will make if he does!" she said. "It will show, as
Mr. Simlins says—that he don't understand common vegetables."