"Only that you never assert your claims," he said, bringing the hands together, "I should suppose it must be the very person whom I want."
Her head stooped lower, till the soft cheek and hair lay against his.
But she only whispered, "Endy, it is some one up the mountain."
"Is it?" he said, rousing up; but only turning his lips to her cheek.
"Well, people up the mountain must have what they want. Is it now,
Faith?"
"Endy—they say it's a dying man."
"Where? Is the messenger here?"—"I couldn't make him wait—he thought he had business somewhere else. The place is—I dare say Malthus knows—up the mountain, beyond the bridge—you are to go over the bridge and on till you come to the house. And he says the bridge is slippery." Only a fine ear could detect the little change in Faith's voice. But she knew it was noticed, from the smile on the lips that kissed her, two or three times. Then Mr. Linden disengaged himself and rose up.
"Faith," he said, "you are to wait tea for me, and in the mean time you must take one of Miss Bezac's cups of comfort and lie down on the sofa and go to sleep. Your eyes will be just as good guiding stars sleeping as waking."
She said not another word, but watched him go off and out into the half dark wilderness. The moon shone bright indeed, but only touched the tops of many a woody outline, and many a steep mountain side rose up and defied her. Faith smelled the wild sweet air, looked up and down at the gleams of light and bands of shadow; and then came back to the study where the fire blazed, and sat down on the floor in front of it; gazing into the red coals, and following in fancy Mr. Linden on his walk and errand. It took him away from her, and so many such an errand would, often; but to speak comfort to the dying and tell the truth to the ignorant.—Faith gloried in it. He was an ambassador of Christ; and not to have him by her side would Faith keep him from his work. That he might do his work well—that he might be blessed in it, both to others and himself, her very heart almost fused itself in prayer. So thinking, while every alternate thought was a petition for him, weariness and rest together at last put her to sleep; and she slept a dreamless sweet sleep with her head on Mr. Linden's chair.
She awoke before he got back, though the evening was long set in. Feeling refreshed, Faith thought herself at liberty to reverse orders and went to the forbidden closet again, and to further conjurations with Best. They could not have taken long; for when, some hour later, Mr. Linden was nearing the house on his return, he had a pretty view of her, standing all dressed before the fire in his study. The glow shone all over her—he could see her well, and her fresh neatness. He could see more. Faith Linden to-night was not just the Faith Derrick of old time; nor even of six months ago. The old foundations of character were all there, intact; but upon them sat a nameless grace, not simply of cultivation, nor of matured intelligence, nor even of happiness. A certain quiet elegance, a certain airy dignity—which had belonged to her only since she had been Mr. Linden's wife. She stood there, waiting now for him to come home.
The firelight caught behind her the gleam of silver, whether Mr. Linden could see it or not, where the little chocolatière stood brilliant. Faith had found that in her last rummaging. Miss Bezac's new trencher and bread knife were on the table too, with a loaf of Mrs. Olyphant's bread; and the fireshine gleamed on Mr. Alcott's saltcellars, and on the Mignonette tea service. Faith evidently had pleased her fancy. But now her fancy had forgotten it or left it in the background; and for what, was well shown by her spring as she caught the sound of the coming step. She met Mr. Linden at the door, gladness in every line and movement, and yet the same grace over all her action now, that a minute before was in all her repose. She said nothing at all.
"Watching for me, my dear child!" he said. "Faith, you have been on my heart all these hours."