Читать книгу Say and Seal, Volume II - Warner Susan, Anna Bartlett Warner - Страница 3

It was pretty late when Jerry and his little sleigh-load got clear of the gates. The stars were as bright as ever, and now they had the help of the old moon; which was pouring her clear radiance over the snow and sending long shadows from trees and fences. The fresh air was pleasant too. Faith felt it, and wondered that starlight and snow and sleigh-bells were such a different thing from what they were a few hours before. She chid herself, she was vexed at herself, and humbled exceedingly. She endeavoured to get back on the simple abstract ground she had held in her own thoughts until within a day or two; she was deeply ashamed that her head should have allowed even a flutter of imagination from Mr. Stoutenburgh's words, which now it appeared might bear a quite contrary sense to that which she had given them. What was she, to have anything to do with them? Faith humbly said, nothing. And yet,—she could not help that either,—the image of the possibility of what Dr. Harrison had suggested, raised a pain that Faith could not look at. She sat still and motionless, and heard the sleigh-bells without knowing to what tune they jingled.

It was a quick tune, at all events,—for the first ten or fifteen minutes Jerry dashed along to his heart's content, and his driver even urged him on,—then with other sleighs left far behind and a hill before him, Jerry brought the tune to a staccato, and Mr. Linden spoke. But the words were not very relevant to either stars or sleigh-bells.

"Miss Faith, I thought you knew me better."

They startled her, for she was a minute or two without answering; then came a gentle, and also rather frightened,

"Why?—why do you say that, Mr. Linden?"

"Do you think you know me?" he said, turning towards her with a little bit of a smile, though the voice was grave. "Do you think you have any idea how much I care about you?"

"I think you do," she said. "I am sure you do—very much!"

"Do you know how much?"—and the smile was full then, and followed by a moment's silence. "I shall not try to tell you, Miss Faith; I could not if I would—but there is something on the other side of the question which I want you to tell me."

And Jerry walked slowly up the snowy hill, and the slight tinkle of his bells was as silvery as the starlight of Orion overhead.

Faith looked at her questioner and then off again, while a rich colour was slowly mantling in her cheeks. But the silence was breathless. Jerry's bells only announced it. And having by that time reached the top of the hill he chose—and was permitted—to set off at his former pace; flinging off the snow right and left, and tossing his mane on the cool night air. Down that hill, and up the next, and down that—and along a level bit of road to the foot of another,—then slowly.

"Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden when they were half way up, "do you never mean to speak to me again?"

A very low-breathed although audible "yes."

"Is that all you mean to say?—I shall take it very comprehensively."

She was willing probably that he should take it any way that he pleased; but to add was as much beyond Faith's power at the moment as to subtract from her one word. She did not even look.

"Do you know what this silence is promising?" Mr. Linden said in the same tone, and bending down by her. "I do—and yet I want to hear you speak once more. If there is any reason why I should try not to love you better than all the rest of the world, you must tell me now."

One other quick, inquiring, astonished glance her eyes gave into his face; and then, as usual, his wish to have her speak made her speak, through all the intense difficulty. There was a minute's further hesitation, and then the words, very low, very simple, and trembling,

"Do—if you can."

"Do try?" he said in a lower and graver tone.

"Try?"—she said; then with a change of voice and in very much confusion,—"O no, Mr. Linden!"

"I should not succeed"—was all his answer, nor was there time for much more; for having now turned into the main street where other homeward-bound sleighs were flying along, there was nothing to do but fly along with the rest; and a very few minutes brought them home.

Mr. Skip was probably reposing in parts unknown, for there was no sign of him at his post; and when Faith had been silently taken out of the sleigh and into the hall, Mr. Linden went back to Jerry—telling her she must take good care of herself for five minutes.

Bewilderedly, and trembling yet, Faith turned into the sitting-room. It was warm and bright, Mrs. Derrick having only lately left it; and taking off hood and cloak in a sort of mechanical way, with fingers that did not feel the strings, she sat down in the easy chair and laid her head on the arm of it; as very a child as she had been on the night of that terrible walk;—wondering to herself if this were Christmas day—if she were Faith Derrick—and if anything were anything!—but with a wonder of such growing happiness as made it more and more difficult for her to raise her head up. She dreaded—with an odd kind of dread which contradicted itself—to hear Mr. Linden come in; and in the abstract, she would have liked very much to jump up and run away; but that little intimation was quite enough to hold her fast. She sat still drawing quick little breaths. The loud voice of the clock near by, striking its twelve strokes, was not half so distinct to her as that light step in the hall which came so swiftly and quick to her side.

"What is the problem now, pretty child?" Mr. Linden said, laying both hands upon hers,—"it is too late for study to-night. You must wait till to-morrow and have my help."

She rose up at that, however gladly she would have hidden the face her rising revealed; but yet with no awkwardness she stood before him, rosily grave and shy, and with downcast eyelids that could by no means lift themselves up to shew what was beneath; a fair combination of the child's character and the woman's nature in one; both spoken fairly and fully. Mr. Linden watched her for a minute, softly passing his hand over that fair brow; then drew her closer.

"I suppose I may claim Mr. Stoutenburgh's privilege now," he said. But it was more than that he took. And then with one hand still held fast, Faith was put back in her chair and wheeled up to the fire "to get warm," and Mr. Linden sat down by her side.

Did he really think she needed it, when she was rosy to her fingers' ends? But what could she do, but be very still and very happy Even as a flower whose head is heavy with dew,—never more fragrant than then, yet with the weight of its sweet burden it bends a little;—like that was the droop of Faith's head at this minute. Whither had the whirl of this evening whirled her? Faith did not know. She felt as if, to some harbour of rest, broad and safe; the very one where from its fitness it seemed she ought to be. But shyly and confusedly, she felt it much as a man feels the ground, who is near taken off it by a hurricane. Yet she felt it, for her head drooped more and more.

"Faith," Mr. Linden said, half smiling, half seriously, "what has made you so sober all this evening—so much afraid of me?"

The quick answer of the eye stayed not a minute; the blush was more abiding.

"You don't want me to tell you that!"—she said in soft pleading.

"Do you know now who I think has—

'A sweet attractive kind of grace'?"

"O don't, please, speak so, Mr. Linden!" she said bowing her face in her hands,—"it don't belong to me."—And pressing her hands closer, she added, "You have made me all I am—that is anything."

"There is one thing I mean to make you—if I live," he answered smiling, and taking down her hand. "Faith, what do you mean by talking to me in that style?—haven't you just given me leave to think what I like of you? You deserve another half hour's silent penance."

A little bit of smile broke upon her face which for an instant she tried to hide with her other hand. But she dropped that and turned the face towards him, rosy, grave, and happy, more than she knew, or she perhaps would have hidden it again. Her eyes indeed only saw his and fell instantly; and her words began and stopped.

"There is one comfort—"

"What, dear child?"

"That you know what to think," she said, looking up with a face that evidently rested in the confidence of that fact.

"About what?" Mr. Linden said with an amused look. "I have known what to think about you for some time."

"I meant that,"—she said quietly and with very downcast eyes again.

"I am not in a good mood for riddles to-night," said Mr. Linden,—"just what does this one mean?"

"Nothing, only—" said Faith flushing,—"you said—"

She was near breaking down in sheer confusion, but she rallied and went on. "You said I had given you leave to think what you liked of me,—and I say it is a comfort that you know what to think."

Mr. Linden laughed.

"You are a dear little child!" he said. "Being just the most precious thing in the world to me, you sit there and rejoice that I am in no danger of overestimating you—which is profoundly true. My comfort in knowing what to think, runs in a different line."

It is hard to describe Faith's look; it was a mixture of so many things. It was wondering, and shamefaced; and curious for its blending of humility and gladness; but gladness moved to such a point as to be near the edge of sorrowful expression. She would not have permitted it to choose such expression, and indeed it easily took another line; for even as she looked, her eye caught the light from Mr. Linden's and the gravity of her face broke in a sunny and somewhat obstinate smile, which Faith would have controlled if she could.

"That penance was not so very bad," she said, perhaps by way of diversion.

"I enjoyed it," said Mr. Linden,—"I am not sure that everybody else did. Are you longing for another piece of rest?—Look up at me, and let me see if I ought to keep you here any longer."

She obeyed, though shyly; the smile lingering round her lips yet, and her whole face, to tell the truth, bearing much more resemblance to the dawn of a May morning than to the middle of a December night. Mr. Linden was in some danger of forgetting why he had asked to see it; but when her eyes fell beneath his, then he remembered.

"I must let you go," he said,—"I suppose the sooner I do that, the sooner I may hope to see you again. Will you sleep diligently, to that end?"

"I don't know—" she said softly; rising at the same time to gather up her wrappers which lay strewed about, around and under her. Her lips had the first answer to that; only as he let her go Mr. Linden said,

"You must try."

And a little scarce-spoken "yes" promised it.

It was easier than she thought. When Faith had got to her room, when she had as usual laid down her heart's burden—joyful or careful—in her prayer, there came soon a great subsiding; and mind and body slept, as sleep comes to an exhausted child; or as those sleep, at any age, whose hearts bear no weight which God's hand can bear for them, and who are contented to leave their dearest things to the same hand. There was no "ravelled sleeve of care" ever in Faith's mind, for sleep to knit up; but "tired nature's sweet restorer" she needed like the rest of the human family; and on this occasion sleep did her work without let or hindrance from the time ten minutes after Faith's head touched her pillow till the sun was strong and bright on the morning of the 26th of December. Yes, and pretty high up too; for the first thing that fell upon her waking senses was eight clear strokes of the town clock.

Faith got up and dressed herself in a great hurry and in absolute dismay; blushing to think where was her mother; and breakfast—and everybody—all this while, and what everybody was thinking of her. From her room Faith went straight to dairy and kitchen. She wanted her hands full this morning. But her duties in the kitchen were done; breakfast was only waiting, and her mother talking to the butcher. Faith stood till he was dismissed and had turned his back, and then came into Mrs. Derrick's arms.

"Mother!—why didn't you call me!"

"Pretty child!" was the fond answer, "why should I?—I've been up to look at you half a dozen times, Faith, to make sure you were not sick; but Mr. Linden said he was in no hurry for breakfast—and of course I wasn't. Did you have a good time last night?"

"I should think you ought to be in a hurry for breakfast by this time." And Faith busied herself in helping Cindy put the breakfast on the table.

"You run and call Mr. Linden, child," said her mother, "and I'll see to this. He was here till a minute ago, and then some of the boys wanted to see him."

Faith turned away, but with no sort of mind to present herself before the boys, and in tolerable fear of presenting herself before anybody. The closing hall door informed her that one danger was over; and forcing herself to brave the other, she passed into the sitting-room just as Mr. Linden reëntered it from the hall. Very timidly then she advanced a few steps to meet him and stood still, with cheeks as rosy as it was possible to be, and eyes that dared not lift themselves up.

The greeting she had did not help either matter very much, but that could not be helped either.

"What colour are your cheeks under all these roses?" Mr. Linden said smiling at her. "My dear Faith, were you quite tired out?"

"No—You must think so," she said with stammering lips—"but breakfast is ready at last. If you'll go in—I'll come, Mr. Linden."

"Do you want me to go in first?"

"Yes. I'll come directly."

He let her go, and went in as she desired; and having persuaded Mrs. Derrick that as breakfast was on the table it had better have prompt attention, Mr. Linden engaged her with a lively account of the people, dresses, and doings, which had graced the Christmas party; keeping her mind pretty well on that subject both before and after Faith made her appearance. How little it engrossed him, only one person at the table could even guess. But she knew, and rested herself happily under the screen he spread out for her; as quiet and demure as anything that ever sat at a breakfast table yet. And all the attention she received was as silent as it was careful; not till breakfast was over did Mr. Linden give her more than a passing word; but then he inquired how soon she would be ready for philosophy.

Faith's hesitating answer was "Very soon;"—then as Mr. Linden left the room she asked, "What are you going to do to-day, mother?"

"O just the old story," said Mrs. Derrick,—"two or three sick people I must go and see,—and some well people I'd rather see, by half. It's so good to have you home, dear!" And she kissed Faith and held her off and looked at her—several feelings at work in her face. "Pretty child," she said, "I don't think I ever saw you look so pretty."

Faith returned the kiss, and hid her face in her mother's neck; more things than one were in her mind to say, but not one of them could get out. She could only kiss her mother and hold her fast. The words that at last came, were a very commonplace remark about—"going to see to the dinner."

"I guess you will!" said Mrs. Derrick—"with Mr. Linden waiting for you in the other room. I wonder what he'd say to you, or to me either. And besides—people that want to see about dinner must get up earlier in the morning."

The words, some of them, were a little moved; but whatever Mrs. Derrick was thinking of, she did not explain, only bade Faith go off and attend to her lessons and make up for lost time.

Which after some scouting round kitchen and dairy, Faith did. She entered the sitting-room with the little green book in her hand, as near as possible as she would have done three weeks ago. Not quite.

She had a bright smile of welcome, and Mr. Linden placed a chair for her and placed her in it; and then the lessons went on with all their old gentle care and guidance. More, they could hardly have—though Faith sometimes fancied there was more; and if the old sobriety was hard to keep up, still it was done, for her sake. A little play of the lips which she could sometimes see, was kept within very quiet bounds; whatever novelty there might be in look or manner was perhaps unconscious and unavoidable. She might be watched a little more than formerly, but her work none the less; and Mr. Linden's explanations and corrections were given with just their old grave freedom, and no more. And yet how different a thing the lessons were to him!—

As to Faith, her hand trembled very much at first, and even her voice; but for all that, the sunshine within was easy to see, and there came a bright flash of it sometimes. In spite of timidity and shyness, every now and then something made her forget herself, and then the sunlight broke out; to be followed perhaps by a double cloud of gravity. But for the rest, she worked like a docile pupil, as she always had done.

Apparently her teacher's thoughts had not been confined to the work, if they had to her; for when all was done that could be done before dinner, he made one of those sudden speeches with which he sometimes indulged himself.

"Faith—I wish you would ask me to do half a dozen almost impossible things for you."

What a pretty wondering look she gave him. One of the flashes of the sunlight came then. But then came an amused expression.

"What would be the good of that, Mr. Linden?"

"I should have the pleasure of doing them."

"I believe you would," said Faith. "I think the only things quite impossible to you are wrong things."

"The only thing you ever did ask of me was impossible," he said with a smile, upon which there was a shadow too—as if the recollection pained him. "Child, how could you?—It half broke my heart to withstand you so, do you know that? I want the almost impossible things to make me forget it."

Her lip trembled instantly and her command of herself was nearly gone. She had risen for something, and as he spoke she came swiftly behind him, putting herself where he could not see her face, and laid her hand on his shoulder. It lay there as light as thistle-down; but it was Faith's mute way of saying a great many things that her voice could not.

Very quick and tenderly Mr. Linden drew her forward again, and tried the power of his lips to still hers.

"Hush, dear child!" he said—"you must not mind any thing I say,—I am the last person in the world you ought to be afraid of. And you must not claim it as your prerogative to get before me in danger and behind me at all other times—because that is just reversing the proper order of things. Faith, I am going to ask an almost impossible thing of you."

"What is it?" Faith was secretly glad, for afraid of his requests she could not be.

"You will try to do it?"

"Yes—certainly!"

"It is only to forget that 'Mr. Linden' is any part of my name," he said smiling.

She had been rosy enough before, but now the blood reddened her very brow, till for one instant she put up her hands to hide it.

"What then?"—she said in a breathless sort of way.

"What you like"—he answered brightly. "I have not quite as many names as a Prince Royal, but still enough to choose from. You may separate, combine, or invent, at your pleasure."

There came a summons to dinner then; and part of the hours which should follow thereafter, Mr. Linden was pledged to spend somewhere with somebody—away from home. But he promised to be back to tea, and before that, if he could; and so left Faith to the quiet companionship of her mother and her lessons—if she felt disposed for them. They were both in the sitting-room together, Mrs. Derrick and the books,—both helping the sunlight that came in at the windows. But Faith neglected the books, and came to her mother's side. She sat down and put her arms round her, and nestled her head on her mother's bosom, as she had done in the morning. And then was silent. That might have been just what Mrs. Derrick expected, she was so very ready for it; her work was dropped so instantly, her head rested so fondly on Faith's. But her silence was soon broken.

"How long do you think I can wait, pretty child?" she said in the softest, tenderest tone that even she could use.

"Mother!" said Faith startling. "For what?"

"Suppose you tell me."

"Do you know, mother?" said Faith in a low, changed tone and drawing closer. But Mrs. Derrick only repeated,

"What, child?"

"What Mr. Linden has said to me,"—she whispered.

"I knew what he would"—but the words broke off there, and Mrs. Derrick rested her head again in silence as absolute as Faith's.

For awhile; and then Faith lifted up her flushed face and began to kiss her.

"Mother!—why don't you speak to me?"

It was not very easy to speak—Faith could see that; but Mrs. Derrick did command her voice enough to give a sort of answer.

"He had my leave, child,—at least he has talked to me about you in a way that I should have said no to, if I had meant it,—and he knew that. Do you think I should have let him stay here all this time if I had not been willing?"

Faith laid her head down again.

"Mother—dear mother!"—she said,—"I want more than that!"—

She had all she wanted then,—Mrs. Derrick spoke clearly and steadily, though the tears were falling fast.

"I am as glad as you are, darling—or as he is,—I cannot say more than that. So glad that you should be so happy—so glad to have such hands in which to leave you." The last words were scarce above a whisper.

Faith was desperate. She did not cry, but she did everything else. With trembling fingers she stroked her mother's face; with lips that trembled she kissed her; but Faith's voice was steady, whatever lay behind it.

"Mother—mother!—why do you do so? why do you speak so? Does this look like gladness?" And lips and hands kissed away the tears with an eagerness that was to the last degree tender.

"Why yes, child!" her mother said rousing up, and with a little bit of a smile that did not belie her words,—"I tell you I'm as glad as I can be!—Tears don't mean anything, Faith,—I can't help crying sometimes. But I'm just as glad as he is," she repeated, trying her soothing powers in turn,—"and if you'd seen his face as I did when he went away, you'd think that was enough. I don't know whether I could be," she added softly, "if I thought he would take you away from me—but I know he'll never do that, from something he said once. Why pretty child! any one but a baby could see this long ago,—and as for that, Faith, I believe I love him almost as well as you do, this minute."

The last few minutes had tried Faith more than she could bear, with the complete reaction that followed. The tears that very rarely made their way from her eyes in anybody's sight, came now. But they were not permitted to be many; her mother hardly knew they were come before they were gone; and half nestling in her arms, Faith lay with her face hid; silent and quiet. It seemed to Mrs. Derrick as if she was too far off still, for she lifted Faith softly up, and took her on her lap after the old childish fashion, kissing her once and again.

"Now, pretty child," she said, softly stroking the uncovered cheek, "keep your hands down and tell me all about it. I don't mean every word," she added smiling, "but all you like to tell."

But Faith could not do that. She made very lame work of it. She managed only with much difficulty to give her mother a very sketchy and thin outline of what she wanted to know; which perhaps was as much as Mrs. Derrick expected; and was given with a simplicity as bare of additions as her facts were. A very few words told all she had to tell. Yes, her mother was satisfied,—she loved to hear Faith speak those few words, and to watch her the while—herself supplying all deficiencies; and then was content that her child should lie still and go to sleep, if she chose—it was enough to look at her and think: rejoicing with her and for her with a very pure joy, if it was sometimes tearful.

Faith presently changed her position, and gave a very particular attention to the smoothing of the hair over her mother's forehead. Then pulling her cap straight, and giving her a finishing look and kiss, she took a low seat close beside her, laid one of her study books on her mother's lap, resting one arm there fondly, and went hard to work remarking however that Mrs. Derrick might talk as much as she liked and she would talk too. But Mrs. Derrick either did not want to talk, or else she did not want to interrupt; for she watched Faith and smiled upon her, and stroked her hair, and said very little.

Just at the end of the afternoon, when Faith was finishing her work by firelight, Mr. Linden came in. She did not see the look that passed between her mother and him—she only knew that they held each other's hands for a minute silently,—then one of the hands was laid upon her forehead.

"Little student—do you want to try the fresh air?"

She said yes; and without raising her eyes, ran off to get ready. In another minute she was out in the cool freshness of the December twilight.