Читать книгу Say and Seal, Volume II - Warner Susan, Anna Bartlett Warner - Страница 6

The same soft snow-storm was coming down when Faith opened her eyes next morning; the air looked like a white sheet; but in her room a bright fire was blazing, reddening the white walls, and by her side sat Mrs. Derrick watching her. Very gentle and tender were the hands that helped her dress, and then Mrs. Derrick said she would go down and see to breakfast for a little while.

"Wasn't it good your room was warm last night?" she said, strokingFaith's hair.

Faith's eyes acknowledged that.

"And wasn't it good you were asleep!" she said laughing and kissingMrs. Derrick. "Mother!—I was so glad!"

"That's the funny part of it," said Mrs. Derrick. "Reuben's just about as queer in his way as Mr. Linden. The only thing I thought from the way he gave the message, was that somebody cared a good deal about his new possession—which I suppose is true," she added smiling; "and so I just went to sleep."

Mrs. Derrick went down; and Faith knelt on the rug before the fire and bent her heart and head over her bible. In great happiness;—in great endeavour that her happiness should stand well based on its true foundations and not shift from them to any other. In sober endeavour to lay hold, and feel that she had hold, of the happiness that cannot be taken away; to make sure that her feet were on a rock, before she stooped to take the sweetness of the flowers around her. And to judge by her face, she had felt the rock and the flowers both, before she left her room.

The moment she opened her door and went out into the hall, Mr. Linden opened his,—or rather it was already open, and he came out, meeting her at the head of the stairs. And after his first greeting, he held her still and looked at her for a moment—a little anxiously and intently. "My poor, pale little child!" he said—"you are nothing but a snowdrop this morning!"

"Well that is a very good thing to be," said Faith brightly. But the colour resemblance he had destroyed.

She was lifted and carried down just as she had been carried up last night, and into the sitting-room again; for breakfast was prepared there this morning, and the sofa wheeled round to the side of the fire all ready for her. How bright the room looked!—its red curtains within and its white curtains without, and everything so noiseless and sweet and in order. Even the coffeepot was there by this time, and Mrs. Derrick arranged the cups and looked at Faith on the sofa, with eyes that lost no gladness when they went from her to the person who stood at her side. Faith's eyes fell, and for a moment she was very sober. It was only for a moment.

"What a beautiful storm!" she said. "I am glad it snows. I am going to do a great deal of work to-day."

Mr. Linden looked at her. "Wouldn't you just as lieve be talked to sleep?"

She smiled. "You—couldn't—do that, Mr. Linden."

"Mr. Linden can do more than you think—and will," he said with a little comic raising of the eyebrows.

For a while after breakfast Faith sat alone, except as her mother came in and out to see that she wanted nothing,—alone in the soft snowy stillness, till Mr. Linden came in from the postoffice and sat down by her, laying against her cheek a soft little bunch of rosebuds and violets.

"Faith," he said, "you have been looking sober—what is the reason?"

"I haven't been looking too sober, have I? I didn't know I was looking sober at all."

She was looking quaint, and lovely; in the plain wrapper she had put on and the soft thoughtful air and mien, in contrast with which the diamonds jumped and flashed with every motion of her hand. A study book lay in her lap.

"How did all that happen last night?" said Mr. Linden abruptly.

"Why!"—said Faith colouring and looking down at her ring—"I was standing in the doorway and Nero was coming out with that great lamp; and when he got opposite the screen something fell on it, I believe, from the burning bookcases, and it was thrown over against him—I thought the lamp and he would all go over together—and I jumped;—and in putting up my hand to the lamp I suppose, for I don't remember, the fluid must have run down my arm and on my shoulder—I don't know how it got on fire, but it must have been from some of the burning wood that fell. The next I knew, you were carrying me to the drawing-room—I have a recollection of that."

He listened with very grave eyes.

"Were you trying to take the lamp from Nero?"

"O no. I thought it was going to fall over."

"What harm would it have done the floor?"

The tinge of colour on Faith's cheek deepened considerably, and her eyes lifted not themselves from the diamonds. She was not ready to speak.

"I did not think of the floor"—

"Of what then?"

She waited again. "I was afraid some harm would be done,"—

"Did you prevent it?"

"I don't know"—she said rather faintly.

Gently her head was drawn down till it rested on his shoulder.

"Faith," he said in his own low sweet tones, "I stretched a little silken thread across the doorway to keep you out—did you make of that a clue to find your way in?"

She did not answer—nor stir.

There were no more questions asked—no more words said; Mr. Linden was as silent as she and almost as still. Once or twice his lips touched her forehead, not just as they had ever done it before, Faith thought; but some little time had passed, when he suddenly took up the book which lay in her lap and began the lesson at which it lay open; reading and explaining in a very gentle, steady voice, a little moved from its usual clearness. Still his arm did not release her. Faith listened, with a semidivided mind, for some time; there was something in this state of things that she wished to mend. It came at last, when there was a pause in the lesson.

"I am glad of all that happened last night," she said, "except the pain to you and mother. There is nothing to be sorry for. You shouldn't be sorry."

"Why not, little naughty child?—and why are you glad?"

"Because—it was good for me,"—she said, not very readily nor explicitly.

"In what way?"

"It was good for me,"—she repeated;—"it put me in mind of some things."

"Of what, dear child?"

It was a question evidently Faith would rather not have answered. She spoke with some difficulty.

"That there are such things in the world as pain—and trouble. It is best not to forget it."

Mr. Linden understood and felt; but he only answered, "It will be the business of my life to make you forget it. Now don't you think you ought to put up this book, and rest or sleep?"

"I dare say you ought," said Faith,—"and I wish you would. I want to work."

He gave her a laugh, by way of reply, and then gave her work as she desired; watching carefully against her tiring herself in any way, and making the lessons more of talk on his part and less of study on hers. They were none the less good for that, nor any the less pleasant. Till there came a knock at the front door; and then with a little sigh Faith leaned back against the sofa, as if lessons were done.

"There is Dr. Harrison."

"And I shall have to be on my good behaviour," Mr. Linden said, quitting the sofa. "But I suppose he will not stay all the rest of the day." And as Cindy was slow in her movements, he went and opened the door; Faith the while fitting on a glove finger.

"First in one element, and then in another—" Mr. Linden said, as the doctor came in from a sort of simoon of snow.

"This one for me!" said Dr. Harrison shaking herself;—"but I should say you must be out of your element to-day."

"Wherefore, if you please?" said Mr. Linden, as he endeavoured to get the doctor out of his.

"Unless you live in a variety! I thought you were in your element last night." And the doctor went forward into the sitting-room. The first move was to take a seat by Faith and attend to her; and his address and his inquiries, with the manner of them, were perfect in their kind. Interested, concerned, tender, grateful, to the utmost limit of what might have been in the circumstances testified by anybody, with equal grace and skill they were limited there. Of special individual interest he allowed no testimony to escape him—none at least that was unequivocal. And Faith gave him answers to all he said, till he touched her gloved finger and inquired if the fire had been at work there too. Faith rather hastily drew it under cover and said no.

"What is the matter with it?"

"There is nothing bad the matter with it," said Faith, very imprudently letting her cheeks get rosy. The doctor looked at her—told her he could cure her finger if she would let him; and then rose up and assumed his position before the fire, looking down at Mr. Linden.

"There isn't much of a midge about you, after all," he said.

"I suppose in the matter of wings we are about on a par. What is the extent of the damage?"

"It is nothing worth speaking of—I think now," said the doctor. "But we are under an extent of obligation to you, my dear fellow,—which sits on me as lightly as obligation so generously imposed should;—and yet I should be doubly grateful if you could shew me some way in which I could—for a moment—reverse the terms on which we stand towards each other."

"I don't think of any generous imposition just now," said Mr. Linden smiling. "How are your father and sister?—I was afraid they would suffer from the fright, if nothing else."

"Strong nerves!" said the doctor shrugging his shoulders. "We all eat our breakfast this morning, and wanted the chops done as much as usual. Sophy did suffer, though; but it was because Miss Faith would do nothing but get hurt in the house and wouldn't stay to be made well."

"I am sure I did something more than that," said Faith, to whom the doctor had looked.

"You don't deserve any thanks!" he said sitting down again beside her;—"but there is somebody else that does, and I wish you would give me a hint how to pay them. That young fellow who says he is no friend of yours—he helped us bravely last night. What can I do to please him?"

"Mr. Linden can tell best," said Faith looking to him. The doctor turned in the same direction.

"Thank you!" Mr. Linden said, and the words were warmly spoken, yet not immediately followed up. "Thank you very much, doctor!" he repeated thoughtfully—"I am not sure that Reuben wants anything just now,—next summer, perhaps, he may want books."

"I see you are his friend?"

"Yes—if you give the word its full length and breadth."

"What is that?" said Dr. Harrison. "Don't go off to 'Nought and All.'"

"I suppose in this case I may say, a mutual bond of trust, affection, and active good wishes."

"There's something in that fellow, I judge?"

"You judge right."

"A fisherman's son, I think you said. Well—I share the 'active good wishes,' at least, if I can't assume the 'affection'—so think about my question, Linden, and I'll promise to back your thoughts. What do you do with yourself such a day? I was overcome with ennui—till I got out into the elements."

"Ennui is not one of my friends," said Mr. Linden smiling—"not even an acquaintance. In fact I never even set a chair for him, as the woman in Elia set a chair for the poor relation, saying, 'perhaps he will step in to-day.' I have been busy, doctor—what shall I do to amuse you? will you have a foreign newspaper?"

The doctor looked dubious; then took the newspaper and turned it over, but not as if he had got rid of his ennui.

"This smoke in the house will drive us out of Pattaquasset a little sooner than we expected."

"Not this winter?"

"Yes. That's nothing new—but we shall go a few days earlier than we meant. I wish you were going too."

"When to return?" said Mr. Linden. "I mean you—not myself."

"I?—I am a wandering comet," said the doctor. "I have astonished Pattaquasset so long, it is time for me to flare up in some other place. I don't know, Linden. Somebody must be here occasionally, to overlook the refitting of the inside of that library—perhaps that agreeable duty will fall on me. But Linden,"—said the doctor dropping the newspaper and turning half round on his chair, speaking gracefully and comically,—"you astonish Pattaquasset as much as I do; and to tell you the truth you astonish me sometimes a little. This is no place for you. Wouldn't you prefer a tutorship at Quilipeak, or a professor's chair in one of the city colleges? You may step into either berth presently, and at your pleasure,—I know. I do not speak without knowledge."

There was a stir of feeling in Mr. Linden's face—there was even an unwonted tinge of colour, but the firm-set lips gave no indication as to whence it came; and he presently looked up, answering the doctor in tones as graceful and more simple than his own.

"Thank you, doctor, once more! But I have full employment, and am—or am not—ambitious,—whichever way you choose to render it. Not to speak of the pleasure of astonishing Pattaquasset," he added, with a smile breaking out,—"I could not hope to do that for Quilipeak."

"Please know," said the doctor, both frankly and with much respect in his manner, "that I have been so presumptuous as to concern my mind about this for some time—for which you will punish me as you think I deserve. How to be so much further presumptuous as to speak to you about it, was my trouble;—and I ventured at last," he said smiling, "upon my own certain possession of certain points of that 'friend' character which you were giving just now to Reuben Taylor—or to yourself, in his regard."

"I am sure you have them!—But about Reuben,—though I know reward is the last thing he thought of or would wish,—yet I, his friend, choose to answer for him, that if you choose to give him any of the books that he will need in college, they will be well bestowed."

"In college!" said the doctor. "Diable! Where is he going?"

"Probably to Quilipeak."

"You said, to college, man. I mean, what is college the road to, in the youngster's mind?"

"I am not sure that I have a right to tell you," said Mr. Linden,—"it is in his mind a road to greater usefulness—so much I may say."

"He'll never be more useful than he was last night. However, I'm willing to help him try.—What is Mignonette going to do with herself this afternoon?"—said the doctor throwing aside his newspaper and standing before her.

"I don't know," said Faith. "Sit here and work, I suppose."

"I'll tell you what she ought to do," the doctor went on impressively. "She ought to do what the flowers do when the sun goes down,—shut up her sweetness to herself, see and be seen by nobody, and cease to be conscious of her own existence."

Faith laughed, in a way that gave doubtful promise of following the directions. The doctor stood looking down at her, took her hand and gallantly kissed it, and finally took himself off.

"There is a good little trial of my patience!" Mr. Linden said. "I don't know but it is well he is going away, for I might forget myself some time, and bid him hands off."

At which Faith looked thoughtful.

"Faith," Mr. Linden said, gently raising her face, "would you like to live at Quilipeak?"

The answer to that was a great rush of colour, and a casting down of eyes and face too as soon as it was permitted.

"Well?" he said smiling—though she felt some other thread in the voice. "What did you think of the words that passed between the doctor and me? Would you like to have me agree to his proposal?"

"You would do what is best," she said with a good deal of effort. "I couldn't wish anything else."—

He answered her mutely at first, with a deep mingling of gravity and affection, as if she were very, very precious.

"My dear little child!" he said, "if anything on earth could make me do it, it would be you!—and yet I cannot."

She looked up inquiringly; but except by that look, she asked nothing.

"You strengthen my hands more than you weaken them," he said. "I am so sure that you would feel with me!—I know it so well! I have a long story to tell you, dear Faith,—some time, not now," he added, with a sort of shadow coming over his face. "Will you let me choose my own time? I know it is asking a good deal."

"It would be asking a great deal more of me to choose any other," Faith said with a sunny smile. "I like that time best."

He passed his hand softly once or twice across her forehead, giving her a bright, grateful look, though a little bit of a sigh came with it too,—then drew her arm within his and led her slowly up and down the room.

But after dinner, and after one or two more lessons—under careful guardianship, Faith was persuaded to lay herself on the sofa and rest, and listen,—first to various bits of reading, then to talk about some of her photographic pictures; the talk diverging right and left, into all sorts of paths, fictional, historic, sacred and profane. Then the light faded—the out-of-door light, still amid falling snow; and the firelight shone brighter and brighter; and Mrs. Derrick stopped listening, and went to the dining-room sofa for a nap. Then Mr. Linden, who had been sitting at Faith's side, changed his place so as to face her.

"How do you feel to-night?" he asked.

"Perfectly well—and as nicely as possible. Just enough remains of last night to make it pleasant to lie still."

"You are a real little sunbeam! Do you know I want you to go off with me on a shining expedition?"

"On what sort of expedition?" said Faith laughing.

"A shining one—I want to carry your bright face into all the darkest places I can find."

There was an alternation of amusement and a grave expression in her face for a minute, one and the other flitting by turns; but then she said quietly, "When, Mr. Linden?"

"What shall I do with you?" he said,—"shall I call you Miss Derrick?"

"No indeed!" she said colouring. "I don't often forget myself."

"No, I shall not do that, for it would punish myself too much, but I shall do something else—which will not punish me at all, and may perhaps make you remember. What do you suppose it will be?"

"I don't know"—she said flushing all over.

"Nothing worse than this"—he said, bending his face to hers. "Faith! I did not mean to frighten you so! I'll tell you where I want to take you.—You know Monday is the first of January, and I want to go with you to those houses in the neighbourhood where the wheels of the new year drag a little, and try to give them a pleasant start. Would you like it?"

"O!"—she said, springing forward with a delighted exclamation.—"Tell me, just what you mean. To which houses?"

"I mean that if you are well, we will have a long, long sleigh ride, and leave as many little pieces of comfort and pleasure by the way as we can. The houses, dear, will be more than you think—I must make out a list."

Faith clapped her hands.

"O delicious! That is the best thing we could possibly do with Monday! and there are two days yet this week—I shall have plenty of chance, mother and I, to make everything. O what sorts of things shall we take? and what are some of the houses? There is Mrs. Dow, where we went that night,"—she said, her voice falling,—"and Sally Lowndes—what places are you thinking off?"

"I think we might give Reuben at least a visit, if nothing else,—and there are a good many such houses down about those points, and far on along the shore. I was thinking most of them—though there are some nearer by. But my Mignonette must not tire herself,—I did not mean to bring anything but pleasure upon her hands."

"You can't! in this way," said Faith in delighted eagerness. "Who keeps house in Reuben's home? he has no mother."

"No—I suppose I may say that he keeps house,—for his father is away a great deal, and Reuben always seems to be doing what there is to do. As to things—you will want some for well people, and some for sick,—at some houses the mere necessary bread and meat, and at others any of those little extras which people who spend all their money for bread and meat can never get. But little child," Mr. Linden said smiling, "if I let you prepare, you must let me send home."

"What?" said she. "I thought you said we would both take them together?"

He laughed—taking her hand and holding it in both his.

"And so we will!—I meant, send home here, to prepare."

"Oh!—Well," said Faith, "but we have a great deal now, you know; and I can send Mr. Skip to get more. But one thing I know—we will take Reuben a roast turkey!"

I wonder if she could tell, in the firelight, with what eyes he watched her and listened to her! Probably not, for his back was towards the fire, and the changing light and shade on his face was a little concealed. But the light had the mastery.

"Faith," he said, "I shall send you home some sugar-plums—upon express condition that you are not to eat them up; being quite sweet enough already."

His face was so hid that probably Faith thought her own was hid too, and did not know how clearly its moved timid changes were seen. She leaned forward, and touching one hand lightly to his shoulder, said,

"What do you mean to make me,—Endecott?"

It was a thing to hear, the soft fall and hesitancy of Faith's voice at the last word. Yet they hardly told of the struggle it had cost. How the word thrilled him she did not know,—the persons living from whom he ever had that name were now so few, that there was a strange mingling with the exquisite pleasure of hearing it from her lips,—a mingling of past grief and of present healing. He changed his place instantly; and taking possession of her, gave her the most gentle, tender, and silent thanks. Perhaps too much touched to speak—perhaps feeling sure that if he spoke at all it would be in just such words as she had so gently reproved. The answer at last was only a bright, "I told you I could not promise—and I will not now!"

She pushed her head round a little so that she could give a quick glance into his face, in which lay her answer. Her words, when she spoke, made something of a transition, which however was proved by the voice to be a transition in words only.

"Wouldn't a bag of potatoes be a good thing for us to take?"

"Certainly!—and we must take some books, and some orders for wood. And you must have a basket of trifles to delight all the children we meet."

"That's easy! And books, will you take? that's delicious! that's better than anything, for those who can enjoy them. Do you think any of them want bibles?"

"We will take some, at a venture—I never like to go anywhere without that supply. And then we shall both have to use our wits to find out just what is wanted in a particular place,—the people that tell you most have often the least to tell. And above all, Faith, we shall want plenty of sympathy and kind words and patience,—they are more called for than anything else. Do you think you can conjure up a sufficient supply?"

"It is something I know so little about!" said Faith. "I have never had very much chance. When I went to see Mrs. Custers I didn't in the least know how to speak to her. But these people where we are going all know you, I suppose?"—she said with another and not a little wistful look up into his face.

"Most of them—more or less. What of it?"

"That makes it easy," she said quietly. "But I suppose it would be just the same if you didn't know them! About the sick people,—Endecott—if you can tell us how they are sick, mother and I between us can make out what things to prepare for them."

"Did you think I was in earnest, dear Faith, when I asked about your sympathy?" Mr. Linden said, drawing her closer.

"No.—I think I have the sympathy, but I don't so well know how to shew it. Then loaves of bread, I suppose, wouldn't come amiss?—And above all, meat. Where else do you think a roast turkey ought to go?"

"To one particular far-off house on the shore that is brim full of little children—and nothing else!"

"We'll take them a big one," said Faith smiling,—"and I suppose it is no matter how many cakes! You'll have to make a very particular list, with some notion of what would be best at each place; because in some houses they wouldn't bear what in others they would be very glad of. Wouldn't that be good? So that we might be sure to have the right thing everywhere—one right thing, at any rate. The other things might take their chance."

"Yes, I will do that. But you know the first thing is, that you should get well, and the next that you should not get tired,—and these must be secured, if nobody ever has anything."

Faith's laugh was joyous.

"To-morrow I mean to make cakes and pies," she said,—"and the next day I will bake bread and roast turkeys and boil beef! And you have no idea what a quantity of each will be wanted! I think I never saw anybody so good at talking people to sleep!—that didn't want to go. Now what is that?" For the knocker of the front door sounded loudly again.

"It is something to send people away—that don't want to go!" Mr. Linden said, as he put her back in her old position on the cushions, and moved his chair to a respectful distance therefrom. But nothing worse came in this time than a note, well enveloped and sealed, which was for Mr. Linden. It ran after this fashion.—

"In the snow—yet and the chair not only set for Ennui, but ennui in the chair!

"This 28th Dec. 18

"DEAR LINDEN,

You see my condition. I am desperate for want of something to do—so I send you this. Enclosed you will please find—if you haven't dropped it on the floor!—$25, for the bibliothecal and collegiate expenses of 'Miss Derrick's friend.' If you should hereafter know him to be in further want of the same kind of material aid and comfort—please convey intelligence of the same to myself or father. He–i. e-. said 'friend'—saved to us last night far more than the value of this.

I am sorry I have no more to say! for your image—what else could it be?—has for the moment frightened Ennui into the shadow—but he will come back again as soon as I have sealed this. By which you will know when you read the (then) present condition of

Your friend most truly

JULIUS HARRISON.

In Pattaquasset, is it?"

Mr. Linden read the note by firelight and standing—then came and sat down by Faith and put it in her hands. By firelight Faith read it hastily, and looked up with eyes of great delight. "Oh!" she said,—"isn't that good!" Then she looked down at the note soberly again.

"Well, little child? what?" he said smiling. "Yes, I am very glad. What are you doubting about?"

"I am not doubting about anything," she said giving him the note,—"only thinking of this strange man."

"Is he very strange?" Mr. Linden said. But he did not pursue the subject, going back instead to the one they had been upon, to give her the information she had asked for about the sick people they were likely to meet in their rounds; passing gradually from that to other matters, thence into silence. And Faith followed him, step by step,—only when he was quite silent, she was—asleep!