Say and Seal, Volume II

She gave him a smile, as bright and free as the glancing of a star; then her look went away again. And it was a good little while before perhaps she dared speak—perhaps before she wanted to speak. So very steady and still her look and herself were, it said that they covered thoughts too tender or too deep to be put into words. And the thoughtfulness rather deepened as minutes rolled on—and a good many of them rolled on, and still Faith did not speak. Mr. Linden's watch ticked its remarks unhindered. Words came at last.

"Endecott—you said something about 'means' for study. How much means does it want?—and how much study?" The interest at work in the question was deeper than Faith meant to shew, or knew she shewed.

He told her the various expenses, ordinary and contingent, in few words, and was silent a moment. But then drawing her close to him, with that same sort of sheltering gesture she had noticed before, he went on to answer her other question; the voice and manner giving her a perfect key to all the grave looks she had mused over.

"Do you remember, dear Faith, that I once called you 'a brave little child'?"

"Yes."

"You must be that now," he said gently,—"you and I must both be brave, and cheerful, and full of trust. Because, precious child, I have two years' work before me—and the work cannot be done here."

She looked in his face once, and was silent;—what her silence covered could only be guessed. But it lasted a little while.

"It must be done at that place where you were with your sister?"

"Yes, little Mignonette, it must be done there."

"And when must you begin the work, Endecott?" If the words cost her some effort, it only just appeared.

"I came for a year, dear Faith—and I ought not to stay much beyond that."

Faith mentally counted the months, in haste, with a pang; but the silence did not last long this time. Her head left its resting place and bending forward she looked up into Mr. Linden's face, with a sunny clear look that met his full. It was not a look that could by any means be mistaken to indicate a want of other feeling, however. One might as soon judge from the sunshine gilding on the slope of a mountain that the mountain is made of tinsel.

"Endecott—is that what has been the matter with you?"

She needed no answer but his look, though that was a clear as her own.

"I could easier bear it if I could bear the whole," he said. "But you can understand that Dr. Harrison's proposal tried, though it did not tempt me."

She scarce gave a thought to that.

"There is one thing more I wanted to ask. Will there be—" she paused, and went on,—"no time at all that you can be here?"

"Dear Faith!" he said kissing her, "do you think I could bear that? How often I shall be able to come I cannot quite tell, but come I shall—from time to time, if I live. And in the meanwhile we must make letters do a great deal."

Her face brightened. She sat quietly looking at him.

"Will that shadow come any more,—now that you have told me?"

"I will give you leave to scold me, if you see it," Mr. Linden said, answering her smile,—"I ought not to be in shadow for a minute—with such a sunbeam in my possession. Although, although!—do you know, little bright one, that the connexion between sunbeams and shadows is very intimate? and very hard to get rid of?"

"Shall I talk to you about 'nonsense' again?"—she said half lightly, resting her hand on his arm and looking at him. Yet behind her light tone there was a great tenderness.

"You may—and I will plead guilty. But in which of the old classes of 'uncanny' folk will you put me?—with those who were known by their having no shadow, or with those who went always with two?"

"So I suppose one must have a little shadow, to keep from being uncanny!"

"You and I will not go upon that understanding, dear Faith."

Faith did not look like one who had felt no shadow; rather perhaps she looked like one who had borne a blow; a look that in the midst of the talk more than once brought to Mr. Linden's mind a shadowy remembrance of her as she was after they got home that terrible evening; but her face had a gentle brightness now that then was wanting.

"I don't know"—she said wistfully in answer to his last words.—"Perhaps it is good. I dare say it is, for me. It is a shame for me to remind you of anything—but don't you know, Endecott—'all things are ours'? both 'things present and things to come?'" And her eye looked up with a child's gravity, and a child's smile.

Bear it alone?—yes, he could have done that—as he had borne other things,—it tried him to see her bear it. It touched him to see that look come back—to see any tempering of the bright face she had worn so long. Faith hardly knew perhaps with what eyes he had watched her through all the conversation, eyes none the less anxious for the smile that met hers so readily; she hardly guessed what pain her bright efforts at keeping up, gave him. To shelter and gladden her life was the dearest delight of his; and just now duty thwarted him in both points. And he knew—almost better than she did—how much she depended on him. He looked down at her for a moment with a face of such grave submission as Faith had never seen him wear.

"My dear little child!" he said. But that sentence was let stand by itself. The next was spoken differently. "I do know it, dear Faith,—and yet you do well to remind me. I need to be kept up to the mark. And it is not more true that each day has sufficient evil, than that each has sufficient good—if it be only sought out. There cannot much darkness live in the light of those words."

"How far have you to go," she said with demure archness,—"to find the good of these days?"

"You are quick at conclusions"—said Mr. Linden,—"how far do you think it is between us at present?"

"Endecott"—she said gravely—"it will never be further!"

He laughed a little—with a half moved half amused expression, wrapping her up like some dainty piece of preciousness. "Because every day that I am away will bring us nearer together? I suppose that is good measurement."

"You know," she said, "you have told me two things to-night, Endecott; and if one makes me sorry, the other makes me glad."

"I was sure of that!—And it is such great, great pleasure to think of the times of coming back—and of leaving you work to do, and of writing to you about it,—and then of finding out how well it is done! You must keep my books for me, Mignonette—mine, I say!—they are as much yours as mine—and more."

"Your books?"—she said with a flush.

"Yes—there are but a few of these that I shall want with me,—the most of my study books I did not bring here."

"But won't you want these with you?"

"As far from that as possible. Do you think you could make up your mind to let me tell Reuben a secret?—and give him a reason for being even more devoted to you than he is now?"

She coloured very brightly again. "I am willing—if you wish it. Why,Endecott?"

"The chief reason is, that I do not wish to lose any of your letters, nor have you lose any of mine. And small postoffices are not so safe as large ones, nor are their managers proverbially silent. I should like to make Reuben a sort of intermediate office."

"And send your letters to him?"

"Yes. Would you mind that?"

"And my letters?"

"And yours in like manner, little Mignonette. He could either enclose them to me, or put them in some neighbouring office,—I think Reuben would enjoy an eight miles walk a day, taken for me. Or you could hide your envelope with another, and let him direct that. You need not be afraid of Reuben,"—Mr. Linden said smiling,—"you might give him forty letters without his once daring to look at you."

"But I thought—you said—he was going to college next summer?"

"That was talked of, but I think he will stay another year at home, and then enter a higher class. It will save expense, and he will be longer with his father. Reuben and I hope to be brother ministers, one day, Faith."

"Do you! Does he!"—said Faith astonished. "That is good! I am glad of it. But what will he do for money, Endecott?"

"We shall see—part of the way is clear, so we may hope the rest will be. Perhaps I may let him do some of his studying with me. Do you think you would object to that?"

"Object to it! How could I? What do you mean, Endecott?"

"O little Mignonette!" he said smiling, "how sweet you are!—and what joy it would be to see you wear the only title I can give you! Don't you know, pretty child, that if I gave Reuben Hebrew you might be called upon to give him—tea!"

Faith's eyes went down and her colour mounted, and mounted. But her next remark was extremely collected. "How good it was Dr. Harrison's money came!"—

"I believe you stipulated that we were to have tea ourselves," said Mr. Linden, "but the question remains whether you would dispense it to any one else."

Faith was only restrained from covering her face again by the feeling that it would be foolish; and withal a little laughter could not be prevented. She did shield one side of her face with her hand, and leaning upon it looked into the fire for suggestions. Finally answered sedately, "I should think you and he might have it together!"

"Have it—yes, if we could get it; but I am ignorant of any but the chemical properties of milk and sugar."

"I thought you said you knew cream when you saw it!" said Faith from behind her shield.

"That is knowing its appearance—not its properties, Miss Reason."

"What does reason want to know more, for a cup of tea?"

"But you have declared once to-night that I am not Reason," said Mr. Linden laughing. "For instance—I once made the sudden acquaintance of a particular person, who made as sudden an impression on my mind,—after those three minutes I should have known her by sight (like cream) to the end of my life. But I went on trying experiments—(as one might taste successive drops of cream) finding out more and more sweetness each time; until (like cream again) I discovered that she was perfectly indispensable to my cup of tea!"

Faith bowed her glad little head, laughing, though feeling much deeper was at work.

"After this," she said, "I shall always be greatly at a loss what you are thinking of when you are looking at me."

"Will your reflections be carried on with such a face?" said Mr. Linden. "Do you remember that afternoon, Faith?—when I so nearly laid hold of you—and you wanted to laugh, and did not dare?"

"What afternoon?"—

"The one wherein I first had the pleasure of seeing you. How demurely you eyed me!—and wondered in your little sensible heart what sort of a person I could possibly be!"

"How did you know I wondered?" said Faith colouring.

"By your very gentle, modest, and fearful examinations, your evident musings over my words, and the bright look now and then that told of progress."

Faith laughed.

"You made me begin to think and wish immediately," she said.—"It was no wonder I wondered."

"Yes, and how I longed to give you your wish, so far as I could,—and how afraid I was to offer my services,—and how you would persist in thanking me for pleasing myself, do you remember, little Sunbeam?—and your fright when I asked about Prescott?"

She looked up with the prettiest, rosiest remembrance of it all; and then her face suddenly changed, and turning from him she shielded it again with her hand, but not to hide the rosy colour this time. Mr. Linden drew her close to him, resting his face upon her other cheek at first without words.

"Dear child!" he said,—"my own little Mignonette!—you must not forget what you said to me,—and you must not forget that I hope to come home quite often. There was a time, when I thought I might have to go away and never have the right to come and see you again. And you must think to yourself—though you will not speak of it to me—that after this bit of time, all our life will be spent together. You need not expect me to wait for anything—not even the cottage you like so much."

She did not answer immediately, as was natural, his last suggestions not being very word-provoking with her. But when she did speak, it was in a clear, cheerful tone.

"I'll bear my part, Endy—I should be very ungrateful if I couldn't. And you can bear your part—I am glad to think of that!—for you are working for a Master that always gives full pay."

"We can always bear God's will," he said, a little gravely,—"it is only our own that points the trial and makes it unbearable."