Say and Seal, Volume II

CHAPTER XXXVIII

Established fairly in that great Quilipeak hotel, Faith found her way of life very pleasant. Mrs. Iredell was much in her own room, coming out now and then for a while to watch the two young things at their work. A pretty sight!—for some of the work had been brought along,—fast getting finished now, under the witching of "sweet counsel." Miss Linden declared that for her part she was sorry it was so near done,—what Faith thought about it she did not say.

Meantime, June was using her rosy wings day by day, and in another week Mr. Linden might be looked for. Just what steamer he would take was a. little uncertain, but from that time two people at least would begin to hope, and a day or two before that time they were to go back to Pattaquasset.

The week was near the ending—so was the work,—and in their pretty parlour the two ladies wrought on as usual. The morning had been spent in explorations with Reuben Taylor and Sam Stoutenburgh, and now it was afternoon of a cool June day, with a fresh breeze scouting round to see what sweets it could pick up, and coming in at the open window to report. On the table was a delicate tinted summer muslin spread out to receive its trimming, over which Faith and Miss Linden stood and debated and laughed,—then Faith went back to her low seat in the window and the hem of a pocket handkerchief. So—half looking out and half in,—the quiet street sounds murmuring with the rustle of the many elm leaves,—Faith sat, the wind playing Cupid to her Psyche; and Miss Linden stood by the table and the muslin dress.

"Faith," she said contemplatively, "What flowers do you supposeEndecott would get you to wear with this—out of a garden full?"

"It is difficult to tell"—said Faith; "he finds just what he wants, just where I shouldn't look for it." And a vision of red oak-leaves, and other illustrations, flitted across Faith's fancy.

"Very true," said Miss Linden,—"precisely what Aunt Iredell said when she first saw you,—but I am inclined to think, that the first day you appear in this you will see him appear with a bunch of white roses—probably Lamarques; if—"

"Why Lamarques?" said Faith sewing away. "Pet, how pleasant this wind is."

Miss Linden did not immediately answer. She stood resting her finger tips on the muslin dress, looking down at it with an intentness that might have seen through thicker stuff, the colour in her cheeks deepening and deepening. "Why?" she said abstractedly,—"they're beautiful—don't you think so?—Oh Faith!"—With a joyous clasp of the hands she sprang to the window, and dropped the curtain like a screen before her. There was no time to ask questions—nor need. Faith heard the opening door, the word spoken to the waiter,—saw Mr. Linden himself come in.

Pet sprang towards him with a joyful exclamation—an unselfish one, as it seemed; for after a moment's concentrated embrace which embodied the warmth of half a dozen, she disappeared out of the room. Mr. Linden came forward, looking after her at first with surprise,—then as if a possible explanation occurred to him, he stood still by the mantelpiece, watching the door by which she had gone. Faith had waited behind her screen—she could not have told why—utterly motionless for that minute; then a little quick push sent the curtain aside, and she came to him,

"Faith!" he exclaimed—"are you hiding from me?—My dear Mignonette—"

She hid from him then,—all her face could; for her gladness was of that kind which banishes colour instead of bringing it. He let her stand so a few minutes, himself very silent and still; then one hand brought her face within reach.

"Little bird!" he said, "I have you safe now,—you need not flutter any more!"

Perhaps that thought was hardly composing, for Faith's head drooped yet, in a statue-like stillness. Not very unlike a bird on its rest however, albeit her gravity was profound. And rest—to speak it fairly—is a serious thing to anybody, when it has been in doubt or jeopardy, or long withheld. What could be done to bring the colour back, that Mr. Linden tried.

"Faith," he said, "is this all I am to have from your lips—of any sort? Where did you get such pale cheeks, precious one?—did I frighten you by coming so suddenly? You have not been ill again?"

"No,"—she said, raising her eyes for the first time to look fairly in his face. But that look brought Faith back to herself; and though she drooped her head again, it was for another reason, and her words were in a different key. "We didn't expect you for a week more."

"No—because I didn't want you to be watching the winds. Mignonette, look up!"

Which she did, frankly,—her eyes as delicious a compound of gravity and gladness as any man need wish to have bestowed upon him. "Pet brought me here,—" she said.

"Well do you suppose I have brought an invoice of Dutch patience?"

"I don't think you are particularly patient,"—said Faith demurely,—"except when you choose. Oh Endy!—"

That last note had the true ring of joy. Her forehead touched his shoulder again; the rest of her sentence was unspoken.

"I do not choose, to-day. Mignonette, therefore tell me—do you think I have had all I am fairly entitled to?"

She flushed all over, but lifted up her head and kissed him. Mr. Linden watched her, smiling then though she might not see it.

"My little beauty," he said, "you have grown afraid of me—do you know that?"

"Not very—" she said. Certainly Faith was not good at defending herself.

"No, not very. Just enough to give us both something to do. Mignonette, are you ready for me?"

Faith's face was bowed again almost out of sight. "Don't you think," she half whispered, "that Pet must be ready to see you, by this time?"

For all answer—except a smile—she was led across the room to a seat near the window. But just there, was the table and its muslin dress! Mr. Linden stopped short, and Faith felt and understood the clasp of his arm about her waist, of his hand upon hers. But he only said laughingly, "Faith, was that what made you hide away?"

"Pet hid me," Faith said very much abashed;—"not I. She let fall the curtain."

Mr. Linden let it fall again, in effect, for he quitted all troublesome subjects, and sat down by her side; not loosing his hold of her, indeed, nor taking his eyes from her, but in the gravity of his own deep happiness there was not much to disturb her quiet.

"I sent you a telegraphic despatch this morning to Pattaquasset, dear Faith,—I did not mean to take you quite by surprise. And my stopping anywhere short of that was merely because the arrangement of trains forced me to lose an hour here on the way. I thought it lost."

"It hasn't proved so."

"There was such a doubt of my being in time for this steamer, that I would not even speak of it. Faith, I have not often heard such music as the swash of the water about her paddle-wheels as we set off."

"Didn't you hear the swash of her paddle-wheels as you came in?" saidFaith merrily.

"No!" The wistful gladness of her eye was a pretty commentary.

"Is Miss Reason in full activity yet?" said Mr. Linden smiling,—his comment.

"She has had no interruption, you know, for a great while."

"Take care of her, Faith,—she has a great deal of work before her."The look that answered this was a little conscious, but shewed no fear.

There was nothing very unreasonable in the face that bent over hers; the eyes with their deep look, lit up now and then with flashes of different feelings; the mouth wearing its sweet changeable expression. A little browner than usual, from the voyage,—a little thinner, perhaps, with hard work; Mr. Linden still looked remarkably well and like himself; though Faith felt that nameless change—that mingling of real and unreal, of friend and stranger, which a long absence always brings. One minute he was himself, as he had been in Pattaquasset,—giving her lessons, riding with her, reading to her, going off to school with one of Mrs. Stoutenburgh's white roses. The next—he was a gentleman just arrived from Europe!—from whom she could not get away. Perhaps the last impression was the most remarkable. But in spite of this, Faith was herself, every inch of her; with the exception of that one little difference which Mr. Linden had pointed out and which was not to be denied.

Some time had passed, when Faith felt Pet's little hand come round her neck—the other was round Mr. Linden. Faith's start was instant; springing up she went to the window where behind the curtain lay the work her hand had dropped. Faith gathered it up. She would have put that muslin dress out of the way then!—but there it lay in plain sight and close neighbourhood. Yet somebody must do it, and it was her business; and with cheeks of a very pretty deep rose that set off her white drapery, Faith applied herself to the due folding of the troublesome muslin. In two minutes Pet came to help her, but in a different mood, though her eyelashes were glittering.

"Endy, come here and look at this—I think it is so pretty. What flowers must Faith wear with it?"

"Carnations look very well."

"I said white roses."—

"Which will you wear, Mignonette?" said Mr. Linden.

He was favoured with a glance from two gentle eyes, which it was worth a little wickedness to get. It was only a flash. "I think Pet is right,"—she answered with great gravity.

He came close to her side, the low-spoken "you shall have them—" touched more things than one.

"What do you suppose I found her doing?" said Pet, folding down a sleeve.

"Pet!"—said Faith. "Don't touch that! Not to-night."

"Do you wish me to leave it unfolded?—the servants will perhaps sweep in the morning."

"Pet," said Faith softly,—"don't you raise a dust! We might not lay it so soon."

"Endy," said his sister, "how do you do?—you haven't told me."

"Perfectly well, dear Pet."

"Turn round to the light and let me see—You've grown, thin, child!"

He laughed—giving her a kiss and embrace to make up for that; which was only half successful. But she spoke in her former tone.

"He looks pretty strong, Faith,—I think I might tell him."

"Mr. Linden," said Faith, "won't you please ask Pet not to tell you something?"

"I will ask you," he said softly, laying his hands lightly on her shoulders. "Faith—I think we may dispense with 'Mr. Linden' now, even before people."

She was oddly abashed; glanced up at him and glanced down, with the grave air of a rebuked child. There was nothing about it that was not pretty; and the next thing her eyes went to Pet. How lovely and precious she looked as she stood there! with her sweet shy face and changing colours. Mr. Linden held her to his breast and kissed her more than once,—but in a way that was beyond chiding.

"Why must I ask Pet not to tell me something?"

"It is nothing great!"—said Faith stammering over her words—"Only you won't like it very well—but you will have to hear it. I thought another time—that's all."

"He'll never hear it from you—what I mean," said Miss Linden, "so he shall from me. We'll see whether he likes it. Know then, Endecott, that I found this child absorbed in wedding dresses!"

"Wedding dresses!" he repeated. "More than one?"

"Oh Endy," said his sister with a sort of laughing impatience, "what a boy you are! I mean other people's." Faith stood smiling a little, letting her manage it her own way.

"Imagine it," Miss Linden went on,—"imagine this one little real flower bending over a whole garden of muslin marigolds and silk sunflowers and velvet verbenas, growing unthriftily in a bed of white muslin!" Mr. Linden laughed, as if the picture were a pleasant one.

"Mignonette," he said,—"how could you bear the sight?"

"I was trying to make the best of it."

"In whose behalf were you so much interested?"

"Maria Davids," said Faith glancing up at him. "But I was not interested,—only so far as one is in making the best of anything."

"Who is trying to make the best of her?"

Faith looked down and looked grave as she answered—"Jonathan Fax." Mr. Linden's face was grave too, then, with the recollections that name brought up.

"There is one place in the house she cannot touch," he said. "Faith, I am glad she is not to take care of him."

"I have thought that so often!"

"Do you like my story, Endy?" said Miss Linden presently.

"Very much—the subject. I am less interested in the application. Who next is to be married in Pattaquasset?"

"I don't know."—

"Aunt Iredell says she wishes you would be married here," observedPet demurely. To which insinuation Faith opposed as demure a silence.

"Oh Endecott," said his sister changing her tone and speaking in that mixed mood which so well became her,—"I'm so happy that you are here! This week Faith has been pretty quiet, by dint of being away from home; but nothing would have kept her here next week—and I had been thinking what we should do,—if the week should run on into two—or if the wind should blow!" She spoke laughingly, yet with a voice not quite steady.

"'So he bringeth them to the haven where they would be'!" Mr. Linden said. But his voice was clear as the very depth of feeling of which it told. "Aunt Iredell cannot have her wish, Pet," he added presently,—"there would be at least three negative votes."

"I suppose that! But I shall come down Saturday to hear what wishes are in progress."

"Won't you go with us, Pet, to-morrow?" said Faith earnestly. She had been standing in a sort of abstracted silence.

"No, pretty sister, I will not. But I shall keep all those ruffles here to finish, and Saturday Reuben Taylor shall escort them and me to Pattaquasset."

CHAPTER XXXIX

Things were yet in their morning light and shadow when Faith set off on this her first real journey with Mr. Linden. She felt the strangeness of it,—in the early breakfast, the drive alone with him to the station,—to stand by and see him get her ticket, to sit with him alone in the cars (there seemed to be no one else there!) were all new. The towers of Quilipeak rose up in the soft distance, shining in the morning sun: over meadow and hillside and Indian-named river the summer light fell in all its beauty. Dewdrops glittered on waving grain and mown grass; labourers in their shirt-sleeves made another gleaming line of scythe blades, or followed the teams of red and brindled oxen that bowed their heads to the heavy yoke. Through all this, past all this, the Pequot train flew on towards Pattaquasset; sending whole lines of white smoke to scour the country, despatching the shrill echoes of its whistle in swift pursuit.

Faith saw it all with that vividness of impression which leaves everything sun-pictured on the memory forever. In it all she felt a strange "something new;"—which gave the sunlight such a marked brilliancy, and made dewdrops fresher than ordinary, and bestowed on mown grass and waving grain such rich tints and gracious motion. It was not merely the happiness of the time;—Faith's foot had a little odd feeling that every step was on new ground. It was a thoughtful ride to Pattaquasset, though she was innocently busy with all pleasant things that came in her way, and the silveriest of tones called Mr. Linden's attention to them. He did not leave her thoughts too much chance to muse: the country, the various towns, gave subject enough for the varied comment and information Faith loved so much. Mr. Linden knew the places well, and their history and legends, and the foreign scenes that were like—or unlike—them, or perhaps a hayfield brought up stories of foreign agriculture, or a white sailing cloud carried them both off to castles in the air. One thing Mr. Linden might have made known more fully than he did—and that was his companion. For several times in the course of the morning, first in the station at Quilipeak, then in the cars, some friend or acquaintance of his own came to greet or welcome him. And Faith could see the curiosity that glanced at so much of her as her veil left in view,—Mr. Linden saw it too, with some amusement. And yet though all this was a little rouging, it was interesting to her in another way,—shewing her Mr. Linden as she had never seen him, among the rest of the world,—giving her little glimpses of his former life; for the bits of talk were sometimes quite prolonged.

"Mignonette," he said after one of these occasions, "some people here are very anxious to make your acquaintance."

"I am glad you don't want to gratify them."

"Why?—In the first place, I do."

"Do you!"—said Faith, somewhat fearfully.

"Certainly. I, like you, am 'a little proud of my carnations'. How do you like this way of travelling?"

"I like it such a morning as this," said Faith. "I don't think it's the pleasantest. But to-day it's delicious."

"Yes—to-day," he repeated. "What way of travelling do you like best?"

"You know I never travelled at all, except to Quilipeak and Pequot. I believe I like a wagon or a sleigh better than this,—in general."

"That is our last whistling post!" said Mr. Linden "Faith, I shall be glad to get rid of that veil. And I have so many things to say to you that cannot be said here. Is Mr. Somers in Pattaquasset still?"

"Everybody's there—" Faith answered.

The little shake of the head with which this intelligence (so far as regarded Mr. Somers) was received, Faith might understand as she pleased, for in another minute they were at the Pattaquasset station; the train was puffing off, and she standing there on the platform with Mr. Linden. A little way back was Jerry and the wagon—that Faith saw at a glance; but there too, and much nearer, was Squire Stoutenburgh—in doubt whether to handle the new corners separately or together, in his great delight.

From all this Mr. Linden rescued Faith with most prompt skill; carried her off to the wagon, shook hands with Dromy and dismissed him, and then with the reins in his own hands had her all to himself once more. And Jerry dashed on as if he knew his driver.

"Mignonette, please put back your veil," were the first words. Which Faith did, and looked at him, laughing, blushing and a little shy, all in one pleasant combination.

"What have you been doing to make yourself lovelier, little Sunbeam?"

"I have been a year without seeing you,"—said Faith with excellent seriousness.

"My presence seems to have no counteracting effect. By the same rule, I should be—marvellous! To you perceive it?"

Her eye gave one of its little flashes, but Faith immediately looked away.

"Do you know," said Mr. Linden, "I can hardly believe that this year of exile is over—and that there are none others to follow it. What do you suppose will be the first subject you and I shall consider?"