Say and Seal, Volume II

"Again, Endecott! Who told you?" said Faith, as usual jumping to conclusions.

"Who told me what, my beauty?"

Faith's eye fell in doubt, then looked up searchingly.

"I believe you know everything; but you don't look displeased. How did you know, Endecott?"—"I saw and heard. And have seen and heard since," he added, smiling.

A question or two found out exactly how it had been; and then Faith put the inquiry, simple to quaintness, "Did I do better to-day?"—"If you are so anxious for me—" he said, stroking back her hair. "They did not deserve to have one of my wife's words, but her words were admirable."

It was worth while to see Faith's cheeks.

"Will you trust me to ride with Mr. Middleton to-morrow?" she asked presently, smiling.

"No. Yes—I will trust you but not him."

"Does that mean that you will trust me to go?"—"Not with him."

"But what shall I do?" said Faith, flushing after a different fashion—half laughing too—"I told him I would go, or that I thought I would go."

"Tell him that you think you will not."

Faith looked a little troubled: she foresaw a charge of questions she did not like to meet.

"Are you afraid of the horse, Endy?" she said, after a pause, a little timidly. "No, darling."

Faith was pretty just now, as she stood with her eyes cast down: like a generous tempered horse first feeling the bit; you can see that the creature will be as docile as possible, yet he is a little shy of your curb. Anything like control was absolutely new to her; and though her face was never more sweet, there was with that a touch of embarrassment which made an inexpressibly pretty mixture. Mr. Linden might well be amused and touched, and charmed too, all in one.

"Mr. Motley asked me to ride too," she said after a minute, blushing a little deeper, and speaking as if it were a supplement to her former words. "He wanted to show me the Belle Spring. I had better give them both the same answer."

"Has nobody else preferred his request? they are just the two people with whom I do not want you to ride," said Mr. Linden, smiling. "I shall have to ask you myself, or claim you. Mrs. Linden, may I have the honour?"—Faith gave him a very bright answer of a smile, but with a little secret wish in her heart that the other people had not asked her.

Her denial, however, was perfectly well taken by Mr. Motley; not indeed without a little bantering talk and raillery upon the excessive care Mr. Linden bestowed on her. But Mr. Middleton, she saw, was not pleased that she disappointed him. Within two or three days Faith had become unmistakeably the centre of attraction to all the gentlemen of the neighbourhood. To walk with her, to talk to her, to attend upon her, were not a coveted honour merely, but a coveted pleasure. It was found wonderfully refreshing to talk to Faith: her eyes were something pleasant to look at, for more than George Alcott; and the truth of her enjoyment and gratitude made it a captivating thing to be the means of exciting them.

Mr. Middleton was one of those men who think very much indeed of the value of their approbation, and never bestow it but where they are sure the honour of their taste and judgment is like to be the gainer—one of those men who in ordinary keep their admiration for themselves, and bestow in that quarter a very large amount. Faith's refusal to ride with him touched him very disagreeably. It was impossible to be offended with her, but perhaps all the more he was offended with somebody; and it happened unluckily that some reported light words of Mr. Motley about Mr. Linden's care of his wife, and especial distrust of the gentlemen who had asked her to ride, reached Mr. Middleton's ear in a very exaggerated and opprobrious form. Mr. Middleton did not know Mr. Linden, nor know much of him; his bottled-up wrath resolved that Mr. Linden should not continue long in his reciprocal ignorance. And so it fell out, that as this week began with showing Mr. Linden something of Faith that he had not seen before, it did not end without giving her a new view of him.

It was a captivating summer morning when the cavalcade set forth from Rye House, on a picnic to Alderney, one of the show places in the neighbourhood. It seemed fairyland to Faith. The beautiful country over which they travelled, in summer's luxuriance of grass and grain; the river rolling below at a little distance, sometimes hidden only to burst upon the view again; and towering above all, unchanged beyond the changing lights and shades of the nearer landscape, the long mountain range. The air was perfection; the sounds of voice and laughter and horses' brisk feet helped the exhilaration, and the lively colours and fashion of caps and habits and feathers made pretty work for the eye. Faith's ears and eyes were charmed. At a cross road the party was joined by Mr. Middleton; whose good humour, at present in a loose-jointed state, was nowise improved at the sight of Faith. She rode then, at any rate; and she sat well and rode fearlessly, that he could see; and his eye keen for such things, noted too the neat appointments of her dress, and saw that they were all right, and fitted her, and she fitted them; and that her figure altogether was what no man might dislike to have beside him, even a man so careful of his appearance as Mr. Middleton. Not near Faith did he come; but having noted all these things with gathering ire, he sheered off to another part of the troop.

It was a pretty day to Faith, the whole first part of it. The ride, and the viewing the grounds they went to see. These were indeed naturally very noble; and to Faith's eyes every new form of natural beauty, of which her range had hitherto been so very small, was like a fresh draught of water to thirsty lips. It was a great draught she had this morning, and enjoyed almost to the forgetfulness of everything else. Then came the lunch. And that was picturesque, too, certainly; on such a bank, under such trees, with such a river and mountains in front; and Faith enjoyed it and them so far. But it was splendid too, and noisy; and her thoughts went at one time away very far, to Kildeer river, and remembered a better meal taken under the trees, with better talk, and only Bob Tuck to look at them. She stole a glance at Mr. Linden. He was doing his part, and making somebody very comfortable indeed—Faith half smiled to see it.

Mr. Middleton at another part of the assembled company, had been getting his temper up with wine and his ill humour with the various suggestions and remarks of some careless gossipers at his side. Finding that he winced under the mention of Mrs. Linden and the ride, they gave him that subject with as many variations as the Katydid polka,—the simple "She did"—(or rather "She didn't")—skilfully diversified and touched up,—which brought Mr. Middleton's heavy piece of displeasure, already primed, loaded, and at full cock, to the very point where his temper struck fire. He left the table and drew towards Mr. Linden, who was talking in the midst of a group of ladies and gentlemen. Middleton knew which was he that was all.

"You, sir!" he said, like a surly bull-dog, which term describes both his mental and physical features, "my name's Middleton; I want you to take back what you've said about me."

Mr. Linden at the moment was in the full tide of German talk with one of his old fellow students from abroad; his excellent poise and play of conversation and manner setting off the gesticulations of the foreigner. With a look of more surprise than anything else he brought eyes and attention to bear upon Mr. Middleton.

"What, sir?" he said.

"Will you take back what you've said about me?" The dogged wrath of the man was beyond the use of many words, to which indeed he was never given.

"I have not said anything, sir, which requires that." And with a bend of the head, cool and courteous as his words, Mr. Linden dismissed the subject; and placing himself on the grass with his friend and some others, fell back into the German. Middleton followed fuming.

"I've come to speak to you!" he said, beginning with an execration, "and you must get up and answer me. Will you take back what you said?" Stooping down, he had thrown these words into Mr. Linden's ear in a way to leave no doubt whom they were meant for.

"I have answered you, sir."

"That is to tell you what I think of it!" said Middleton, dashing in his face the remains of a glass of wine which he had brought with him from the board on purpose.

He was on his feet then! with what a spring! as in the fairy tale the beautiful princess of a sudden became a sword. Just such eyes of fire Mr. Middleton had never been privileged to see. But Faith saw the hands drop and grasp each other, she saw the eyes fall, and the colour go and come and go again, with a rush and swiftness that was startling to see. Absolutely motionless, the very breath kept down, so he stood. And even his assailant gazed, in a sort of spell-bound wonder. The twittering birds overhead, how they carolled; how softly the leaves rustled, and the river sent up its little waves: and the sunshine and shadow crept on, measuring off the seconds. The pure peace and beauty of everything, the hush of human voices, were but the setting of the deep human struggle. The victory came.

With a face from which at last the colour had taken its permanent departure, Mr. Linden looked up and spoke; and something made the very low tones ring in the air.

"I have said nothing about you which needed apology, Mr. Middleton. You have been misinformed, sir." And with that same bend of dismissal Mr. Linden drew himself up and walked away, bareheaded as he was. The trees hid him in a moment.

Then there came a stir.

"What a coward!" cried George Alcott, pressing forward, "to do that to a man who you knew wouldn't knock you down!"

The young German had started up, sputtering strange things in his native tongue.

"Mr. Linden is an excellent commentator," said one young lady, who took the liberty of speech pretty freely. "How clear he makes it that 'The discretion of a man deferreth his anger; and it is his glory to pass by a transgression.'"

"I really thought," said Mr. Motley, in a make-believe whisper, "when Middleton first came up, that he had been taking a glass too much, but now I see that he took just half a glass too little!"

"Sir," said Colonel Rye, stepping forward, a man of most noble character and presence both, "Mr. Linden is my guest and friend, you must answer this to me."

Before Mr. Middleton could make answer, Faith had come in between and laid hold of the Colonel's hand. She was white, and quiet, but she could not at once speak. All around stood still.

"Sir," she said, in words that were well heard for everybody held his breath, "Colonel Rye, this is Mr. Linden's affair."

"I beg your pardon, my dear young lady—it is mine."

"No, sir," said Faith he felt how eagerly her fingers grasped his, "it is in Mr. Linden's hands. He forgives Mr. Middleton entirely."

"I don't forgive him!" said the Colonel, shortly.

"Sir," said Faith, "Colonel Rye, this is not what Mr. Linden would wish. Endecott will tell you, sir, that he has passed it by. Don't undo what he has done! No true friend of Mr. Linden will make any more of this."

"I am willing to answer it to anybody," said Middleton, gruffly, but as if half ashamed of himself.

"There is nothing to answer to any one," said Faith, quitting the Colonel, and turning to him; her face was so white and gentle that it smote him, and those very steady sweet eyes had a power in them just now that broke his doggedness. "There is nothing to answer to any one, unless Mr. Middleton," (how soft her voice was), "unless you find you were wrong, and choose to tell Mr. Linden, which I dare say you will. Colonel Rye, will you see, for Mr. Linden's honour, that this goes to no harm?"—The extreme gentleness and the steady firmness of Faith ruled them all; and at her last appeal the Colonel's only answer was to take her in his arms and kiss her, an acknowledgment Faith would willingly have gone without. But it was good for a promise.

"Mr. Alcott," she said seeking him in the group, "you said we would go down the bank—." Faith did not finish her sentence, but he saw her wish to finish it by action.

She went with him till they were out of sight and away from everybody; then slipped her arm from his and begging him not to wait for her sat down on the grass. For a while she sat very still, whether her heart was fuller of petition or thanksgiving she hardly knew. She would have rejoined Mr. Alcott much sooner if she had guessed he was waiting for her—like an outpost among the trees; but all the time had not brought back Faith's colour. After a while, other steps came swiftly over the turf as she sat there, and before she had raised her head it was lifted up for her.

"My precious wife! what are you doing here?" Very low the tones were, very grave, very tender.

Faith sprang, and after an exploring glance into his face, knelt on the grass beside him and threw her arms round his neck, pressing her cheek very close as if she would take off or share the affront that had been offered to his. That for a minute—and then changing characters—she raised her head and pushing the hair back from his brow with her soft hurried fingers, she covered that and his face with kisses—with a kind of eager tenderness that could not say enough nor put enough love and reverence into every touch. All this while she was still; she did not shed tears at all, as some women would have done; and she said not one word.

Perhaps surprise made him passive: perhaps the soothing of her caresses was too sweet and too much needed to be interrupted, even by a return. He let her have her way, nor even raised his eyes. One arm indeed was round her, but it left her free to do what she liked. If Faith needed any light on what the morning's work had been, it was furnished by those few minutes. Only at last, with a sudden motion Mr. Linden brought her lips to his, and gave her back principal and interest.

"You blessed child!" he said. "Are you a veritable angel already?"—"I should have brought you a palm-branch, Endy." For almost the first time he had ever heard it so, Faith's voice was unsteady.

Had she not done it? Mr. Linden did not say so, as he took grave note of her pale cheeks. Presently rising up he passed his arm round her, and took her up the bank to the rest of the party, nor let go his hold till she was seated between Mrs. Rye and himself. Then from the fern leaf in his hand, he proceeded to give them both an account of ferns in general—living and fossil, extant and extinct; with his usual happy skill and interest, and—except that the lips never broke into a smile—with just his usual manner. And never had the grave depth of eye been more beautiful, more clear. Not Faith alone watched it with loving admiration, but no one any more than she ventured word or look of sympathy.

When at last the various groups began to draw in towards a centre, andladies put on their riding hats, and grooms were buckling girths again,Mr. Middleton with two or three others was seen advancing towards Mr.Linden's quarter. Mrs. Rye rose hastily.

"I am sorry to find that I made a mistake, sir," said Middleton, with a sort of unwilling courtesy; "I was under misinformation—and I was not aware of your profession. I beg your pardon for what has occurred."

Mr. Linden had risen too, and with folded arms and the most unmoved face stood watching the party as they came up.

"It is granted," he said, offering his hand. "But permit me to say, Mr. Middleton, that you made a third mistake, equally great if the other two had not existed."

Mr. Middleton's private thoughts were perhaps not clearly disentangled.At all events he had no desire to multiply words, and turned off.

"So, he has spoken, has he!" said Colonel Rye, coming up. "Like a bear,I dare say. Why do you think I didn't fight him, Endecott?"

A smile came over Mr. Linden's face then—bright and stirred.

"I think, sir, you yielded to Mignonette's power, as I did long ago."

"You?—Did he?" said the Colonel, turning.—"No, sir; never!" saidFaith, laughing and blushing till her cheeks were brilliant. TheColonel smiled at her.

"My dear," said he, "you conquered me! and I don't believe any other man more invincible than myself. Is this your horse? No, Motley; no, George; she is going to have an old cavalier for her ride home."

And much to Faith's pleasure, so she had.

CHAPTER XLVII

October's foliage had lost its distinct red and purple and brown, and had grown merely sunburnt; but the sky overhead still kept its wonderful blue. Down the ravines, over their deep shadow, October breathed softly; up the mountain road, past grey boulders and primeval trees and wonderful beds of moss, went the stage waggon. The travellers were going by a somewhat long and irregular route, first up one of the great highways, then across to that spur of the mountains where they were to live. Mrs. Derrick was to follow in a few weeks with Mr. Stoutenburgh.

It was late and dusky when the stage waggon transferred the travellers to Mr. Olyphant's carriage, which was waiting for them at a certain turn of the road. Mr. Olyphant himself was there, with extra wrappings for Faith; and muffled in them she sat leaning in the corner of the carriage, tired enough to make the rest pleasant, awake enough to hear the conversation; feeling more like a bird than ever, with that unwonted night air upon her face, and the wild smell of woods and evergreens and brooks floating about her.

At Mr. Olyphant's they were received with warm wood fires and excellent supper, the welcome spending itself in many other ways. But though Mr. Linden did take her to the door for one minute to hear a pouring mountain torrent, she could see nothing that night. The stars overhead were brilliant, the dark hill outline dim—the rushing of that stream—how it sounded! Faith's whisper was gleeful.

"Endy, I can't see much, but it feels lovely! I am so glad to be here!"

The morning was wonderful. Such a sunlight, such an air, such rejoicings of birds and brook and leaves. Mr. Olyphant's house stood on one side of a woody slope, rocks and trees crowned to the very top; in the ravine below, the brook Faith had heard. She could see it now, foaming along, quieting itself as it came into smoother circumstances. The most of its noise indeed seemed to be made in some place out of sight, higher up. This slope was not very high, other ridges before and beyond it looked down, not frowningly, in their October dress. Not much else could be seen, it was a mere leafy nest. A little faint line of smoke floated over the opposite ridge, glimpses of mountain paths here and there caught the sunlight, below Faith's window Mr. Linden stood, like some statue, with folded arms.

Faith hastily finished her dressing. As soon as that was done she knelt at her window again, to look and to pray. Those hills looked very near the sky; life-work there seemed almost to touch heaven. Nay, did it not? Heaven bent over the glorious earth and over the work to be done there, with the same clear, fair, balmy promise and truth. Faith could almost have joined the birds in their singing; her heart did; and her heart's singing was as pure and as grave as theirs. Not the careless glee that sees and wants nothing but roses in the way; but the deep love and gladness, both earthly and heavenly, that makes roses grow out of every soil. So she looked, when Mr. Linden first discerned her, venturing from the hall door and searching round for him.

"O little Sunbeam!" he said, "how you 'glint' upon everything! there is a general illumination when you come out of the door. How do you feel this morning?—rested?"—

"As if I never had been tired." And Faith might have said, as if she never would be tired again; but only her eye revelled in such soft boasting. "Where is our home now, Endecott?"

The ridge before them, on the other side of the ravine, rose up with swifter ascent into the blue air, and looked even more thick set with orange trees: but where it slanted down towards the more open country, a little break in the trees spoke of clearing and meadow and cultivation. The clearing was for the most part on the other side, but a bit of one green field, dotted with two or three dark objects, swept softly over the ridge line.

"Are you in the sight-seeing mood?" said Mr. Linden, with a look as gladsome as her own.—"Yes; and seeing sights too. But where is that, Endy?"

"I shall take you there by degrees; wait a moment," and he went in for the glass. "Now, Mignonette," he said, adjusting it for her, "I wish to ask your notice for a little black spot on that bit of clearing. But first, what does it look like to you, a hut or a summerhouse?"—"It's too far off; it looks like nothing but a black spot."

"Now, look," said Mr. Linden, smiling. O wondrous power of the glass! the black spot remained indeed a black spot still, but with the improvements of very decided horns, black tail, and four feet.

"Somebody lives there," said Faith. "It's a cow."—"Most true! What cow do you suppose it is, Mrs. Linden?"

Faith put down her glass to laugh at him. "It's no friend of mine," she said. "I have a few friends among cows, but not many."

"My dear Mrs. Linden, you always were rather quick at conclusions. If you look again, you will see that the cow has a surrounding fence of primeval roots, which will keep even her from running away."

Faith obeyed directions, carefully. "Endy," she said in an oddly changed tone, "is it my black heifer?"—"It is not mine," said Mr. Linden.

"But I didn't know she had come!" said Faith; then putting up her glass again to scan the far-off "black spot" and all around it, with an intenseness of feeling which showed itself in two very different spots on her cheeks.

"Put down your glass, Faith," said Mr. Linden, "and look up along the ridge to that faint blue wreath over the yellow treetops; that is your first welcome from my study."

She looked eagerly, and then a most delighted bright smile broke over her face as it turned to Mr. Linden.

"How do you know it is in your study, Endecott?—and who has lighted it?"—"Some one! We'll go over after breakfast and see."

At breakfast many things were discussed besides broiled chicken. And afterwards there came to the door two of the rugged, surefooted, mountain horses, saddled and bridled for the expedition. On the porch steps a great lunch basket told of Mrs. Olyphant's care; Faith was up stairs donning her habit. Mr. Linden ran up to meet her.

"Faith," he said, laughingly, "Malthus has just confided to me, that 'if Mrs. Endecott has any things to take over,' they would make the way wonderfully pleasant to him."

"Who is Malthus?"

The shy blush on Faith's cheek was pretty to see.

"He is an old servant of mine, who has been with Mr. Olyphant, and is coming to me again."

Faith thought it was good news, and as good for Malthus as anybody. An important little travelling-bag was committed to him, and the cavalcade set forth.

The way was far longer than the distance seemed to promise, having to follow the possibilities of the ground. A wild way—through the forest and over the brook; a good bridle path, but no better. The stillness of nature everywhere; rarely a human habitation near enough to afford human sounds. Frost and dew lay sparkling yet on moss and stone, in the dells where the sun had not looked; though now and then a sudden opening or turn showed a reach or a gorge of the mountains all golden with sunlight. Trees such as Faith had never seen, stood along the path in many places, and under them the horses' footfalls frightened the squirrels from tree to tree.

"Is this the only way of getting about here, Endecott?"

"This, or on foot, in many directions. That part of our parish which lies below us, as Mr. Olyphant says, can be reached with wheels. But look, Mignonette!"

The road turned sharply round a great boulder, and they were almost home! There it lay before them, a little below, an irregular, low, grey stone cottage, fitting itself to the ground as if fitting the ground to it had been an impossibility. It was not on a ravine; the slope went down, down, till it swept off into the stubble fields and cleared land below. There was the sound of a great waterfall in the distance; close by the house a little branch stream went bounding down, and spread itself out peaceably in the valley. Dark hemlocks guarded the cottage from too close neighbourhood of the cliffs at the back, but in front the subsiding roughness of nature kept only a few oaks and maples here and there. The cleared ground was irregular, like the house, running up and down, as might be. No moving thing in sight but the blue smoke and the sailing clouds and cloud shadows. The tinkle of a cow-bell made itself heard faintly; the breeze rushed through the pines, then slowly the black heifer came over the brow of her meadow and surveyed the prospect.