Say and Seal, Volume II

Faith had checked her horse, and looking at it all, up and down, turned to Mr. Linden. There was a great deal in her look, more than words could bear the burden of, and she said none. He held out his hand and clasped hers speakingly, the lips unbent then, though they went back to the grave lines of thought and interest and purpose. It was not merely his home he was looking at—it was the one to which he was bringing her. Was it the place for Mignonette? would it be too lonely, too cold? or was the whole scene that lay before them, in its wild beauty, the roughness covered and glorified by that supreme sunlight, a fair picture of their life together, wherever it might be? So he believed; the light grew and deepened in his own eyes as he looked,—the grave purpose, the sure hope; and Mignonette's little hand the while was held as she had rarely felt him hold it before.

Presently she bent down so that she could look up in his face, answering him then with a smile.

"Endy, what are you thinking of? I am very happy." The last words were lowered a little.

Mr. Linden's eyes came to her instantly, with something of their former look, but very bright; and bending off his horse he put one arm round her, with as full and earnest a kiss as she had ever had from him. "That is what I was thinking of," he said, "I was thinking of my wife, Mignonette."

"Aren't you satisfied?" she said in her former tone.—"Perfectly."

The look made a very personal application.—Faith shook her head a little, and they rode on.

The cottage door was very near presently: Faith could see all the minor points of interest. Malthus, who had got there by a short cut, waited to take their horses; then a white cap and apron appeared in the doorway for a second and vanished again.

"You will find another of our old dependants here, Faith," said Mr.Linden.

"Who is that?" she said quickly.—"There were three women in our house," said Mr. Linden, "that Pet and I called respectively, 'Good,' 'Better,' and 'Best,' this is Best. Hers was a name in earnest, for we never called her anything else; and it was always the desire of her heart first to see my wife and then to live with her. And I was sure she would please you."

"What must I call her?—Mrs. Best?" said Faith. "No, you must call her nothing but 'Best.'"

"That's excellent!" said Faith gleefully. "I thought there was nobody here but one friend of yours, Endecott. Now I shall get in order directly."

"That is what you thought you were coming to," he said, coming to her side to lift her down. "How would you like to be taken right back to Mr. Olyphant's?"—"Not at all!"

In answer to which she was lightly jumped down from the saddle and carried off into the house; where Mr. Linden and Best shook hands after a prolonged fashion, and the old servant—not that she was very old neither—turned glad, and eager, and respectful eyes upon her new mistress, touching that little hand with great satisfaction of heart.

"It's warmer in the study, sir," she said, "and there's a fire in the kitchen, if Mrs. Endecott would like to see that. And shall I make one anywhere else, ma'am?"

Best's white cap and apron were very attractive, and so, on the other hand were Faith's blush and smile.

The hall in which they stood, rather a wide one, cut the house from front to back, with no break of stairway. Through the open back door Faith could see the dark cliff, and hear the brook. Mr. Linden asked where "she would go first?" Faith whispered, "To the study." He smiled, and opened the one door at her left hand, and led her in.

Not yet in perfect order, the bookshelves yet unfurnished, it looked a very abode of comfort; for there were basking sunbeams and a blazing fire, there were shelves and cupboards of various size and shape, there were windows, not very large, it is true, but giving such views of the fair country below, and the brook, and the ascent, and the distant blue peaks of the range. Warm-coloured curtains, and carpet, and couch had been put here under Mr. Olyphant's orders; and here were things of Mr. Linden's which Faith had never seen—his escritoire and study table among others. Her table, with a dainty easy-chair, at the prettiest of all the windows, she knew at a glance—unknown as it was before; but the desk which she had had long ago, stood on the study table, nearer his. Mr. Linden brought her up to the fire, and stood silent, with his arms wrapped about her for a minute; then he stooped and kissed her.

"How does it look, Sunbeam?"

Faith was grave, and her eye went silently from one thing to another even after he spoke, then turned its full sunny answer upon him. Faith certainly thought he did too much for her; but she spoke no such thought, leaving it as she had once meant to leave other thoughts, for action.

"You can put your books right in, and then it will be beautiful," she remarked. "And look down the mountain, out of that window, Endecott."

She was taken over to the window for a nearer view and placed in her easy-chair to take the good of it.

"Do you see that little red speck far down at the foot of the hill?"Mr. Linden said, "in that particularly rough steep place?"—"Yes."

"That is the best thing we can get for a church at present."

Faith thought it would be a very good sort of a "thing" when he was in it; but, as usual, she did not tell all her thoughts. They came back to her easy-chair and table, and from them to Mr. Linden's face, with a look which said "How could you?" But he only smiled, and asked her if she felt disposed to go over the rest of the house.

For a house that was not in order, this one was singularly put to rights. Boxes and packages and trunks there were in plenty; rolls of carpet and pieces of bedsteads, and chairs and tables, and everything else; but they were all snugly disposed by the wall, so that the rooms could be entered and the windows reached. The inside of the cottage was, like the outside, irregular, picturesque, and with sufficient capabilities of comfort. The kitchen was in a state of nicety to match that of Best; in a piece of ground behind the house, partly prepared for a garden, Malthus was at work as composedly as if they had all been settled in the White Mountains for the last ten years.

Lunch was taken somewhat informally; then the riding habit being changed for a working dress, Faith set about reducing the rebellion among boxes and furniture. Best had reason presently to be satisfied not only with the manners but the powers of her new mistress; though she also judged in her wisdom that the latter needed some restriction in their exercise. Gentleness was never more efficient. The sitting-room began to look like a sitting-room; tables and bookshelves and chairs marched into place. Meanwhile Faith had been getting into pleasant order one of the rooms up stairs, which, with what Mrs. Olyphant had done, was easy; enjoying the mountain air that came in through the window, and unpacking linen and china. Mr. Linden, on his part, had been as busy with some of the rougher and heavier work, opening boxes and unpacking books, and especially taking care of Faith; which last work was neither rough nor heavy. She was amused (edified too) at the new commentary on his former life which this day gave her: to call upon servants when they were present, seemed as natural as to do without them when they were absent. Faith mused and wondered a little over the old habit which showed itself so plainly, thinking too of his life in Pattaquasset.

The day had worn on and faded, and Faith was still busy in a hunt for some of her wedding presents which she wanted to have on the tea-table. But Mr. Linden for some time had missed her; and entering upon a tour of search, found her in a large closet near the kitchen, with a great deal chest on one side and a trunk on the other. Between them, on her knees, Faith was laying out package after package, and pile after pile of naperies lay on the floor around her; in the very height of rummaging, though with cheeks evidently paled since the morning. Mr. Linden took an expressive view of the subject.

"Mignonette, I want my tea."

"Yes!" said Faith eagerly, looking up and then at her work again, "just so soon as I find some things—"

"I don't want 'things,' I want tea."

"Yes; but you can't have tea without things."

"I will be content with six napkins and ten tablecloths—just for to-night, as we are in confusion."

"And no spoons?" said Faith. "Here they are."

"Yes; here they are," said Mr. Linden, "and here is everything else.Just look at the state of the floor, for me to walk over."

"Not at all," said Faith; "please keep out. I will have tea ready very soon, Endy."

"You shall not have anything ready," and Faith found herself lifted from her kneeling position, and placed in a not uncomfortable nest of things, "Now, Mrs. Linden, whatever of those packages your hands may touch, shall lie on the floor all night. But as you see, my hands have a different effect." And swiftly and surely the "things" began to find corner room in the closet.

"Endy," said Faith, catching his hands, "please don't! Just go away, and leave me here for three minutes."

"Not for one. I'll turn them all out again in the morning, after the most approved fashion."

Faith sat down, the swift colour in her cheeks testifying to a little rebellion. It was swift to go, however, as it had been to come; and she sat still, looking on at Mr. Linden's work, with a little soberness of brow. That broke too, when she met his eye, in a very frank and deep smile.

"Well?" he said, laughing and leaning back against the closet door.

"Will you let me go and get tea now?" she said, with the same look.—"You pretty child! No, I want Best to get tea—and you to be quiet."

"I'll come and be quiet in three minutes, Endy, after I get rid of the dust," she said, winningly.

"Genuine minutes? If Ariel 'put a girdle round the earth' in forty, you should be able to put one round your waist in three—I suppose that is included in a feminine 'getting rid of the dust.'"

Faith's face promised faithfulness, as she ran off towards the kitchen; where in less than three minutes she and Best had proved the (sometimes) excellence of women's business faculties. Meantime a strange man lifted the latch of the kitchen door, and carefully closing it after him, remained upon the scene of action.

"How d'ye do?" he said. "Is the new man come?"—"Everybody's new here," said Faith. "Whom do you mean?"—"Couldn't tell ye the first word! But I've been after him better'n three times, if he ain't," the man spoke as if it was "worse" instead of better.

"Whom do you mean?" said Faith more gravely; "the minister?"—"Now that's what I call hitting the nail," said her visitor. "Well if he's here, just tell him to come up the mounting, will ye?"—"When?"

"Moon sets close on to nine, and its lighter afore that."

"Where is the place?" said Faith, now very serious indeed; "and what do you want the minister for?"—"I don't want him, bless you!" said the man. "If I did, I shouldn't be standin' here. It's an old soul up our way. He's got to go up to the bridge and over the bridge and 'tother side of the bridge, and so on till he comes to it. And the bridge is slippy." With which summing up, the man turned to the door, rattling the latch in a sort of preparatory way, to give Faith a chance for remarks.

"But who wants him there and what for? you haven't told me."—"Why it's old Uncle Bias. Sen he's sick he's got something on his mind, never seemed to afore, and he's in a takin' to tell it. That's all." And he opened the door.

"Why won't to-morrow do as well as to-night?"—"Wal," said the man slowly, "s'pose it might. Nevertheless, to-morrow ain't worth much to him. Nobody'd give much for it."

"Why?"—"'Taint certain he'd get what he paid for."

"Is he very sick?"—"Very enough," said the man with a nod, and opening the door.

Faith sprang forward. "Stop a minute, will you, friend, and see Mr.Linden."

"That's his name, as sure as guns," said he of the "mounting." "No, thankee, I don't care about seein' him now, next time'll do just as well, and it's time he was off."

"Then wait and show him the way, will you? how is he to find it?"—"Do tell!" said the man slowly, "if he can't find his way round in the moonlight?"—"Better than most people," said Faith; "but I think he would like to see you."

The man however chose to defer that pleasure also to "next time," and went off. Faith went to the study. Coming up behind Mr. Linden where he was sitting, and laying both hands on his shoulders, she said in a very low and significant voice, "Endy, some one wants you."

"Only that you never assert your claims," he said, bringing the hands together, "I should suppose it must be the very person whom I want."

Her head stooped lower, till the soft cheek and hair lay against his.But she only whispered, "Endy, it is some one up the mountain."

"Is it?" he said, rousing up; but only turning his lips to her cheek."Well, people up the mountain must have what they want. Is it now,Faith?"

"Endy—they say it's a dying man."

"Where? Is the messenger here?"—"I couldn't make him wait—he thought he had business somewhere else. The place is—I dare say Malthus knows—up the mountain, beyond the bridge—you are to go over the bridge and on till you come to the house. And he says the bridge is slippery." Only a fine ear could detect the little change in Faith's voice. But she knew it was noticed, from the smile on the lips that kissed her, two or three times. Then Mr. Linden disengaged himself and rose up.

"Faith," he said, "you are to wait tea for me, and in the mean time you must take one of Miss Bezac's cups of comfort and lie down on the sofa and go to sleep. Your eyes will be just as good guiding stars sleeping as waking."

She said not another word, but watched him go off and out into the half dark wilderness. The moon shone bright indeed, but only touched the tops of many a woody outline, and many a steep mountain side rose up and defied her. Faith smelled the wild sweet air, looked up and down at the gleams of light and bands of shadow; and then came back to the study where the fire blazed, and sat down on the floor in front of it; gazing into the red coals, and following in fancy Mr. Linden on his walk and errand. It took him away from her, and so many such an errand would, often; but to speak comfort to the dying and tell the truth to the ignorant.—Faith gloried in it. He was an ambassador of Christ; and not to have him by her side would Faith keep him from his work. That he might do his work well—that he might be blessed in it, both to others and himself, her very heart almost fused itself in prayer. So thinking, while every alternate thought was a petition for him, weariness and rest together at last put her to sleep; and she slept a dreamless sweet sleep with her head on Mr. Linden's chair.

She awoke before he got back, though the evening was long set in. Feeling refreshed, Faith thought herself at liberty to reverse orders and went to the forbidden closet again, and to further conjurations with Best. They could not have taken long; for when, some hour later, Mr. Linden was nearing the house on his return, he had a pretty view of her, standing all dressed before the fire in his study. The glow shone all over her—he could see her well, and her fresh neatness. He could see more. Faith Linden to-night was not just the Faith Derrick of old time; nor even of six months ago. The old foundations of character were all there, intact; but upon them sat a nameless grace, not simply of cultivation, nor of matured intelligence, nor even of happiness. A certain quiet elegance, a certain airy dignity—which had belonged to her only since she had been Mr. Linden's wife. She stood there, waiting now for him to come home.

The firelight caught behind her the gleam of silver, whether Mr. Linden could see it or not, where the little chocolatière stood brilliant. Faith had found that in her last rummaging. Miss Bezac's new trencher and bread knife were on the table too, with a loaf of Mrs. Olyphant's bread; and the fireshine gleamed on Mr. Alcott's saltcellars, and on the Mignonette tea service. Faith evidently had pleased her fancy. But now her fancy had forgotten it or left it in the background; and for what, was well shown by her spring as she caught the sound of the coming step. She met Mr. Linden at the door, gladness in every line and movement, and yet the same grace over all her action now, that a minute before was in all her repose. She said nothing at all.

"Watching for me, my dear child!" he said. "Faith, you have been on my heart all these hours."

She waited till he had come up to the fire, and then softly inquired,"What for?"—"'What for no?'" he said, smiling, but giving her face asomewhat earnest consideration. "Have you been asleep?"—"Yes. And thenI thought I might go after my chocolate pot, in the closet."

"Sensible child! What did you think upon the great question of setting forth to see me safe over the bridge?"—Her face changed, though smiling. She whispered—"I did see you safe over it." But his lips were grave instantly, and the eyes even flushed. And Faith could see then that he was exceedingly tired. Gently her hands rather insinuated than pushed him into the chair, and she ran away to give an order; coming back to do two or three other things for his comfort. Still silent, standing there beside his chair, she presently stooped and put her fresh sweet lips to his. Roses full of dew are not sweeter; and if roses were sentient things their kisses could not give sympathy more fragrantly, nor with more pure quiet. Holding her fast, Mr. Linden asked what she thought of her share of clerical duties, on the whole?

Faith answered somewhat quaintly, "Not much."

"You don't!—What a triumph for Miss Essie! Were you lonely, Faith?"

She was going to answer, then sprang away from him, for Malthus came to the door. And the table was spread, with as dainty exactness as if there were no disorder anywhere in Mr. Linden's household. The little chocolatière steamed out its welcome, Malthus was gone, and Faith stood by Mr. Linden's chair again.

"It is ready, Endecott."

He had watched her from under the shadow of his hand, her soft arranging steps and touches. "Faith," he said, looking up, "is this the night when I am to have sugarless tea, to remind me of the over-sweetened cup of long ago?"

Her smile and flash of the eye were conscious as well as bright. "I guess, sugar is 'potent' yet, Endy."

"You are!" he said. "Have you been lonely, my dear child? You don't answer me."

She hesitated a very little. "I felt you were away, Endy—but I didn't wish you here. No, I wasn't lonely." His eyes spoke a full understanding of both parts of her sentence. But his words touched somewhat else.

"Those poor people up on the mountain! poor as unbelief could make them. Faith, I must go there again in the morning."

"Is it far?"—"Pretty far. On the crest of the ridge."

"What about them, Endy?"

"What were you looking for, here in the embers?"—"I?" she said, the colour instantly starting as she understood his question. "I was looking for you, then."

"I was sure of it. I saw myself distinctly portrayed in a piece of charcoal."

She laughed, gaily and softly. "Wouldn't you like to have some tea, and then tell me what you saw up on the mountain?" she whispered.—"Ah, little Sunbeam," he said, "I spent some weary hours there. No, I don't want to tell you about it to-night. And so at last I came home, thinking of the scene I had been through, and of you, left alone here in this strange place. And then I had that vision of my wife."

She was silent, her face showing certainly a grave consciousness that he was tired, and a full entering into the feeling of his work; but for herself, a spirit as strong in its foundations of rest, as full of joy both in his work and in him as a spirit could be. So till her eyes met his, then the look broke in a winsome little confessing smile, and the eyes fell.

"Don't you want something better than visions?" she said.—"Is that a challenge?" He laughed and rose up, carrying her off to her place at the table, and installing her with all the honours; and still holding her by the shoulders asked "if she felt like the head of the house?"—"No indeed!" said Faith.

"What then?"—"You know," said Faith, colouring, "what I am."

"Mrs. Endecott, I suppose. I have noticed, Mignonette," said Mr. Linden as he went round to his chair, "that when ever you see fit to agree with me, it is always in your own words!"

Which remark Faith benevolently answered with a cup of cocoa, which was good enough to answer anything.

THE END