Volume Ii Part 68 (2/2)
she said with some timid hesitation.
”Very much.”
She was silenced. That Mr. Linden had some strong reason it was plain; not the less the thought of Dr. Harrison grieved her. But she said nothing. Nor did he, upon that subject,--threw it to the winds apparently. The first move was to take her up stairs again and bestow her daintily among cus.h.i.+ons, then to sit by her and spice her cup of chicken broth with pepper and talk, till both it and Faith were warm, and Mrs. Derrick in a state of delight. The good, sweet effect of which mode of treatment, was shewn in the way ”the fringed curtains” of Faith's eyes were by and by dropped by sleep herself. When she awoke Mr. Linden was gone; and Mrs. Derrick sat there keeping watch.
”Has the doctor been here, mother?”
”Why child,” said her mother, ”he's slipped off Stranger, in some of his capers, and hurt his ancle,--so Reuben says he won't come till to-morrow. Shall I tell Mr. Linden he may come up?”
”Yes.” Faith felt it a relief.
Mr. Linden came to tell her the carriage was ready.
It seemed to Faith as if Jerry knew his old driver, with such good will did he set forth, with such little snorts of high spirit and tossings of head and mane. Down the old farm road, among fields of fresh grain and fresh ploughing, where blue birds sat on the fences, and jocund dandelions sunned themselves by the wayside. The breeze came fresh into Faith's face, tossing back her hair; and presently with the scent of buds and flowers and ploughed land came a mingling of the sea breeze, for Mr. Linden was driving that way. He was right to make her come!--Faith felt it in her heart, and so did he. There had been few words spoken hitherto, but now he turned to her with a smile of great satisfaction, saying,
”Mignonette, this breeze is telling upon your cheeks.”
”It is going all through me!” said Faith, drawing an eager breath of appreciation. Mr. Linden gave her shawls and cus.h.i.+ons some arranging touches, and to her a glad word or two of answer, then drove on down to the sh.o.r.e. Not at their usual bathing and picnic place, but at the further out Barley Point; where the breeze came in its full freshness and the waves rolled in white-crested. There he made Jerry stand still for a while, and made Faith lean upon him and so rest.
They were somewhat elevated above the sea, where the barren face of the land broke down suddenly some twenty feet. With what a sweet dash the waves broke upon the beach, chasing up the wet sand and laying down a little freight of seaweed here and there: how the water sparkled and glittered, and was blue and white and green and neutral tint,--how the gulls soared and stooped and flapped their wings in the gay breeze, before which the white-winged vessels flew on a more steady course.
Jerry pawed the turf, and shook his head in approbation, and Faith's head lay very still. Perhaps Mr. Linden thought she had done talking enough that day, for he was rather silent; only watching her lest she should be tired, or have too much of the air. What he watched her for all the rest of the time, was best known to himself. Her brow had its old quiet again now, though her face was grave beyond its old wont; and the eyes, as he could see them, were softly grave and softly glad together, intently going from the white-tipped water to the white-winged gulls and the clouds grey and white that sailed above them. Suddenly, after a long roaming over the fresh life that was abroad there, the eyes were lifted to his face.
”Endecott--if I don't say anything, it is because I can't say anything good enough!”
”Faith,” he said with that same glad look at her, ”your face says that you are getting better every minute. Not tired yet?”
”I feel as if I was in a grand dream.”
”Do you?” said Mr. Linden,--”I am glad I do not. It brings me out of a dream to see you begin to look like yourself. I have not felt so real before since I came home.”
”You are real enough,” said Faith; ”and so is everything else. It is only my feeling that is dreamy. And this air will wake me up, if I stay here a little while longer. How good it is!”
”Do you see that dark rock out in the midst of the waves? and how the waves half cover and then leave it bare?”
”Yes.”
”I was thinking of what Rutherford says of the changing, swaying, unsteady tide of life-joys and sorrows,--'Our rock doth not ebb and flow, but our sea.'”
Faith thought her own life had not been much like that changing tide; then remembered his had, in nearer measure. The next question was not far off; she put it, looking up anxiously and regretfully. ”Endecott, what are you working so hard for?”
A very gay change of face answered her.
”So hard as what?”
”As you do.”
”What makes you think I am working 'so hard,' little Mignonette?--have I given you that impression? I did not mean it. Do I look overworked?”
”No--” said Faith--”I think not,--but that is not the thing. Why do you, Endecott?”
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