Volume Ii Part 75 (2/2)
”It will be both, won't it?” said Faith; and she went for her Bible.
CHAPTER x.x.x.
The day was struggling into clearness by the time dinner was over.
Patches of blue sky looked down through grey, vapoury, scattering clouds; while now and then a few rain drops fell to keep up the character of the morning, and broad warm genial sunbeams fell between them. It was not fair yet for a drive; and Mr. Linden went out on some errands of business, leaving Faith with a charge to sleep and rest and be ready against his return.
He was but a little while gone when Jem Waters made his appearance and asked for Faith. Mr. Simlins had been ill--that Faith knew--but Jem brought a sad report of how ill he had been, and a message that he was ”tired of not seeing Faith and wished she would let Jem fetch her down.
She might go back again as soon as she'd a mind to.” He wanted to see her ”real bad,” according to Jem; for he had ordered the best wagon on the premises to be cleaned and harnessed up, and the best buffalo robe put in, and charged Jem to bring Miss Faith ”if she could anyways come.” And there was Jem and the wagon.
Faith demurred; she had not had her sleep and didn't know, or rather did know, how the proceeding would be looked upon; but she also fancied more meaning in the summons than Jem had been commissioned to make known. And perhaps another little wee feminine thought came in to help her decision.
”Mother,” she said, ”I shall go. You need not say anything about it unless you are asked. It isn't far to Mr. Simlins--I shall be home in time for my ride.” So, quickly ready, Jem drove her down.
Mr. Simlins she found sitting up, in a nondescript invalid's attire of an old cloak and a summer waistcoat; and warm as the day was, with a little fire burning, which was not unnecessary to correct the damp of the unused sitting-room. He was, as he said, ”fallen away considerable, and with no more strength than a spring chicken,” but for the rest looked as usual. And so spoke.
”Well,--why haint you been to see me before?”
”I have been sick, sir.”
”Sick?” said he, his voice softening unconsciously towards her sweet tones. ”Sit there and let me see.--I believe you have. But you aint fur from well now!” He had some reason, for the face he had turned to the sunlight bore all the quiet lines of happiness, and its somewhat faint colour was replaced under his scrutiny by a conscious deep rose.
”Don't you know,” said he settling himself back in his chair,--”I don't think I see the sun and moon when I don't see you? Or the moon, anyways--you aint but the half of my Zodiack.”
”What did you want to see the moon for, Mr. Simlins?” said Faith willing to interrupt him.
”Well--you see, I've been a kind of a latudinarian too,” said Mr.
Simlins doubtfully.--”It pulls a man's mind down; as well as his flesh--and I got tired of thinkin' to-day and concluded I'd send for you to stop it.” His look confessed more than his words. Faith had little need to ask what he had been thinking about.
”What shall I do to stop it, sir?”
”Well, you can read--can't you?--or talk to me.”
There was a strange uneasy wandering of his eye, and a corresponding unwonted simplicity and directness in his talk. Faith noted both and silently went for a Bible she saw lying on a table. She brought it to Mr. Simlins' side and opened its pages slowly, questioning with herself where she should read. Some a.s.sociation of a long past conversation perhaps was present with her, for though she paused over one and another of several pa.s.sages, she could fix upon none but the parable of the unfruitful tree.
”Do you mean that for me?” said the farmer a minute after she had done.
”Yes sir--and no, dear Mr. Simlins!” said Faith looking up.
”Why is it 'yes' and 'no'? how be I like that?”--he growled, but with a certain softening and lowering of his growl.
”The good trees all do the work they were made for. G.o.d calls for the same from us,” Faith said gently.
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