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CHAPTER XXXIII

The week thereafter passed with the usual quiet business of those days. Friday evening, however, when the lamp was lit, instead of opening her books at once, Faith took the doctor's station on the rug.

"Dr. Harrison has been here this afternoon, Mr. Linden; and asked me to go with you and him in the ride to-morrow."

"Well, Miss Faith?"

"I was afraid at first that it might hinder the good of your ride, if I went; but Dr. Harrison said no; and he put it so that at last I said I would. But I am afraid of it still."

"How did he put it?"

"I don't know," said Faith half laughing;—"in a way that left me no excuse; as if he thought it would be more pleasure both to you and to him, to have me along."

"Miss Faith, if you go, you must give me leave to keep very near you. I trust my own care better than Dr. Harrison's. You will understand why I do it?" Faith did not understand very well.

"I supposed of course, Mr. Linden, you would be very near! I knew mother would not let me go to ride with Dr. Harrison, but with you I thought she would not be afraid."

He looked at her a little doubtfully—as if he wanted to say something; but whatever it might be, it was not what he did say,—a quiet

"I will try and take care of you. Miss Faith." Which words were afterwards enlarged upon.

"Miss Faith, may I trust that you will not fall behind my 'fleet' horse to-morrow?"

"Do you mean, if he goes very fast?" said Faith, with questioning eyes.

"His speed shall not put you to any inconvenience. Indeed it may chance that he will be obliged to go slower than you like,—in which case, Miss Faith, I hope your liking will change."

The doctor came the next day in a gay mood.

"I told you," said he, "I shouldn't be content with simple interest—I wanted compound. I hope you approve of my addition to our plan?"

"So far so good," Mr. Linden said smiling.

They went out, and Mr. Linden's first move was towards the horse with the side saddle; not with the intention of mounting him, however: but a more particular, thorough, systematic examination of every buckle and strap of his harness, that particular horse had never had. Then Mr. Linden turned and held out his hand to Faith.

She gave him hers with a facile readiness that quite precluded interposition, and testified either that she had expected it or had not expected it; most probably the latter. Dr. Harrison bit his lips, but that was a second's emotion; his next step was to dismiss the groom who stood at the horse's head and take that office on himself.

"You are more careful than is absolutely necessary in this case," said he smiling. "This horse, Miss Faith, is the mate, I presume, of the one Job used to take his exercise upon. I chose him for you, thinking of Mrs. Derrick.—Give 'Stranger' to Mr. Linden!"—The last words being a direction to the groom.

A very different creature was Stranger! If it had been the purpose of Dr. Harrison to give his friend so much to do with his own particular affairs that he would have no leisure to bestow on those of other people, he had chosen the horse at least well. A very fine and beautiful animal, he deserved all the praise given him for facility of motion; no feet could disdain the ground more daintily; no carriage be more absolutely springy and soft. But the mischief and spirit of both the runaways combined would not match his case. He did not indeed appear to be vicious, any further than a most vehement desire to please himself and that in all manner of eccentric ways, totally irrelevant to the purpose of getting ahead on the road or serving the will of his rider, might be called vice. It rather seemed the spirit of power in full play. However it were, there was no lack of either 'motion' or 'emotion' during the first half mile of the way; for Stranger's manner of getting over so much of the ground was continually either calling Faith's blood into her cheeks, or driving it out from them.

They were well matched, however, the horse and the rider,—and the spirit of power in equal exercise. Neither did Mr. Linden seem averse to the play—though Stranger presently found that what play he indulged in, was clearly matter of concession; his name, as regarded his rider, soon lost its point. On the whole, the performance came as near the 'Centaurship' declared impossible by Dr. Harrison, as most things have in modern times; but so far as the doctor had any stake depending upon Stranger's antics, so far he lost. Mr. Linden had never seemed more absolutely at leisure to attend to other people's affairs, and had rarely, it may be said, attended to them more thoroughly, than during that 'springy' half mile. An occasional Pas seul round the minuet of his companions, rather heightened the effect. On another score, too, perhaps the doctor lost; for whatever efforts he made, or she made, it was simply impossible for Faith to attend to anything else whatever with any show of consecutiveness, but the said horse and his rider. An attention sufficiently accounted for in the first place by the startled changes of colour in her face; latterly the colour rose and became steady, and a little varying play of smile on lip and eye during the third quarter of a mile attested the fact that other "emotions" had displaced that of fear. Clearly the doctor had lost upon Stranger.

"How do you like him?" he said at last speaking across Faith who was not "good" for conversation.

"Very much."

"I see you do—and he likes you, which is, to be sure, a correlative position. As I see he don't fill your hands, may I impose upon you the care of my sister? We are an uneven number you are aware, and as I thought it desirable not to look odd, I gave her permission to go with us."

Dr. Harrison did not see—if Faith did—the tiniest bit of a glance that sought her face while he was speaking; but nothing could be easier than the terms in which Mr. Linden declared himself ready to take charge of any number of ladies,—it was only equalled by Stranger's bound the next minute.

How dismayed one of the party was at this addition of Miss Harrison's company, nobody guessed. They turned in at Judge Harrison's gate, and found Miss Sophy all ready for them. But to Faith, the play was suddenly taken out of "the play." She and Dr. Harrison set forward to be sure, over a pleasant road, in delicious weather; the doctor was in one of his balmiest moods; and though quietly, she was very well mounted. It was pleasant, or would have been pleasant; but all the while, what was Stranger doing behind her that she could not see! Then in answering some kindly, graceful remark of the doctor's, Faith chid herself for ungratefulness, and roused herself to give and take what good was in her power.

The ride was pleasant after that! The air in all its calm sweetness was well tasted; the barren landscape, never barren to Faith's eyes, was enjoyed at every step. Her horse went agreeably, and the talk between her and Dr. Harrison grew interesting and enlivening.

Meanwhile Mr. Linden's horse and his companion were at the antipodes—of each other. Thoroughly good and estimable as Miss Harrison was, she never left the beaten track,—and Stranger never kept in it. Between these two opposites Mr. Linden amused himself as best he might. To do him justice he tried his best to amuse his companion.

Several miles of way had been passed over, when in a broad grassy reachof the road, the two riders ahead fell back upon the rest of the party;Faith taking Miss Harrison's side, while the doctor drew up by Mr.Linden.

"How does it go?" he said good humouredly.

"What is the impersonal in this case?" said Mr. Linden, while Stranger snorted and bounded, and by every means in his power requested the doctor to keep at a distance.

"A conglomerate, for which I found no better term. You, Stranger, and my sister, and the world generally."

"Stranger is in a sufficiently ardent mood, for his share—he gives me a fine view of the country," said Mr. Linden, as the creature brought himself to a tolerably erect position, and seemed to like it so well as to be in no hurry to come down; and when he did, took the precaution to take his hind feet off the ground before the fore feet touched. "Miss Faith—how does this agree with your ideal of Melancholy?"

Faith forgot to answer, or thought answers impertinent.

"That horse frightens me out of my wits," said Miss Harrison. "I have been jumping out of the saddle half the time, since I came out. Sometimes he'll go very quietly—as nice as anybody—and then he'll play such a caper as he did then. That was just because Julius came up alongside of him. He had been going beautifully this last mile. I wish he'd have nothing to do with such a creature!"

"I suppose he's very pleasant to ride," said Faith eying the creature.

Perhaps Stranger—with his full, wild eyes, took note of this look of partial favour, for he backed a little from the doctor, and came dancing round by Faith, and there danced along at her side for a few minutes; evidently in an excited state of mind. His rider meanwhile, gave Faith a quiet word of admonition about keeping so loose a rein, and asked, in the same half undertone, if she felt tired?

"O no!" Faith said with a look of thanks and pleasure.

"That piece of care I must trust in your hands—don't forget that I do so trust it. How would you like to cross Quapaw creek on this piece of quicksilver?"

"I don't think you'd like to have me!" Faith said very decidedly. "I never saw anything so beautiful, quite, Mr. Linden—that I recollect at this minute," she added smiling.

"I want to dance with you to-day—more than I ever did before," he answered, smiling too. "Miss Faith, if you have not yet said the 'few sensible words,' or if you have any left, won't you please say them to me?"

"That question comes like a constable upon all my sense," said Faith laughing, "and it feels as I suppose a man does when he is clapped on the shoulder."

"But then the man cannot run away, you know."

"Nor my sense don't," said Faith,—"that I know of,—but it feels as if it hadn't possession of itself, Mr. Linden."

"Well see if it is equal to this demand—What would be the consequences if you and I were to start off and scour the country 'on our own hook,' as people say?"

"I think 'our hook' would draw two people after us," said Faith, looking very much amused and a little afraid of being overheard.

"That is a melancholy fact! And my self-indulgence needs to be kept in check. Miss Faith," he said dropping his voice still more, "Stranger regrets very much that he must now go through that figure of the cotillion called 'Ladies change'!" And with a low and laughing bow, Mr. Linden reined back his horse and returned to his former place with all the soberness that circumstances allowed.

There was no soberness whatever in the face with which Faith recommenced her tête-à-tête with Miss Harrison. The doctor was perfectly in order.

"I have been thinking," he said, "since my question of how the world went with you, what a very insignificant thing, as to extent, 'the world' of any one person is."

"Compared with the universe," said Mr. Linden.

"What sort of a world have you got into?" said Dr. Harrison somewhat impatiently. "No—the actual extent of your and my consciousness—of that field of action and perception which we magnificently call our world! What a mighty limited field it is!"

"I think you describe it correctly," said Mr. Linden: "it is both mighty and limited. A little space railed off for every man—and yet larger than that man can ever fill."

"It seems to me too insignificant to be worth filling."

"There is a little outlet on every side that makes it impossible to fill!"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, that while our action at every step touches other people, and their consequent action moves on with like effect, the limits of our power in this world can never be known."

"Will you think me impertinent if I ask once more what you mean?—or rather, ask you to enlarge a little?"

"If a man plants the first clover seed or thistle-down in some great continent," said Mr. Linden, "from whose little field is it, that in a hundred years the whole land bears thistles or clover?"

"It won't," said the doctor, "if a hundred other things are sown at the same time. And so it seems to me in life—that one action is counteracted by another, universally,—and nothing makes anything!—of any avail."

"If nothing is of any avail, things don't counteract each other. You are proving my position."

The doctor smiled, not unpleasantly.

"I see," he said, "you can maintain any position you choose to take,—on the ground or in the air! I must give way to you on this ground." And Dr. Harrison reined back his horse and came into Faith's neighbourhood.

"Miss Derrick, the road is getting too contracted for such a procession—will you draw bridle?"

"I don't want to ride behind, Dr. Harrison," said Faith looking laughingly back at him. "I'll go on in front." Which she did, so briskly that the doctor had to bestir himself to come up with her.

"I didn't know," he said, and he spoke somewhat in earnest,—"I didn't know that you cared anything about eminence or preëminence."

"Didn't you, Dr. Harrison?"

"Do you?"

"I don't know—" said Faith gravely. "Eminence?—yes, I should care very much for that, in some things. Not for preëminence, I think. There's Mr. Simlins!—and I must speak to him." Faith's horse which had been on an easy canter, came to a stand; and so must the doctor. Mr. Simlins too was on horseback.

"Mr. Simlins," said Faith after giving him her hand, "will you have half a day's leisure Monday or Tuesday?"

"Leisure?" said the farmer with his best growl—"no, I sha'n't have it if you take it."

"Do you think I may take it?"

"I don't suppose there's anybody that can hinder you," said Mr. Simlins—"without excepting my own identity. I can't. Do you want to go up yonder again?"

The doctor interposed to make offers of his father's horses, carriage, and servants; but Faith quietly negatived them all.

"How did you get home the other night?" said the farmer. "Did you get over the river?" Then shifting his ground as Miss Harrison and Stranger came up into the group, he changed his question.

"I say Mr. Linden!—I heerd Quapaw creek was choked up the other night—how did you get home?"

"The same way I expect to now," said Mr. Linden. "How did you, Mr.Simlins."

"The harness was all right," said Mr. Simlins—"if anything else was in a disorganized state, 'twas somebody's fault besides yourn. That lynch-pin made trouble though; it didn't fit more places than one. Did you get across Quapaw creek on your horses?"

"Do you suppose I crossed on foot?" said Mr. Linden smiling. "Do you take me for a witch, Mr. Simlins?"

"I haven't just made up my mind about that," said the farmer. "I've a temptation to think you air. What's that you're on?"

"Only a broomstick in disguise, Mr. Simlins. As he belongs to Dr.Harrison, I am willing to own so much."

"He's as well-shaped a broomstick as ever I see," said the farmer consideratively. "I shouldn't mind puttin' him in harness. Well good-day! I'm glad this girl didn't have to go all round again the other night—I was afeard she had. I'll take you over creation," he sung out after her as they parted company,—"and I'll be along Monday."

"Quapaw creek?" said Dr. Harrison, as the interrupted procession took up its line of march again,—"I think I remember that. What was the matter?"

"The bridge was broken, with a loaded wagon upon it," Faith explained.

"And you crossed by fording?"

"Yes."

"Isn't it rather a difficult ford? If I remember right, the bed of the stream is uneven and rough; doesn't it require some guiding of the horses?"

"I believe so—yes. It isn't safe for an ignorant rider."

"I didn't give you credit," said he looking at her, "for being such a horsewoman. That is quite a feat for a lady."

Faith coloured high. But she was not going a second time to fight the doctor "with his own weapons." A very little she hesitated, then she said boldly, though not in very bold tones it must be confessed,—

"I am not a horsewoman—Mr. Linden carried me over."

The doctor looked very moody for a few minutes; then his brow brightened. Faith's straightforward truth had served her as well as the most exquisite piece of involution. The doctor could not very well see the face with which her words were spoken and had to make up his mind upon them alone.

"It is so!" was his settled conclusion. "She has only a child's friendly liking for him—nothing more—or she never, simple as she is, would have said that to me with that frankness!"

Moodiness returned to the doctor's brow no more. He left Quapaw creek in the distance and talked of all manner of pleasant things. And so, with no second break of the order of march, they went on and went home.

"Mr. Linden," said Faith when she was lighting the lamp for study in the evening,—"you'll never ask anything of me so hard to do as that was to-day."

"Hard?" he replied. "Why?"

"To keep in front, where I could not see you and that horse."

"Miss Faith! I am very sorry!—But you know I had you in charge—I felt bound to keep you in sight."

"I know,"—she said; and sat down to her work.

CHAPTER XXXIV

There was no more riding after that—the weather grew too cold, and Mattabeeset was put off till spring; but with walks and talks and reading aloud, Göthe's maxim was well carried out. For there is music that needs no composer but Peace, and fireside groups that are not bad pictures in stormy weather. And so December began to check off its short days with busy fingers.

There came a sudden interruption to all this, except December's part of it. For a letter arrived from Miss Delia Danforth, at Pequot, begging that Faith would come and spend a little time with her. Miss Delia was very unwell, and suffering and alone, with the exception of her brother's French wife; and she wrote with longing desire to see Faith. Mr. Danforth had been some years dead, and the widow and the sister who had lived so long together with him, since his death had kept their old household life, in a very quiet way, without him. But now Miss Danforth longed for some of her own kindred, or had a special liking or desire for Faith's company, for she prayed her to come. And it was not a call that Faith herself a moment doubted about answering. Mrs. Derrick's willingness lingered, for various natural reasons; but that too followed. It was clear that Faith ought not to refuse.

The day before she was to go, Mrs. Derrick made her self unusually busy and tired, so as to spare Faith's study-time; and thus it fell out, that when night came and prayers were over, Mrs. Derrick went straight to bed; partly from fatigue, partly to be ready for an early start next day; for she was to drive Faith over to Pequot. No such need or inducements sent Faith to bed; and the two students planned a longer evening of work than common, to anticipate lost time. But when the hours were about half spent, Cindy came to the door and called out, "Miss Faith!"—Faith left her book and went to the door, which she held open.

"There was a boy come to-night," said Cindy, "from that old starvation creatur' down by Barley point, and he says she's more in a box than ever. Haint a crumb of bread for breakfast—nor supper neither, for that."

"Is the boy here now?"

"Why sakes no!" said Cindy. "He come while you was to supper. I s'pose I might ha' telled ye before, but then again I was busy bakin' cakes—and I'm free to confess I forgot. And prayers always does turn everything out of ray head. I can't guess how I thought of it now. Mr. Skip's away to-night, too," said Cindy in conclusion. Faith shut the door behind her.

"It's too far for you to go alone. Can you find somebody to go with you, Cindy? I'll put up a basket of things for her."

"Aint a soul in sight—" said Cindy. "I'd as lieves go the hull way alone as to snoop round, hunting folks."

"Then Cindy, if you'll get ready I'll go with you. She must have something."

Cindy looked at her. "Guess you better get fixed first, Miss Faith.'Taint hardly worth my while, I reckon. Who shouldn't we have after us!"

"Just have your shawl and bonnet ready, Cindy, will you?" said Faith gravely,—"and I'll be ready in a very few minutes."

She went with business speed to pantry and cellar, and soon had a sizeable basket properly filled. Leaving that in Cindy's charge, Faith went back to the sitting-room, and came and stood by the table, and said quietly, "I can't do any more to-night, Mr. Linden. I must be busy in another way. I am going out for a little while."

"May I ask—not from curiosity—with whom?" he said looking up at her.

"With Cindy—to attend to some business she didn't tell me of in proper time." Faith had laid her books together and was going off. Mr. Linden rose from the table.

"With me, if you please, Miss Faith. I will not intrude upon your business."

"It's no business to be intruded upon!" she said with her simple look into his face. "But Cindy and I can do it. Please do not let me take you away! I am not afraid—much."

"Miss Faith, you want a great many lessons yet!—and I do not deserve this. Don't you know that in Mrs. Derrick's absence I am guardian of her house—and of you? I will go with you, or without you—just as you choose," he added smiling. "If you would rather study than walk, you shall. Is the business too intricate for me to manage?"

"It's only to carry some things to an old woman who is in great want of them. They can't wait till to-morrow. If you will go, Mr. Linden,—I'll be ready in a minute. I'd like to go."

She ran to get ready, and Mr. Linden went to the kitchen and took the basket from Cindy, and then waited at the front door till Faith came, and they went out into the moonlight together. A very bright moonlight, and dark shadows—dark and still; only one of them seemed to move; but that one made Faith glad of her change of companions. Perhaps it made the same suggestion to Mr. Linden, for his first words looked that way.

"Miss Faith, you did not do quite right, to-night. Don't you know—" with a gentle half smiling tone—"you must not let anything make you do wrong?"

Her look and tone were both very confiding, and touched with timidity.

"Did I, Mr. Linden? I didn't mean it."

"I know that—but you must remember for another time." And he went off to other subjects, giving her talk and information that were perhaps better than books. The walk was good, too; the air bracing, and the village sights and sounds in a subsiding glimmer and murmur. The evening out of doors was worth as much as the evening within doors could have been. Faith thought so. The way was down the road that led to Barley point, branching off from that. The distance to the poor cottage seemed short enough, but if it had seemed long Faith would have felt herself well paid—so much was the supply needed, so joyfully was it received. The basket was left there for Mr. Skip to bring home another time, and at a rather late hour in the evening the return walk began.

The night was sharp and frosty, and still, now, with a depth of silence. The moon, high and full, beamed down in silver splendour, and the face of the earth was all white or black. The cold, clear light, the sharp shadows angling and defining everything, the absolute stillness—how well they chimed!—and chime they did, albeit noiselessly. In that bracing air the very steps of the two homeward bound people seemed to spring more light and elastic, and gave little sound. They went on together with a quick even step,—the very walking was pleasant. For a while they talked busily too,—then Thought came in and claimed her place, and words ceased.

They had left the turn to the belt of woods, and were now passing one or two empty fields where low hedges made a black line of demarcation, and the moonlight seemed even whiter than before. Faith was on the side next the road, and both a little way out, for the walking was smoother and dryer.

How it was done Faith could not tell—the next two seconds seemed full of separate things which she remembered afterwards—but her hand was disengaged from Mr. Linden's arm, and he was standing before her and she behind him, almost before she had fairly seen a little flash of red light from the hedge before them. A sharp report—a powdery taint on the sweet air, came then to give their evidence—to what?

That second past, Mr. Linden turned, but still standing so as to shield her, and laid both hands on her shoulders.

"Are you hurt?" he said, in a voice lowered by feeling, not intent.

One bewildered instant she stood mute—perhaps with no breath for words; the next minute, with a motion too unexpected and sudden to be hindered, lifting both hands she threw his off, bounded to one side to be clear of him, and sprang like a gazelle towards the spot where the red flash had caught her eye. But she was caught and stopped before she reached it, and held still—that same shield between her and the hedge.

"Did it touch you?" Mr. Linden repeated.

"No—Let me! let me!"—she said eagerly endeavouring to free herself.

He was silent a moment—a deep drawn breath the only reply; but he did not loose his hold.

"My dear child," he said, "you could find nothing—for what would you go?"—the tone was very gentle, even moved. "You must walk on before me as quick as you can. Will you promise to do it? I will keep you in sight."

"Before you?—no. What are you going to do? Are you touched?"—Her voice changed as she went on.

"I am not hurt—and mean to do nothing to-night but follow you home.But give me your promise, Miss Faith,—you must not stand here."

"Why in front? will they be behind us?"

"I must have you in sight—and I will not have you near me." And letting go his hold he said, almost imperatively,

"I will trust you. Walk on before me!—Miss Faith, you must not delay a moment."

"I will go with you," she said low, and clinging to his arm.—"Your safety is in being near me. I will not delay. Come!"—

But the hand was taken off again, and held in both his while he spoke.

"I will not have you anywhere near me! If you do not walk on far in front, I shall,—and keep watch of you as best I can." And he let go her hand, and stepped back with a quick pace that soon put some distance between them. She stood still a moment, looking, and then sprang back till she reached him; speaking with a low vehemence that did not seem like Faith.

"I will not do it, Mr. Linden—I will not! I will not!—Come, come! don't stay here!"—

Whatever Mr. Linden felt at that appeal—and he was not a man to feel it lightly—his words lost none of their firmness.

"I shall not stir until you are ten yards in front of me!—unless I leave you as far behind."

She planted herself for an instant before him and looked in his face, with eyes of quiet but most eloquent beseeching.

"No"—he repeated,—"you must go on and fear nothing. Child—'there is no restraint to the Lord, to save by many or by few.'"

She did not answer, even by the little shake of the head which sometimes with her stood in place of words. She turned, went swiftly forward, with a straight, even, unslackening pace, which did not falter nor stop for a long, long piece of the way; how long it was by the mind's measurement it would be hard to tell. It was one breathless sense of pain and fear; of which moonlight and shadows and the points of the way all made part and were woven in together. Her ears were tingling for that sound; her eyes only measured unconsciously the distances and told off the waymarks. Down the little pitch of the road where that to Barley point forked off; then by a space of clear fences where hedgerows were not, and a barn or two rose up in the moonlight; through gates where the post shadows were black and deep, by the skirting bushes that now and then gathered about the rails. She walked as fast as she could and keep her strength. That was unconsciously measured too. It had seemed to her, in her agony of pleading before the commencing of this strange walk, that it was impossible she should do it. She was doing it now, under a force of will that she had not been able to withstand; and her mind was subdued and strained beyond the power of thinking. Her very walking seemed to her mechanical; intensely alive as her senses were all the time. There was a transient relief at coming into the neighbourhood of a house, and a drear feeling of desolation and increased danger as she left it behind her; but her pace neither faltered nor flagged. She looked round sometimes, but never paused for that. Before the more thickly settled part of the village was reached her step grew a little slower, probably from the sheer necessity of failing strength; but steady it was, at whatever rate of travel. When at last they turned the sandy corner into the broad street or main way of the village, where houses and gardens often broke the range of hedgeway or fence, and lights spoke to lights in the neighbouring windows, Faith stopped and stood leaning against the fence. In another moment she was drawn away from that to a better support.

"Are you faint?" Mr. Linden said.

Her "no" was faint, but the answer was true for all the rest of her.

He drew her hand within his arm, and went on silently; but how glad he was to see her home, Faith might guess from the way she was half carried up the steps and into the hall, and the door shut and locked behind her. After the same fashion she was taken into the sitting-room and placed in the easy chair, and her wrappers unfastened and taken off with very gentle and quick hands. She offered almost as little help as hindrance, and her head sank immediately.

He stood by her, and repeated his question about faintness.

"O no, sir—I'm not faint. It's nothing," Faith said, but as if her very voice was exhausted. And crossing her arms upon the table, close to which the easy chair stood, she laid her head down upon them. Her mother might well say she had a baby face. It looked so them.

Mr. Linden's next move was to get a glass of wine, and with gentle force and persuasion to make her swallow it; that done, he stood leaning upon the back of her chair, silently, but with a very, very grave face.