Say and Seal, Volume II

"Which part of your sentence shall I handle first?" he said with a laughing flash of the eyes,—"'Dr. Harrison'—or 'Mr. Linden'?"

"The first," said Faith laying her hand deprecatingly on his arm;—"and let the other alone!"

"How am I to 'please not to talk'?"

"So—as I don't deserve," she said raising her grave eyes to his face."I would rather have you tell me my wrong things."

He looked at her, with one of those rare smiles which belonged to her; holding her hand with a little soft motion of it to and fro upon his own.

"I am not sure that I dare promise 'to be good,'" he said,—"I am so apt to speak of things as I find them. And Mignonette you are to me—both in French and English. Faith, I know there is no glove upon your hand,—and I know there is none on mine; but I cannot feel, nor imagine, any friction,—can you?"

She looked up and smiled. So much friction or promise of it, as there is about the blue sky's reflection in the clear deep waters of a mountain lake—so much there was in the soft depth—and reflection—of Faith's eyes at that moment. So deep,—so unruffled;—and as in the lake, so in the look that he saw, there was a mingling of earth and heaven.

CHAPTER V

Wednesday morning was cold and raw, and the sun presently put on a thick grey cloak. There were suspicions abroad that it was one made in the regions of perpetual snow, for whatever effect it might have had upon the sun, it made the earth very cold. Now and then a little frozen-up snowflake came silently down, and the wind swept fitfully round the corners of houses, and wandered up and down the chimneys. People who were out subsided into a little trot to keep themselves warm, all except the younger part of creation, who made the trot a run; and those who could, staid at home.

All of Mrs. Derrick's little family were of this latter class, after the very early morning; for as some of them were to brave the weather at night, there seemed no reason why they should also brave it by day. As speedily as might be, Mr. Linden despatched his various matters of outdoor business, of which there were always more or less on his hands, and then came back and went into the sitting-room to look for his scholar. In two minutes she came in from the other door, with the stir of business and the cold morning fresh in her cheeks. But no one would guess—no one could ever guess, from Faith's brown dress and white rufffles, that she had just been flying about in the kitchen—to use Cindy's elegant illustration—"like shelled peas"; not quite so aimlessly, however. And her smiling glance at her teacher spoke of readiness for all sorts of other business.

The first thing she was set about was her French exercise, during the first few lines of which Mr. Linden stood by her and looked on. But then he suddenly turned away and went up stairs—returning however, presently, to take his usual seat by her side. He watched her progress silently, except for business words and instructions, till the exercise was finished and Faith had turned to him for further directions; then taking her hand he put upon its forefinger one of the prettiest things she had ever seen. It was an old-fashioned diamond ring; the stones all of a size, and of great clearness and lustre, set close upon each other all the way round; with just enough goldsmith's work to bind them together, and to form a dainty frill of filagree work above and below—looking almost like a gold line of shadow by that flashing line of light.

"It was my mother's, Faith," he said, "and she gave it to me in trust for whatever lady I should love as I love you."

Faith looked down at it with very, very grave eyes. Her head bent lower, and then suddenly laying her hands together on the table she hid her face in them; and the diamonds glittered against her temple and in contrast with the neighbouring soft hair.

One or two mute questions came there, before Mr. Linden said softly, "Faith!" She looked up with flushed face, and all of tears in her eyes but the tears; and her lip had its very unbent line. She looked first at him and then at the ring again. Anything more humble or more grave than her look cannot be imagined. His face was grave too, with a sort of moved gravity, that touched both the present and the past, but he did not mean hers should be.

"Now what will you do, dear child?" he said. "For I must forewarn you that there is a language of rings which is well established in the world."

"What—do you mean?" she said, looking alternately at the ring and him.

"You know what plain gold on this finger means?" he said, touching the one he spoke of. She looked at first doubtfully, then coloured and said "yes."

"Well diamonds on this finger are understood to be the avant-couriers of that."

Faith had never seen diamonds; but that was not what she was thinking of, nor what brought such a deep spot of colour on her cheeks. It was pretty to see, it was so bright and so different from the flush which had been there a few minutes before. Her eyes considered the diamonds attentively.

"What shall I do?" she said after a little.

"I don't know—you must try your powers of contrivance."

"I cannot contrive. I could keep ray glove on to-night; but I could not every day. Shall I give it back to you to keep for me?"—she said looking at it lovingly. "Perhaps that will be best!—What would you like me to do?"

"Anything but that," he said smiling,—"I should say that would be worst. You may wear a glove, or glove-finger—what you will; but there it must stay, and keep possession for me, till the other one comes to bear it company. In fact I suppose I could endure to have it seen!"

Her eyes went down to it again. Clearly the ring had a charm for Faith. And so it had, something beyond the glitter of brilliants. Of jewellers' value she knew little; the marketable worth of the thing was an enigma to her. But as a treasure of another kind it was beyond price. His mother's ring, on her finger—to Faith's fancy it bound and pledged her to a round of life as perfect, as bright, and as pure, as its own circlet of light-giving gems. That she might fill to him—as far as was possible—all the place that the once owner of the diamonds would have looked for and desired; and be all that he would look for in the person to whom the ring, so derived, had come. Faith considered it lovingly, with intent brow, and at last lifted her eyes to Mr. Linden by way of answer; without saying anything, yet with half her thoughts in her face. His face was very grave—Faith could see a little what the flashing of that ring was to him; but her look was met and answered with a fulness of warmth and tenderness which said that he had read her thoughts, and that to his mind they were already accomplished. Then he took up one of her books and opened it at the place where she was to read.

The morning, and the afternoon, went off all too fast, and the sun went down sullenly. As if to be in keeping with the expected change of work and company, the evening brought worse weather,—a keener wind—beginning to bestir itself in earnest, a thicker sky; though the ground was too snow-covered already to allow it to be very dark. With anybody but Mr. Linden, Mrs. Derrick would hardly have let Faith go out; and even as it was, she several times hoped the weather would moderate before they came home. Faith was so well wrapped up however, both in the house and in the sleigh, that the weather gave her no discomfort; it was rather exhilarating to be so warm in spite of it; and they flew along at a good rate, having the road pretty much to themselves.

"Faith," Mr. Linden said as they approached Judge Harrison's, "I cannot spend all the evening here with you—that is, I ought not. I had a message sent me this afternoon—too late to attend to then, which I cannot leave till morning. But if I see you safe by the fire, I hope Miss Harrison will take good care of you till I get back."

"Well," said Faith,—"I wouldn't meddle with your 'oughts,'—if I could. I hope you'll take care of Jerry!"—

"What shall I do with him?"

"Don't you know?" said Faith demurely.

"I suppose I ought to drive him so fast that he'll keep warm," said Mr.Linden. "What else?"

Faith's little laugh made a contrast with the rough night. "You had better let me get out to the fire," she said joy fully,—"or I sha'n't keep warm."

"You sha'n't?" he said bending down by her, as they reached the door,—"your face has no idea of being cold!—I'll take care of Jerry, child—if I don't forget him in my own pleasant thoughts."

Faith threw off her cloak and furs on the hall table where some others lay, and pulled off one glove.

"Keep them both on!" Mr. Linden said softly and smiling,—"enact Portia for once. Then if you are much urged, you can gracefully yield your own prejudices so far as to take off one."

She looked at him, then amusedly pulled on her glove again; and the door was opened for them into a region of warmth and brightness; where there were all sorts of rejoicings over them and against the cold night. Mr. Linden was by force persuaded to wait till after coffee before braving it again; and the Judge and his daughter fairly involved Faith in the meshes of their kindness. A very mouse Faith was to-night, as ever wore gloves; and with a little of a mouse's watchfulness about her, fancying cat's ears at every corner. A brown mouse too; she had worn only her finest and best stuff dress. But upon the breast of that, a bunch of snowy Laurustinus, nestling among green leaves, put forth a secret claim in a way that was very beautifying. The Judge and Miss Sophy put her in a great soft velvet chair and hovered round her, both of them conscious of her being a little more dainty than usual. Sophy thought perhaps it was the Laurustinus; her father believed it intrinsic.

The coffee came, and the doctor.

"I have something better for you than Portia to-night"—he said as he dealt out sugar,—"though not something better than muffins."

"Faith, my dear child," said Miss Sophy,—"you needn't be so ceremonious—none of us are wearing gloves."

Faith laughed and blushed and pulled off one glove.

"You are enacting Portia, are you?" said Dr. Harrison. "Even she would not have handled wigs with them. I see I have done mischief! But the harm I did you last night I will undo this evening. Ladies and Gentlemen!—I will give you, presently, the pleasure of hearing some lines written expressive of my wishes toward the unknown—but supposed—mistress of my life and affections. Any suggestions toward the bettering of them—I will hear."

"The bettering of what?" said Mrs. Somers,—"your life and affections?"

"I am aware, my dear aunt Ellen, you think the one impossible—the other improbable. I speak of bettering the wishes."

"'Unknown but supposed'"—said Mr. Linden. "'Item—She hath many nameless virtues'."

"That is not my wish," said the doctor gravely looking at him, "I think nameless virtues—deserve their obscurity!"

"What do you call your ideal?"

"Psyche,—" said the doctor, after a minute's sober consideration apparently divided between Mr. Linden's face and the subject.

"That is not so uncommon a name as Campaspe," said Mr. Linden, with a queer little gesture of brow and lips.

"Who is Campaspe?" said the doctor; while Faith looked, and Miss Essie's black eyes sparkled and danced, and everybody else held his coffee cup in abeyance.

"Did you never hear of my Campaspe?" said Mr. Linden, glancing up from under his brows.

"We will exchange civilities," said the doctor. "I should be very happy to hear of her."