Say and Seal Volume Ii Part 70

"Endecott, I have wanted to see you dreadfully!" He looked pained--not merely, she knew, because of that: but the thought had no further expression.

"What has been the matter, my dear child?"

Faith's hand and head went down on his shoulder, as on a rest they had long coveted. "I am afraid you will be ashamed of me, Endecott,--but I will tell you. You know since I have been sick I have seen a great deal of Dr. Harrison--every day, and twice a day. I couldn't help it."

"No."

"And Endy,--he used to talk to me."

"Yes,"--the word was short and grave.

"I don't know why he did it; and I did not like it, and I could not help it. He would talk to me about Bible things."

"Well?--He used to do that long ago."

"And long ago you told me not to let him talk to me of his doubts and false opinions. Endecott, I didn't forget that--I remembered it all the while,--and yet he _did_ talk to me of those things, and I could not tell how to hinder it. And then, Endecott--the things were in my head--and I could not get them out!"--The manner of Faith's slow words told of a great deal of heart-work.

Mr. Linden did not start--but Faith felt the thrill which pa.s.sed over him, even to the fingers that held hers. Clearly _this_ was not what he expected.

"Faith,"--he said,--"has he touched _your_ faith?"

Faith's head drew nearer to his, with a manner half caressing, half shrinking, but the answer was a low, "No--never."

"Child!" he said with a sort of deep terror in his voice,--"I think I could not have borne that. I would rather he had won away your heart from me!"

Faith did not move, and seemed to herself scarce to breathe, such a spasm of various feelings was upon her heart. "It did not, Endy,"--she whispered.

He stooped to kiss her, as if that was the only answer he could give just then; merely saying, "Tell me all about it."

"I don't know how he did it"--Faith went on hesitatingly, as if the words were not easy to her;--"and always before I knew it was coming, it was said,--something that troubled me; almost every time he came. I don't know whether it troubled him too, or whether--But no matter what it was said for! He would tell me of some question that had occurred to him, or some difficulty that he could not understand; or else it was a contrary fact that somebody else had stated, or a cunning explanation that somebody had found out, or a discovery that was against the truth, or some train of consequences and inferences that would undermine it.

And these things were always so curiously put, that though I knew they were false, Endy--I never doubted that--I knew they were not the truth;--yet I could not shew him that they were not; and that hurt me.

It pained me by day and by night;--but that was not all." Faith hesitated. "These things never did touch my faith, Endecott--but it seems to me now as if they had shut it up in a fortress and besieged it. I hadn't a bit of comfort of it except by s.n.a.t.c.hes--only I knew it was there--for ever so long. When I tried to read the Bible, often I could think of nothing but these thoughts would push themselves in between--like a swarm of gnats humming in my ears;--and often I had no good of prayer,"--she added in a yet lower voice.

"Have you now?" Mr. Linden said. "Has that pa.s.sed away?"

She hesitated again, perhaps struggling with some emotion which she would not let get the better of her. Her words were quiet. "It is pa.s.sing. Earth and sky are all cleared since you came--as I knew they would be."

Mr. Linden was silent and motionless,--looking down at her, curbing as he best might the grief and indignation which were by turns as much as he could manage. He did not speak for some time.

"I think, Endy," said Faith, "I shouldn't have felt so if I had been well and strong. I am almost sure it was partly that. I wasn't strong in mind or body--and how I wanted you!"

"And where _was_ my place in the world if not here!"

"I didn't want you till you came," she said in a very sweet low tone.

"Ah, child! you do not know what you are talking of,--nor what a snare was spread for you."

"Do you think that, Endy?" she said in a scared way.

"What else?"

"But he always seemed--I always hoped, he was really interested in those things himself."

"No man carries truth in one hand and falsehood in the other," said Mr.

Linden sternly.

Faith was sitting upright, looking very thoughtful and very grieved.

"But you do not think, Endecott,--you do not think--there was no truth in it?"

His face caught her grieved look,--he answered slowly, "Child, you must leave all that. I only know that he tried to get rid of every barrier in his way."

"And how in this, Endecott?--What?"

"He doubtless thought your belief stood between him and your favour."

"And that if he could change that!"--Faith's head sank with a low word of pain. Mr. Linden was silent. She looked up again, with a face of yearning sorrow which it was a pity perhaps Dr. Harrison could not see.

"And now," she said, "we never can do anything more for him!"

But Mr. Linden was not ready for the wish,--the sternness of his face did not relax this time even under the power of hers. Until as he looked, with the sight of all her loveliness and the thought of all the wrong done her, came the keen realization of why it had been done;--then his look changed and saddened.

"Endecott," she said after a while, humbly, "do you think any one who loves Christ could be brought to disbelieve him?"

"No--not really and permanently. The promise says, 'Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him.'"

"Then what did you fear so much for me, Endy?"

She had cause for the question; he had spoken and looked and listened with that intentness of sense which shews some hidden anxiety,--measuring jealously every look and word of hers by some old well-remembered standard.

"You remember, dear Faith," he said, "that when the thieves set upon one of the pilgrims, though he made out to keep his jewels yet they took from him all his spending money; and in the want of that he went to the end of his life."

But the smile that answered him was an answering smile. Though there was sorrow in it, and humbleness, and even fear, its fullest burdens were the free guaranty that she was not hurt, and an untold wealth of affection, that almost breathed out of the moving and parted lips.

"Endy,--it was only a cloud--I knew at the time it would scatter away just as soon as you came. I knew it was a cloud, but I wasn't well."

Mr. Linden lifted her face, gazing at it intently. "My little Mignonette," he said, "are you sure that you 'hold fast the beginning of your confidence?' Are you sure he has not dimmed the light that used to s.h.i.+ne so bright in your heart?--that he has not made heaven seem less real, nor the promises of less effect? Are you sure, Faith?--If he has, find it out now!"

She had never seen him look so--never heard him speak with such earnestness. The words seemed to come from the very depths of his heart; freighted not only with their own moment, but with the pain which the raising such questions had stirred in him. Faith knew little of even the pictures of angels--if she had she might have thought of one then. Her child nature would have thrown itself into his arms to give the answer; as it was, the woman drew a little back and spoke with veiled eyes.

"If he has, I don't know it, Endecott. It was a cloud that hindered all enjoyment from me,--I knew at the time it was no more. It is gone, or almost. It was wrong to be on me at all--but I was weak and not well."

Her speech was very humble, and the innocent trembling of the lips was as one might answer an angel.

His eyes changed as she spoke, watching her still, but less clearly; and bringing her where she had not dared to place herself, Mr. Linden kissed her again and again--as one rejoices over what has been lost or in deadly peril. Not many words--and those low and half uttered, of deep thanksgiving, of untold tenderness. But Faith hid her face in her hands, and though she did not shed any tears, shook and trembled.

"This will not do, for you nor for me," said Mr. Linden.

"Mignonette--have my words grieved you? they need not--there was not a breath in them harsher than a summer wind."

"I didn't think it, Endy."

"What are you thinking of, my child?"