Say and Seal Volume Ii Part 106

"Tell me what I am like, Endecott."

"What sort of consistency is that--to coax me when I don't tell you, and scold me when I do?"

"It's curiosity, I suppose," said Faith. "But it's no matter. I saw all that strange place, Broadway, Endecott; we drove through the whole length of it."

"Well?" said Mr. Linden, throwing himself down in the arm-chair and looking gravely up at her. But then the lips parted, not only to smile but to sing a wild Scotch tune.

"O wat ye wha that lo'es me, And has my heart in keeping?

O sweet is she that lo'es me, As dews o' summer weeping, In tears the rosebuds steeping; O that's the la.s.sie o' my heart, My la.s.sie ever dearer; O that's the queen o' womankind, And ne'er a ane to peer her!"

"If thou hast heard her talking, And thy attention's plighted, That ilka body talking But her by thee is slighted, And thou art all delighted.

O that's the la.s.sie o' my heart, My la.s.sie ever dearer; O that's the queen o' womankind, And ne'er a ane to peer her!"

"Did you see anybody like that in Broadway, Faith?"

Blus.h.i.+ng how she blushed! but she would not say a word nor stir, to interrupt the singing; so she stood there, casting a shy look at him now and then till he had stopped, and then coming round behind him, she laid her head down upon his shoulder. Mr. Linden laughed, caressing the pretty head in various ways.

"My dear little bird!" he said. Then presently--"Mignonette, _I_ have been looking at fur cloaks."

"Don't do such a thing again, Endy."

"I shouldn't, if I could have quite suited myself to-day."

"I don't want it. I can bear the cold as well as you."

"Let it make up for something which you do want and haven't got, then; you must bear the cold Polar fas.h.i.+on. But at present, there is the dinner-bell."

They went down; but with the fossil and the fur, Faith was almost taken out of New York; and astonished Mr. Pulteney once or twice more in the course of the evening, to Mr. Linden's amus.e.m.e.nt.

CHAPTER XLVI.

The Hudson river railway, on a summer Sat.u.r.day afternoon. Does everybody know it? If not, let me tell the people who have not tried it, or those more unfortunate ones who are tried by it, and driven into the depths of newspapers and brown literature by the steam pressure of mountains, clouds, and river, that it is glorious. Not on a dusty afternoon, but when there has been or is a shower. Not the locomotive, or the tender, or the cars, though the long chain has a sort of grandeur, as its links wind into the bays and round the promontories, express. But get a river-side seat, and keep your patience up the lumbered length of Tenth Avenue, and restrain your impatience as the train goes at half-stroke along that first bit of road where people are fond of getting on the track; watch the other sh.o.r.e, meantime, or the instructive market gardens on this; then feel the quickened speed, as the engine gets her "head;" then use your eyes. Open your windows boldly; people don't get cold from our North river air; never mind the sun; hold up a veil or a fan; only look. See how the sh.o.r.e rises into the Palisades, up which the March of Improvement finds such uncertain footing: how the rising points of hill are rounded with shadow and sunlight, and green from river to crown. See how the clouds roll softly up on the further side, giving showers here and there--how the white-winged vessels sail and careen and float. Look up the river from Peekskill, and see how the hills lock in and part. Think of the train of circ.u.mstances that rushed down Arnold's point that long ago morning, where a so different train now pa.s.ses. Mark the rounding outlines of the green Highlands, and as you near Garrisons' let your eye follow the sunbeam that darts down the little mill creek just opposite the tunnel.

Then on through those beloved hills, till they fall off right and left, and you are out upon Newburgh bay in the full glory of the sunset.

After this (if you are tired looking) you may talk for a while, till the blue heads of the Catskill catch your eye and hold it.

The blue range was a dim outline--hardly that--when Faith reached her journey's end that night. She could hear the dash of the river, and see the brilliant stars, but all details waited for morning; and the morning was Sunday. Balmy, cloudless, the very air put Faith almost in Elysium; and between dreamy enjoyment, and a timid sense of her own new name and position, she would have liked for herself an oriole's nest on one of the high branches. Failing that, she seemed--as her hostess and again an old friend of Mr. Linden's told him--"like a very rosebud; as sweet, and as much shut up to herself."

Truth to tell, she kept something of the same manner and seeming next day. The house was very full, and of a very gay set of people; of whom Faith's friend, Mr. Motley, was one. Faith met their advances pleasantly, but she was daintily shy. And besides, the scene and the time were full of temptations to dream over the out-of-door beauty. The people amused her, but often she would rather have lost them in the hills or the sunset; and was for various reasons willing that others should talk while she looked.

So pa.s.sed the first two days, and the third brought an excursion, which kept the whole party out till lunch-time. But towards the end of the day Mr. Linden was witness to a little drama which let him know something more of Faith than he had just seen before.

It was near the time of dressing for dinner. Mr. Linden was already dressed and had come to the library, where, in a deep recess on one side of the window, he was busy with a piece of study. The window was very large, and opened upon a green terrace; and on the terrace, in a garden chair, just outside the open window, sat Faith; quietly and intensely, he knew, enjoying the broad river and the mountain range that lay blue in the sunlight a few miles beyond; all in the soft still air of the summer day. She distracted Mr. Linden's thoughts from his study. He could see her perfectly, though he was quite out of her view.

She was in one of the dainty little morning dresses he had sent her from the place of pretty things; nothing could be more simple, and it suited her; and she looked about as soft and still as the day.

Meanwhile some gentlemen had entered the library, and drew near the window. Faith was just out of their range, and Mr. Linden was completely hid in his recess, or doubtless their remarks would have had a different bearing The remarks turned upon Faith, who was here as well as in New York an object of curiosity to those who had known Mr.

Linden; and one of the speakers expressed himself as surprised that "Linden" should have married her.

"Wouldn't have thought it,--would you?" said Mr. Motley. "To be sure; he's able to do all the talking."

"She does very well for the outside," said another. "Might satisfy anybody. Uncommon eyes."

"Eyes!" said Mr. Motley. "Yes, she has eyes!--and a mouth. I suppose Linden gets some good of it--if n.o.body else does. And after all, to find a woman that is all eyes and no tongue, is, as you remark, uncommon."

"She's not quite stylish enough for him," said a third. "I thought Linden would have married a brilliant woman."

"He'll be a brilliant man, if you tell him that," said Mr. Motley.

"Corruscations, and so forth. I never thought I should see him bewitched--even by a rose leaf monopoly."

The conversation was interrupted. It had not been one which Mr. Linden could very well break; all he could do was to watch Faith. He could see her slightly-bent head and still face, and the colour which grew very bright upon the cheek nearest him. She was motionless till the last words were broken off; then, with a shy movement of one hand to her cheek, covering it, she sprang away, as lightly as any bird she was ever named after.

Mr. Linden was detained in the library, where, as the dinner-hour drew near, other members of the family began to gather. A group of these were round the table, discussing an engraving; when Mr. Linden saw Faith come in. He was no longer in the dangerous recess; but Faith did not come near him; she joined the party at the table. Mr. Linden watched her. Faith's dressing was always a quiet affair; to-day somehow the effect was very lovely. She wore a soft muslin which flowed about her in full draperies; with a breast-knot of roses on its white folds.

Faith rarely put on flowers that Mr. Linden had not given her. To-day was an exception; and her white robe with no setting off but those roses and her rich hair, was faultless. Not merely that; the effect was too striking to be absolutely quiet; all eyes were drawn to her.

The gentlemen whom she had heard speak were among the party; and no eyes were more approving. Mr. Linden watched, as he might, without being seen to watch. Faith joined not only the party, but the conversation; taking her place in it frankly; showing no unwillingness to give opinions or to discuss them, and no desire to avoid any subject that came up. She was taking a new stand among these strangers. Mr.

Linden saw it, and he could guess the secret reason; no one else could guess that there was anything to give a reason for, so coolly, so naturally, it was done. But the stand was taken. Faith had not stepped in the least out of her own bounds; she had abated not a whit of her extreme modesty. She was never more herself, only it was as if she had laid down a self-indulgent shyness which she had permitted herself before, and allowed Mr. Linden's friends to become acquainted with Mr.

Linden's wife. But with herself! Her manner to-day was exceedingly like her dress; the plainest simplicity, the purest quality, and the roses blus.h.i.+ng over all. It fascinated the gentlemen, every one of them. They found that the little demure piece of gravity could talk; and talk with a truth and freshness of thought too, which was like the rest of her, uncommon and interesting, soft and free, at once. Faith went off to dinner on the arm of one of her maligners, and was very busy with company all the evening after, having little to do with Mr. Linden.

She had escaped to her room earlier than he, however; and when he came in she was sitting thoughtfully before the open window. She rose up directly, and came to him, with the usual smile, and with a little hidden triumph dancing in her eyes, and an odd wistful look besides of affection and humility. She only came close to him for a caress, without speaking. Mr. Linden took her face in both hands and looked at it--a beautiful smile mingling with the somewhat moved look of his own.

"What a child you are!"

The colour rushed all over Faith's cheeks.

"Why?--" she whispered. The answer to which, cheeks and brow, and lips, might spell out as best they could.

"Do you know why I did not come with your flowers, Mignonette?"--"Before dinner?--no. I got some for myself."

"I was on my way for them, and was entrapped and held fast. My little Mignonette! I never thought to have you put your hand to your cheek in that way again!"

"Again, Endecott! Who told you?" said Faith, as usual jumping to conclusions.

"Who told me what, my beauty?"

Faith's eye fell in doubt, then looked up searchingly.

"I believe you know everything; but you don't look displeased. How _did_ you know, Endecott?"--"I saw and heard. And have seen and heard since," he added, smiling.

A question or two found out exactly how it had been; and then Faith put the inquiry, simple to quaintness, "Did I do better to-day?"--"If you are so anxious for me--" he said, stroking back her hair. "They did not deserve to have one of my wife's words, but her words were admirable."

It was worth while to see Faith's cheeks.

"Will you trust me to ride with Mr. Middleton to-morrow?" she asked presently, smiling.

"No. Yes--I will trust you but not him."