Meanwhile Mr. Linden had received and read the following despatch, and studied and taught before and after it as best he might.

_Pattaqua.s.set_, _April_, 18--.

"MY DEAR LINDEN,

I do not know what impulse prompts me to write this letter to you--A very strong one, probably, that makes fools of men--Yet even with my eyes open to this, I go on.

I have unwittingly become your rival. Not in fact, indeed, but in character. I have been so unfortunate as to love a person you are somehow concerned in--and before I knew that you had any concern of the kind. That is a very simple story, and only one to be smothered--not to be brought to open air,--were it all. But the course of the months past, which has too late brought me this knowledge of myself, has also made me believe that--had I a fair field--were there no contrary ties or fetters of conscience--I should not love in vain. What those ties are I know nothing--I have not asked--but the existence of _some_ obligation I have been given to understand. With certain natures of truth and duty, that is a barrier impa.s.sable. You would be safe, were I to act out of honour.

I am a fool, I believe; but I am not yet such a fool as not to know that there is but one man in the world to whom I could write such a confession. Nothing better prompts it than pure selfishness, I am aware--but with me that is strong. I have that notion of you that you would not care to keep what you held _only_ by priority of claim. I may be wrong in the supposition upon which I am going--yet it is my chance for life and I cannot yield it up. That were the lady _free_--in conscience as well as in fact--she might be induced to look favourably on me. I ought to add, that I believe such a consciousness has never shaped itself to her mind--the innocence with which she may at first have entered into some sort of obligation, would not lessen or alter its truth or stringency to her pure mind. The game is in your own hands, Linden--so is

Your unworthy friend

JULIUS HARRISON.

P.S.--One thing further I ought to add--that a somewhat delicate state of nerves and health, over which I have been for some time watching, would make any rash broaching of this subject very inexpedient and unsafe. I need not enforce this hint."

CHAPTER XXVI.

The spring opened from day to day, and the apple blossoms were bursting. Mr. Linden might soon be looked for, and one warm May afternoon Faith went in to make his room ready. It was the first day she had been fit for it, and she was yet so little strong that she must take care of her movements. With slow and unable fingers she did her pleasant work, and then very tired, sat down in her old reading window-seat and went into a long dream-meditation. It was pleasant for a while, in harmony with the summer air and the robins in the maple; it got round at last into the train of the last weeks. A fruitless reverie ended in Faith's getting very weary; and she went back to her own room to put herself on the couch cushions and go to sleep.

Sleep held on its way after a peaceful fashion, yet not so but that Faith's face shewed traces of her thoughts. Mrs. Derrick came softly and watched her, and the spring air blew back the curtains and fanned her, and brushed her hair with its perfumed wings; and one or two honey bees buzzed in and sought honey from the doctor's flowers, and forsook them again for the fields.

Up there at last, following Mrs. Derrick, came Mr. Linden. With few reasons asked or told of his sudden appearance; with little said even of Faith's illness but the mere fact, he went up to the sunlit room and there staid. Not restingly in Faith's easy-chair, but standing by the low fire-place, just where he could have the fullest view of her. Mrs.

Derrick came and went,--he never stirred. The sunbeams came and went--wrapped Faith in their bright folds and lay at his feet, then began to withdraw altogether. They had shewed him the unwontedly pale and worn face, and lit up the weary lines in which the lips lay asleep; and just when the sunbeams had left it all, Mr. Linden became aware that two dark eyes had softly opened and were gazing at him as if he were a figure in a dream. So perhaps for a minute he seemed, touched with the light as he was, which made a glorification in the brown locks of his hair and gleamed about "pleasant outlines" standing as fixed and still as a statue. But they were not statue eyes which looked into hers, and Faith's dreamlike gaze was only for a moment. Then every line of her face changed with joy--and she sprang up to hide it in Mr.

Linden's arms. He stood still, holding her as one holds some rescued thing. For Faith was too weak to be just herself, and weariness and gladness had found their own very unusual expression in an outflow of nervous tears.

Something seemed to have taken away Mr. Linden's power of words. He did place her among the cushions again, but if every one of her tears had been balm to him he could not have let them flow more unchecked.

Perhaps the recollection that they _were_ tears came suddenly; for with very sudden sweet peremptoriness he said,

"Faith, hush!--Are you so glad to see me?"

She was instantly still. No answer.

"What then?" The intonation was most tender,--so, rather than by any playfulness, cancelling his own question. She raised her head, she had dismissed her tears, yet the smile with which her glance favoured him was a sort of rainbow smile, born of clouds.

"That is a very struggling and misty sunbeam!" said Mr. Linden. "Is that why I was kept out of its range so long?"

Faith's head drooped. Her forehead lay lightly against him; he could not see what sort of a smile she wore.

"Whereupon it goes into seclusion altogether. Mignonette, look up and kiss me--how much longer do you suppose I can wait for that?"

He had no longer to wait at that time, and the touch of her lips was with a tremulous gladness which was tale-telling. And then the position of the lowered head and the hand which kept its place on his shoulder shewed him that she was clinging, though with shy eagerness, like a bird that with tired wing has found her nest. With one of those quick impulses which to-day seemed to have taken the place of his usual steadiness, Mr. Linden bent down and blessed her; in words such as she never remembered from other lips. Not many indeed, but deep and strong,--as the very depth and strength of his own human and religious nature; words that stilled Faith's heart as with the shadowing of peace; so that for the time she could not wonder, but only rest. They made her tremble a moment; then she rested as if the words had been a spell. But the rest wrought action. Faith drew back presently and looked up at Mr. Linden to see how he looked. And then she could not tell. Her puzzled eyes found nothing to remark upon.

"Endy--I thought you would not be here for two or three days yet."

"It was nearly impossible. My child, when did you get sick?"

"O--a good while ago."

"'A good while,'"--Mr. Linden repeated with grave emphasis. "Well do you think it would have lengthened the time to have me come and see you?"

Faith's heart was too full, and her answer, looking down, was a tremulous, quiet and tender,

"I don't think it would."

"Then wherefore was I not permitted?"

"I didn't want you to come then."

"And again, wherefore?"

"Why you know, Endy. I couldn't want you till you were ready to come."

"I should have been most emphatically ready! What sort of medical attendance have you had?"

"Good, you know. I had Dr. Harrison."

"And he did his duty faithfully?"

"I guess he always does--his medical duty," said Faith somewhat quietly.

"Duty is a sort of whole-souled thing, to my mind," said Mr. Linden.

"Do you think all his ministrations did you good?"

There was pain and wonder, and even some fear in Faith's eyes as she looked at Mr. Linden.

"They ought not to have done me any harm"--she said meekly.

"_Did_ they, Faith? I thought--" Very softly and thoughtfully his fingers came about her hair, his eyes looking at her, Faith could hardly tell how. The pain of those weeks stung her again--the sorrow and the shame and the needlessness. Faith's head sunk again upon Mr.

Linden's breast, for the tears came bitterly; though he could not know that. He only knew that they came. Holding her with a strong arm--as if against some one else; soothing her with grave kisses, not with words, Mr. Linden waited for her to speak.