"I don't know what I am going to do, Mr. Stoutenburgh. I am going to do nothing needless, not wilfully needless. But I am going to do it _without help_." She stood before him, with perfect gentleness but with as clear determination in both look and manner, making her meaning known. Mrs. Stoutenburgh laughed, the Squire stood looking at her in a smiling perplexity. Finally went straight to the point.

"Miss Faith, it is doubly needless that you should do anything more than you've been doing--everybody knows that's enough. In the first place, my dear, you are your father's child--and that's all that need be said, till my purse has a hole at both ends. In the next place--shall I tell her what she is in the next place, Mrs.

Stoutenburgh?"

"I fancy she knows," said his wife demurely.

"Well," said the Squire, "the next place is the first place, after all, and I haven't the right to do much but take care of her. But my dear, I have it under hand and seal to take better care than that."

"Than what, sir?"--said Faith with very deep colour, but unchanged bearing.

"I don't know yet," said Mr. Stoutenburgh, "any more than you know what you are going to do. Than to let you do anything that would grieve your dear friend and mine. If I could shew you the letter you'd understand, Miss Faith, but I'm not good at repeating. 'To take care of you as lie would'--that was part of it. And because I can't half carry out such instructions, is no sign I shouldn't do it a quarter." And the Squire stood as firm on his ground as Faith on hers.

No, not quite; for in her absolute gentleness there was a power of intent expressed, which rougher outlines could but give with less emphasis. The blood spoke for her eloquently before Faith could find any sort of words to speak for herself, brought now by more feelings than one; yet still she stood before the Squire, drooping her head a little, a soft statue of immoveability. Only once, just before she spoke, both Faith's hands went up to her brow to push the hair back; a most unusual gesture of agitation. But her look and her words were after the same steady fashion as before, aggravated by a little wicked smile, and Faith's voice sounded for sweetness like silver bells.

"You can't do it, Mr. Stoutenburgh!--not that way. Take care of me every other way;--but I'll not have--of that sort--a bit of help."--

The Squire looked at her with a mixture of amus.e.m.e.nt and perplexity.

"Pin to follow suit--" he said,--"but then I don't just know what Mr.

Linden would do in such a case! Can you tell me, Miss Faith?"

"It is no matter--it would not make any difference."

"What would not?" said the Squire innocently.

"Anything that he could do, sir;--so you have no chance." She coloured gloriously, but she smiled at him too with her last words.

"Well, Miss Faith," said Mr. Stoutenburgh, "I have my doubts as to the correctness of that first statement; but I'll tell you what _I_ shall do, my refractory young lady. If you set about anything outside the limits, I'll do my best to thwart you,--there!"

If Faith was not a match for him, there was no meaning in the laugh of her dark eye. But she only bade Mrs. Stoutenburgh an affectionate good night, took her bunch of white roses and Mr. Stoutenburgh's arm and set out to go home.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV.

Faith put her roses in water and listened half a minute to their strange silent messages. But after that she did a great deal of thinking. If all went well, and Mr. Linden got home safe from abroad,--and _this_ year were all she had to take care for, it was a very little matter to keep the year afloat, and very little matter, in her estimation, whatever she might have to do for the purpose. But those "ifs" no mortal could answer for. Faith did not look much at that truth, but she acted upon it; prayed over her thoughts and brought her plans into shape in very humble consciousness of it. And at the early breakfast the next morning she began to unfold them; which as Mrs.

Derrick did not like them, led on to a long talk; but Faith as usual had her way.

After some preliminary arrangements, and late in the day, she set off upon a long walk to Miss Bezac's. The slant beams of the summer sun were again upon the trim little house as Faith came up towards it.

Things were changed since she was there before! changed a good deal from the gay, joyous playtime of that visit. Mr. Linden in Europe, and she--"It is very well," thought Faith; "it might not have been good for me to have too much of such a time. Next year"--

Would if it brought joy, bring also an entering upon real life-work.

Faith knew it; she had realized long before with a thought of pain, that this summons to Europe had perhaps cut short her last time of absolute holiday pleasure. Mr. Linden could hardly now be more than a few days in Pattaqua.s.set before "next year" should come--and Faith did not stop to look at that; she never thought of it three minutes together. But life-work looked to her lovely;--what did not? Even the little pathway to Miss Bezac's door was pleasant. She was secretly glad of that other visit now, which had made this one so easy; though yet a sympathetic blush started as she went in.

"Why Faith!" said Miss Bezac,--"you're the _very_ person I was thinking of, and the very one I wanted to see! though I always do want to see you, for that matter, and don't often get what I want. Then I don't generally want much. But what a beautiful visit we had last time! Do you know I've been conjuring ever since how your dress should be made?

What'll it be, to begin with?--I always do like to begin with that--and it's bothered me a good deal--not knowing it, I mean. I couldn't arrange so well about the making. Because making white satin's one thing, and muslin's another,--and lace is different from 'em both--and indeed from most other things except spider's webs." All which pleasant and composing sentiments were uttered while Miss Bezac was clearing a chair for Faith, and putting her in it, and laying her various pieces of work together.

"I shouldn't be the least bit of help to you," said Faith who couldn't help laughing. "Can't it wait?"

"Why it'll have to," said Miss Bezac; "he said it must,--but that's no reason I should. I always like a reason for everything. It took me an age and a quarter to find out why Miss Essie De Staff always will wear ap.r.o.ns. She wears 'em out, too, in more ways than one, but that's good for me. Only there's so many ways of making them that I get in a puzzle. Now this one, Faith--would you work it with red flowers or green?--I said black, but she will have colours. You've got a good colour to-day--O don't you want some bread and milk?" said Miss Bezac, dropping the ap.r.o.n.

"No, thank you!" said Faith laughing again,--"not to-day. I should work that with green, Miss Bezac."

"But I'm afraid green won't do, with black above and black below," said Miss Bezac. "Two sides to things you know, Faith,--ap.r.o.ns and all the rest. I'd a great mind to work it with both, and then she couldn't say she'd rather have had 'tother. What things I _have_ worked in my day!--but my day's twilight now, and my eyes find it out."

"Do you have more to do than you can manage, generally?" said Faith.

"Why no, child, because I never take any more,--that's the way not to have things--troubles or ap.r.o.ns. I could have my hands full of both, but what's the use?--when one hasn't eyes--for sewing or crying. Mrs.

Stoutenburgh comes, and Mrs. Somers, and Miss Essie--and the landlord, and sometimes I let 'em leave me a job, and sometimes I don't,--send 'em, dresses, and all, off to Quilipeak."

"Then I'll tell you what you shall give me to-day--instead of bread and milk;--some of the work that you would send off. Don't you remember,"

said Faith, smiling quietly at Miss Bezac's eyes,--"you once promised to teach me to embroider waistcoats?"

"Why yes!" said Miss Bezac--"and so I will. But, my dear, are you sure he would wear it?--and after all, isn't it likely he'll get everything of that sort he wants, in Paris? And then the size!--who's to tell what that should be? To be sure you could do the fronts, and have them made up afterwards--and of course he _would_ wear anything you made.--I'll go right off and get my patterns."

Faith's confusion was startled. It was Miss Bezac's turn to look at her. She caught hold of the seamstress and brought her back to listening at least.

"Stop!--Miss Bezac!--you don't understand me. I want work!--I want work. I am not talking of making anything for anybody!--" Faith's eyes were truthful now, if ever they were.

"Well then--how can you work, if you won't make anything for anybody?

Want work, Faith?--you don't mean to say all that story about Sarn Deacon's _true?_ Do you know," said Miss Bezac, dropping into a chair and folding her hands, "when I heard that man had gone out of town, I said to myself, it would be a mercy if he never came back!"--which was the severest censure Miss Bezac ever pa.s.sed upon anybody. "I really did," she went on,--"and now he's come, and I s'pose I've got to say _that_'s a mercy too--and this,--though I wouldn't believe it last night."

"Then you have heard it?"

"My ears did, and they're pretty good ears too,--though I do get out of patience with them now and then."

"It's true," said Faith, "and it's nothing very dreadful. Mother and I have nothing to live upon but what I can make by b.u.t.ter; so I thought I would learn and take work of you, if you had it for me. I could soon understand it; and then you can let people bring you as much as they will--what you cannot do, I will do. I could think of nothing so pleasant;--no way to make money, I mean."

For a minute Miss Bezac sat quite still,--then she roused up.

"Nothing to live upon but b.u.t.ter!"--she said,--"well that's not much,--at least if there's ever so much of it you want something else.

And what you want you must have--if you can get it. And I can get you plenty of work--and it's a good thing to understand this sort of work too, for he might carry you off to some random place where they wear calico just as they can put it on--and that wouldn't suit you, nor him neither. I don't believe _this_'ll suit him though--and it don't me, not a bit. I'm as proud as a Lucifer match for anybody I love. But I'll make you proud of your work in no time. What'll you do first? embroider or st.i.tch or cut out or baste or fit?"

"What you please--what you think best. But Miss Bezac, what are you 'proud' about?"

"O I've my ways and means, like other folks," said Miss Bezac. "And you can do something more striking than ap.r.o.ns for people that don't need 'em. But I'm not going to give you _this_ ap.r.o.n, Faith--I sha'n't have her wearing your work all round town, and none the wiser. See--this is nice and light and pretty--like the baby it's for,--you like green, don't you? and so will your eyes."

"I'd as lieve have Miss Essie wear my work as eat my b.u.t.ter," said Faith. "But," she added more gravely,--"I think that what G.o.d gives me to do, I ought to be proud to do,--and I am sure I am willing. He knows best."

"Yes, yes, my dear--I believe that,--and so I do most things you say,"

answered Miss Bezac, bringing forth from the closet a little roll of green calico. "Now do you like this?--because if you don't, say so."

"I'll take this," said Faith, "and the next time I'll take the ap.r.o.n. I must do just as much as I can, Miss Bezac; and you must let me. Would you rather have the ap.r.o.n done first? I want Miss Essie's ap.r.o.n, Miss Bezac!"

"Well you can't have it," said Miss Bezac,--"and what you can't, you can't--all the world over. Begin slow and go on fast--that's the best way. And I'll take the best care of you!--lay you up in lavender,--like my work when it's done and isn't gone home."

So laughingly they parted, and Faith went home with her little bundle of work, well contented.