Harrison spoke under some degree of agitation, but both she and her father failed in no kind or grateful shew of feeling towards their guest.
"How did it happen, Mr. Linden?" she said when she had done in this kind all she could.
He said he had not seen the accident—only its results.
"I can't imagine how Faith got there," said Miss Harrison. "She saw the screen coming over on Nero, I suppose, and thought she could save the lamp—she made one spring from the doorway, he says, to where he stood. And in putting up her hand to the lamp, I suppose that horrid fluid ran down her arm and on her shoulder—when Nero put out the lamp he must have loosened the fastening; it went all over her shoulder. But she'll be well to-morrow night, Julius says."
"Who's with her now, my dear?" said the Judge.
"O Julius is with her—he said he'd stay with her till I came back—she wanted Mr. Linden to know she would go home with him. Now, Mr. Linden, won't you send her word back that you'll take care of Mrs. Derrick if she'll stay?"
"I will go up and see her, Miss Harrison."
That was anticipated however, by the entrance of the doctor; who told his sister Miss Derrick wanted her help, then came gravely to the table, poured out a glass of wine and drank it. His father asked questions, which he answered briefly. Miss Derrick felt better—she was going to get up and come down stairs.
"But ought she to be suffered to go out to-night, Julius?—such a night?"
"Certainly not!"
The Judge argued the objections to her going. The doctor made no answer. He walked up and down the room, and Mr. Linden stood still. Ten or fifteen minutes passed; and then the door opened softly and Faith, all dressed, cloaked, and furred, came in with her hood, followed by her friend. Miss Sophy looked very ill satisfied. Faith's face was pale enough, but as serenely happy as release from pain can leave a face that has no care behind. A white embodiment of purity and gentleness she looked. The doctor was at her side instantly, asking questions. Mr. Linden did not interrupt him,—he had met her almost before the doctor, and taken her hand with a quietness through which Faith could perceive the stir of feelings that might have swept those of all the others out into the snow. But he held her hand silently until other people had done their questions—then simply asked if she was quite sure she was fit to ride home? Then, with that passing of the barrier, look and voice did change a little.
"I mean to go,"—she said without looking at him,—"if you'll please to take me."
"She ought not,—I am sure she ought not!" exclaimed Miss Harrison in much vexation. "She is just able to stand."
"You know," Mr. Linden said,—not at all as if he was urging her, but merely making a statement he thought best to make; "I could even bring your mother here, in a very short time, if you wished it."
"O I don't wish it. I can go home very well now."
He gave her his arm without more words. Miss Harrison and the Judge followed regretfully to the door; the doctor to the sleigh.
"Are you well wrapped up?" he asked.
"I have got all my own and all Sophy's furs," said Faith in a glad tone of voice.
"Take care of yourself," he said;—"and Mr. Linden, you must take care of her—which is more to the purpose. If I had it to do, this ride would not be taken. Linden—I'll thank you another time."
They drove off. But as soon as they were a few steps from the house, Mr. Linden put his arm about Faith and held her so that she could lean against him and rest; giving her complete support, and muffling up the furs about her lightly and effectually, till it was hardly possible for the cold air to win through; and so drove her home. Not with many words,—with only a whispered question now and then, whether she was cold, or wanted any change of posture. The wind had lulled, and it was much milder, and the snow was beginning to fall softly and fast; Faith could feel the snow crystals on his face whenever it touched hers. Mr. Linden would have perhaps chosen to drive gently, as being easier for her, but the thick air made it needful. Once only he asked any other question.—
"Faith—is my care of you in fault, that it lets you come home?"
"No, I think not," she said;—"you hold me just so nicely as it is possible to be! and this snow-storm is beautiful." Which answer, though she might not know it, testified to her need of precisely the care he was giving her.
"Are you suffering much now, dear child?"
"Not at all. I am only enjoying. I like being out in such a storm as this.—Only I am afraid mother is troubled."
"No—I sent Reuben down some time ago, to answer her questions if she was up, and to have a good fire ready for you."
"O that's good!" she said. And then rested, in how luxurious a rest! after exertion, and after anxiety, and after pain; so cared for and guarded. She could almost have gone to sleep to the tinkle of Jerry's bells; only that her spirit was too wide awake for that and the pleasure of the time too good to be lost. She had not all the pleasure to herself—Faith could feel that, every time Mr. Linden spoke or touched her; but what a different atmosphere his mind was in, from her quiet rest! Pain had quitted her, but not him, though the kinds were different. Truly he would have borne any amount of physical pain himself, to cancel that which she had suffered,—there were some minutes of the ride when he would have borne it, only to lose the thought of that. But Faith knew nothing of it all, except as she could feel once or twice a deep breath that was checked and hushed, and turned into some sweet low-spoken word to her; and her rest was very deep. So deep, that the stopping of the sleigh at last, was an interruption.
The moment Jerry's bells rang their little summons at the door, the door itself opened, and from the glimmering light Reuben ran out to take the reins.
"Is Mrs. Derrick up?" Mr. Linden asked, when the first inquiry aboutFaith had been answered.
"I don't know, sir. I told her you wore afraid Miss Faith would take cold without a fire in her room—and she let me take up wood and make it; and then she said she wasn't sleepy, and she'd take care it didn't go out. I haven't seen her since."
"Thank you, Reuben—now hold Jerry for me,—I shall keep you here to-night," Mr. Linden said as he stepped out. And laying his hand upon the furs and wrappers, he said softly,—"Little Esquimaux—do you think you can walk to the house?"
"O yes!—certainly."
A little bit of a laugh answered her—the first she had heard since Campaspe; and then she was softly lifted up, and borne into the house over the new-fallen snow as lightly as if she had been a snowflake herself. The snow might lay its white feathers upon her hood, but Faith felt as if she were in a cradle instead of a snow-storm. She was placed in the easy chair before the sitting-room fire, and her hood and furs quickly taken off. "How do you feel?" Mr. Linden asked her.
She looked like one of the flakes of snow herself, for simplicity and colour; but there was a smile in her eyes and lips that had come from a climate where roses blow.
"I feel nicely.—Only a little bruised and battered feeling, which isn't unpleasant."
"Will you have anything?—a cup of tea?—that might do you good."
Faith looked dubious at the cup of tea; but then rose up and said it would disturb her mother, and she would just go and sleep.
"It won't disturb her a bit,"—Mr. Linden said, reseating her,—"sit
