Say and Seal, Volume I

Half prudently, half wickedly, Faith without answering took the book from the table and put it in Mr. Deacon's hand.

The Squire's face looked like anything but a grain field in spring then—it was more like a stubble in November; for opening the book midway and finding no help there, he turned to the title page and found the only English words in the book, in very legible black ink.

"So!" he said—"it's his'n, is it!"

"Yes, it is mine," said Mr. Linden,—"almost any man may have so much of a library as that."

The Squire glanced suspiciously at Faith, as if he still believed she had something to do with it; but he did not dare press the matter.

"Miss Faith," he said, calling up a smile that was meant to do retrospective work, "have you heard tell of the queer things they've found down to Mattabeeset?"

"What things, Mr. Deacon?"

"Some sort o' bird's been makin' tracks down there," said the Squire leaning back in his chair, with the look of one who has now got the game in his own hands; "makin' tracks criss-cross round; and they do say the size on 'em might have come out of the ark, for wonder."

"How large are they, Mr. Deacon? and what sort of bird is it?"

"Well if I was a descendant of Noah, I s'pose I could tell you," said the Squire with increased satisfaction,—"I'm sorry I can't, as it is. But if you're curious, Miss Faith (and ladies always is in my experience) I'll drive you down there any day or any time of day. I want to see 'em myself, that's a fact, and so does Cilly. Now Miss Faith, name the day!"

The shortest possible smile on Mr. Linden's face at this sudden and earnest request, did not help Faith to an answer; but the Squire was happily forgetful for the moment that there were more than two people in the room, and leaning towards Faith he repeated,

"The sooner the quicker, always, in such cases! because folks can never tell what may happen."

"No," said Faith, "they cannot—especially about weather; and I have got some particular work to attend to at home, Mr. Deacon, before the weather changes. I wish you and Cecilia would go down and bring us a report. I should like that. But for the present Mr. Skip and I have something to do."

"It's good you want Mr. Skip, for I don't," said the Squire, stiffening a little. "Is that one of the new-fashioned ways of saying you won't go, Miss Faith?"

"What's your objection to Mr. Skip?" said Faith pleasantly. "I am glad nobody else wants him, for we do."

"Well, I say I'm glad you've got him," said the Squire, relenting under the power of Faith's voice. "But what ails you Miss Faith, to go tackin' round like one o' them schooners against the wind? Aint it a straight question as to whether you'll take an excursion to Mattabeeset?"

"Very straight," said Faith smiling and speaking gently. "And I thoughtI gave a straight answer."

"Blessed if I can see which road it took!" said Squire Deacon,—"save and except it didn't seem to be the right one. 'No' 's about as ugly a road as a man can foller. Guess I spoke too late, after all," said the Squire meditatively. "How's your furr'n news, Mr. Linden? Get it regular?"

"Yes—" said Mr. Linden,—"making due allowance for the irregularity of the steamers."

Faith looked up in no little astonishment, and took the eye as well as the ear effect of this question and answer; then said quietly,

"Have you any business in the post-office, Mr. Deacon?"

"Not a great deal, Miss Faith," said the Squire, with a blandness on one side of his face which but poorly set off the other. "I go down for the paper once a week, and 'lection times maybe oftener, but I don't do much in the letter line. Correspondence never was my powder magazine. I shouldn't know where to put two or three femin_ine_ letters a week—if I got 'em."

If he had got what somebody wanted to give him at that moment!—Squire Deacon little knew what risk he ran, nor how much nearer he was to a powder magazine than he ever had been in his life.

"A sure sign that nobody will ever trouble you in that way," Faith said somewhat severely But the Squire was obtuse.

"Well I guess likely," he said, "and it's just as good they don't. I shouldn't care about living so fur from any body I was much tied up in—or tied up to, neither. I can't guess, for one, how you make out to be contented here, Mr. Linden."

"How do you know that I do, sir?"

There was a little pause at that—it was a puzzling question to answer; not to speak of a slight warning which the Squire received from his instinct. But the pause was pleasantly ended.

"Faith!" said a gentle voice in the passage—"open the door, child—I've got both hands full."

Which call Mr. Linden appropriated to himself, and not only opened the door but brought in the great dish of smoking chestnuts. Faith ran away to get plates for the party, with one of which in defiance of etiquette she served first Mr. Linden; then handed another to the Squire.

"I hope they are boiled right, Mr. Linden. Have you seen any chestnuts yet this year, Mr. Deacon?"

"I've seen some—but they warn't good for nothing," said the Squire rather sourly. "Thank you, Miss Faith, for your plate, but I guess I'll go."

"Why stay and eat some chestnuts, Squire Deacon!" said Mrs. Derrick."Those are Neanticut chestnuts—firstrate too."

"I don't like Neanticut chestnuts—" said Squire Deacon rising—"never did,—they're sure to be wormy. Good night, Miss Faith—good night, Mr. Linden. Mrs. Derrick, this room's hot enough to roast eggs."

"Why the windows are open!" said Mrs. Derrick—"and we might have had the curtains drawn back, too, but I always feel as if some one was looking in."

Which remark did not delay the Squire's departure, and Mrs. Derrick followed him to the door, talking all the way.

During which little 'passage' Faith's behaviour again transcended all rules. For she stood before the dish of chestnuts, fingering one or two, with a somewhat unsteady motion of the corners of her mouth; and then put both her hands to her face and laughed, her low but very merriment-speaking laugh.

"Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said, "I think Job was an extraordinary man!—and the chestnuts are not so bad as they are reported, after all."

Faith became grave, and endeavoured to make trial of the chestnuts, without making any answer.

"Child," said Mrs. Derrick returning, "I don't think the Squire felt just comfortable—I wonder if he's well?"

Which remark brought down the house.

"By the way—" said Mr. Linden looking up,—"did you lose a bow of ribband from your sunbonnet, the other day at Neanticut?"

Faith owned to having lost it somewhere.

"I found it somewhere—" said Mr. Linden with a rather peculiar look, as he took out the bow of ribband.

"Where did you find it, Mr. Linden?"

"I found it here—in Pattaquasset."

"Where?"

But he shook his head at the question.

"I think I will not tell you—you may lose it again."

And all Faith's efforts could get no more from him.

CHAPTER XIII

The Thursday of the great school celebration arrived; and according to Faith's unexpressed wish, the weather had continued warm. It was the very luxury of October. A day for all the senses to disport themselves and revel in luxurious beauty. But the mind of Pattaquasset was upon the evening's revel, and upon the beauty of white cambric and blue ribbands. The mind of Faith Derrick was on somewhat else.

"Mother," she said, "do you know there must be a fire up in Mr.Linden's room as soon as the weather gets cold?"

"Of course, child."

"Well there is nothing in the world up there to put wood in."

"It used to lie on the floor—" said Mrs. Derrick, as if the past might possibly help the future. "That does make a muss."

"It's not going to lie on the floor now," said Faith. "I am going to get Mr. Skip to make me a box, a large box, with a top—and I will cover it with some carpet or dark stuff, if you'll give me some, mother. It must be dark, because the wood of the room is. I am going to stuff the top for a seat, and it will look very nice."

"Anything does that you take hold of," said her mother. "Yes, child, I'll give you all I've got,—you can look for yourself and take what you like best."

The immediate work of the day was to 'clear ship'—in other words, to do all the day's work in the former part thereof, so as to leave time for the unwonted business of the afternoon. Mrs. Derrick even proposed that Faith should get dressed. But Faith said there was time enough after dinner; and that meal was gone through with as usual.

With this slight variation in the table talk. Mr. Linden suggested to Faith the propriety of philosophizing a little, as a preparative for the dissipation of the evening; and declared that for the purpose, he would promise to bring his toilette within as narrow bounds as she did hers.

Faith's face gave answer, in the sort of sparkling of eye and colour which generally met such a proposition, and which to-day was particularly bright with the pleasure of surprise.

"But," she said warningly, "I can dress in very few minutes!"

So she did, and yet—and yet, she was dressed from head to foot and to the very point of the little white ruffle round her throat. Hair, bright as her hair was, and in the last degree of nice condition and arrangement, the same perfect presentation of hands and feet and white ruffles as aforesaid;—that was the most of Faith's dressing; the rest was a plain white cambric frock, which had its only setting off in her face and figure. The one touch of colour which it wanted, Faith found when she went down stairs; for upon the basket where 'Le Philosophe' commonly reposed, lay a dainty breast-knot of autumn tints,—fringed gentian with its delicate blue, and oak leaves of the deepest red, and a late rose or two.

It is a pity there was nobody to see Faith's face; for its tints copied the roses. Surprise and doubt and pleasure made a pretty confusion. She held in her hand the dainty bouquet and looked at it, as if the red leaves could have told her what other hand they were in last; which was what Faith wanted to know.

A step on the porch—a slight knock at the front door, naturally drew her thoughts and feet thither, but whatever Faith expected she did not expect to see Sam Stoutenburgh. One might almost go further and say he did not expect to see her, for he gazed at her as if she had been an apparition—only that his face was red instead of white.

"How do you do, Sam," said Faith, coming back a little to everyday life. "Do you want to see Mr. Linden?"

"O no, Miss Faith!" said Sam—as if it were the last thing in the world he wanted to see.

"Well Sam—what then?"

But Sam was slow to say what then—or indeed to say anything; and what would have been his success is to this day unknown, for at that moment Mr. Linden came down stairs.

"Do you want me, Sam?" he said, approaching the front door.

"No, sir," said Sam (playing both parts of an unwilling witness)—"I—I thought you were out, Mr. Linden."

"O—" Mr. Linden said. "I beg your pardon!" And he not only went into the parlour but shut the door after him.

To no purpose! With him went the remnant of Sam Stoutenburgh's courage, if he had had any to begin with, and after one more glance at Faith he fairly turned his back and fled—without striking his colours. Faith went back to the parlour.

"What is the matter with the boy?" she said, "I couldn't get anything out of him, Mr. Linden."

A somewhat peculiar smile came with the words,

"Couldn't you?"

Faith noticed it, but her thought was elsewhere. She came back to the table, took up the flowers, and said a little timidly,

"Do you know who put these here, Mr. Linden?"

The look changed. "I think I do," he said.

Her look did not change, except to a softened reflection of the one with which she had first viewed them. She viewed them still, bending over them doubtfully; then glancing up at him she shook her head and said,

"You are dressed before me, after all, Mr. Linden!"

And ran away. She was back again in three minutes, with the flowers upon her breast; and if there had been but one adornment in the world that would have fitted her just then, the giver of the flowers had found it. Faith had altered nothing, she had only put them in the right place; and the effect was curious in its beauty. That effect of her flowers was probably the only one unknown to Faith herself, though it was with a face blushing with pleasure that she came in and sat gravely down to be a philosopher.

She gave her teacher little trouble, and promised to give him less. She had excellent capacity, that was plain; with the eager desire for learning which makes the most of it; both the power and the will were there to appropriate and use every word of Mr. Linden's somewhat lawless but curiously skilful manner of instructing her. And the simplicity of her attention was perfect. She did not forget her flowers, probably, during this particular page of philosophizing, for a little tinge on her cheek never ceased to speak of pleasure all through the time; but that was the sole sign of distraction, if distraction there were. Less grave, but more intent, than Mr. Linden himself, the information that Mr. Skip had driven the little wagon round before the door, came to her ears all too soon.

The drive to the Judge's was not very long; it might have been three quarters of a mile; so even at the old horse's rate of travelling they were soon there.

Judge Harrison's house was large and old-fashioned, yet had much more style about it than any other house in Pattaquasset pretended to; and the same was true of its arrangements and furniture. It was comfortable and ample; so was everything in it; with besides that touch of ease and fitness and adaptation which shews always—or generally—that people have lived where there is a freedom from fixed standards. It was so here; for Judge Harrison's family during the life-time of his wife had always spent their winters and often part of their summers away from Pattaquasset—in one of the great cities, New York generally, or at some watering-place. There was also however an amount of good sense and kind temper in the family which made no difference, of intention, between them and the rest of Pattaquasset when they were there; so that they were extremely popular.

Mr. Skip and old Crab were in very good time; there were not more than half assembled of all the good company asked and expected this afternoon. These were all over, in the house and out of the house; observing and speculating. The house was surrounded with pleasant grounds, spreading on two sides in open smooth lawns of considerable extent, and behind the house and the lawns stretching back in a half open shrubbery. On one of the lawns long tables already shewed their note of preparation; on the other there was a somewhat ominous array of benches and chairs; and among them all, round and about everything, scattered the people.

Mrs. Derrick and Faith went upstairs to the unrobing room, where the latter was immediately taken into consultation by Miss Harrison on some matters which promised to keep them both busy for some time. Mr. Linden meanwhile received a very cordial welcome from Judge Harrison, who was cordiality itself.

"Well, Mr. Linden! we've got a good day! Good for the boys and good for us. We've ventured to depart a little from your—instructions! but—I hope—in such a way as not to compromise you. My son and daughter have managed it. I'll introduce him to you"—said the old gentleman looking about,—"but he's somewhere just now."

"I should like to know first, Judge Harrison, what my instructions were," said Mr. Linden, as his eyes likewise made search for the missing doctor.

"O," said the Judge, "all right! I understood your feelings exactly. I used that word because the right one didn't come. I have to do that often. I've heard of the 'pen of a ready writer'—I'm sure I'd rather have the tongue of a ready speaker; but it don't matter for me now. My friends take me as they find me, and so will you, I have little fear. Julius!—Here's my son, Dr. Harrison, Mr. Linden."

Dr. Harrison must have a word of introduction to the reader, though he was one of those who need very little in actual life. He was a handsome man, young but not very young, and came up at his father's call and honoured the introduction to his father's guest, with that easy grace and address which besides being more or less born with a man, tell that much attrition with the world has been at work to take away all his outward roughnesses of nature. He was handsomely dressed too, though not at all in a way to challenge observation. His coat would have startled nobody in Pattaquasset, though it might have told another that its wearer had probably seen France, had probably seen England, and had in short lived much in that kind of society which recognizes the fact of many kinds of coats in the world. His greeting of Mr. Linden was both simple and graceful.

"I am very happy to see you," he said as he shook hands. "I should certainly have come to see you before, but I am more a stranger in Pattaquasset than anybody. I have hardly been at home since I returned; business has drawn me to other quarters—and I am only fortunate enough to be in time for this occasion. It's a good time for me," said he looking round,—"I can renew my old acquaintance with everybody at once—I think all Pattaquasset is here."

"Not grown out of your remembrance, has it?" said Mr. Linden. "How long have you been away?"

"Well—it's had time to grow out of everything! especially out of my memory. I have not been here for five years—and then only for a few days—and before that at College; so I may say I have hardly been here since my boyhood. I don't know anybody but the old ones. I shall apply to you, if you will allow me," said he, drawing himself and Mr. Linden a little more apart from the centre of reception. "Who, for instance, is that very—well-dressed—young lady just entering the hall?—good-looking too."

The doctor's face was very quiet—so were his words; but his eye was upon Miss Cecilia Deacon, who in a low-necked blue silk, with an amber necklace and jet bracelets, was paying her respects to the Judge and his daughter. With equal quietness Mr. Linden made answer.

"By the way," said the doctor suddenly, "I believe we owe this pleasant occasion—very pleasant I think it is going to be—to you."

"Accidentally and innocently, I assure you."

"Yes—of course,"—said Dr. Harrison, with the air of one who needed no information as to Mr. Linden's view of the subject, nor explanation as to its grounds. "But," said he speaking somewhat low,—"my father has the interests of the school—and indeed of all Pattaquasset—truly at heart, and my sister has entered into all his feelings. I am a kind of alien. I hope not to be so.—But, as I was saying, my father and sister putting their heads together, have thought it would have a good effect upon the boys and upon certain interests of the community through them and their parents too, to give some little honours to the best students among them—or to the cleverest boys—which, as you and I know, are not precisely synonymous terms. Would you think well of such an expedient? My father is very anxious to do nothing which shall not quite meet your judgment and wish in the matter."

"I shall leave it in Judge Harrison's hands," said Mr. Linden after a moment's silence: "I should be very sorry to gainsay his wishes in any respect. And some of the boys deserve any honours that can be given them."

"Do they?" said the doctor. "Can you indicate them to me?"

"No," said Mr. Linden smiling. "I shall leave you to find out."

"Leave me"—said the other. "How did you know what office they had charged upon me? Well—I am making as long a speech as if I were a member of Congress. By the way, Mr. Linden, can you imagine what could induce a man to be that particular member of the body politic? it occupies the place of the feet, I think; such members do little but run to and fro—though I remember I just seemed to give them the place of the tongue—unjustly. They don't do the real talk of the world."

"The real talk?" said Mr. Linden. "Indeed I think they do their share."

"Of talk?" said the doctor with an acute look at his neighbour. "Well—as I was saying—my sister has provided I believe some red and blue, or red and something, favours of ribband—to be given to the boys who shall merit them. Now to find out that, which you won't tell me, I am to do, under your pleasure, some more talking—to them in public—to see in short how well they can talk to me. Do you like that?"

"Better than they will, perhaps—as merit is sometimes modest."

"I assure you I would happily yield the duty into your hands—who would do it so much better—but I suppose you would say as somebody else—'Let my friend tell my tale.'—Who is that?" said the doctor slowly and softly,—"like the riding pole of a fence—as little to spare—and as rigid—isn't he?—and as long! Don't I remember him?"

"You ought—that is Mr. Simlins."

"Yes"—said the doctor musingly—"I remember him! I incurred his displeasure once, in some boyish way, and if I recollect he is a man that pays his debts. And that unfortunate—next—looks like the perspective of a woman."

But this lady Mr. Linden did not know. She was little, in form and feature, and had besides a certain pinched-in look of diminutiveness—that seemed to belong to mind as well as body, temper, and life—and had procured her the doctor's peculiar term of description.

"The next thing is," said Dr. Harrison, as his eye slowly roved over the assembled and assembling people—"who is to give the favours? My sister of course does not wish to be forward in the business and I don't—and you don't. _I _say, the prettiest girl here."

"I think the hands that prepared the favours should dispense them," said Mr. Linden.

"But she won't do it—and ladies have sometimes the power of saying no—they're generally persuadable!—Who's that?" said the doctor with a change of tone, touching Mr. Linden's arm,—"the one in white with a red bouquet de corsage—she's charming! She's the one!"

"That is Miss Derrick."

"She'll do,"—said the doctor softly to his companion, as Faith paused for a quick greeting of the Judge and then passed on out of sight;—"she's charming—Do you suppose she knew what she was about when she put those red leaves and roses together? I didn't know there was that kind of thing in Pattaquasset."

"Yes, they look very well," said Mr. Linden coolly.

"Julius!" said Mrs. Somers, laying hold of the elbow of the suggestive coat, "what do you mean by keeping Mr. Linden and yourself back here. That's the way with you young men—stand off and gaze at a safe distance, and then make believe you're fire proof."

"Don't make believe anything, aunt Ellen," said the young man lightly. "Prove me. You can take me up to the cannon's mouth—or any other!—and see if I am afraid of it."

"I shall prove you before I take you anywhere," said Mrs. Somers. "You needn't talk to me in that style. But it's a little hard upon the boys to keep Mr. Linden here out of sight,—half of them don't know whether they're on their head or their heels till they see him, I can tell from their faces."

"Mr. Linden," said the doctor with a gesture of invitation to his companion,—"shall we go? Does it depend upon your face which of the positions mentioned is to be assumed?"

The two gentlemen accordingly threaded their way to the scene of action; passing, among others, Squire Deacon and Mr. Simlins whom Mr. Linden greeted together. Mr. Simlins' answer was a mighty grasp of the hand. Squire Deacon's deserved little attention, and got it.

The party were now on the lawn, at one side of which the boys had clustered and were standing in expectation.

"I think, Mr. Linden," said the doctor, "if you will explain to the boys what is to become of them in the next hour, I will go and see about the fair distributor of the favours—and then I suppose we shall be ready."

It was well Dr. Harrison chose such a messenger,—no one else could have brought quietness out of those few dismayed minutes when the boys first learned what was 'to become of them'; and the Judge would have felt remorseful about his secret, had he seen the swift wings on which Pleasure took her departure from the little group. It took all Mr. Linden's skill, not to enforce submission, but to bring pleasure back; perhaps nothing less than his half laughing half serious face and words, could have kept some of the boys from running away altogether. And while some tried to beg off, and some made manful efforts not to feel afraid, others made desperate efforts to remember; and some of the little ones could be reassured by nothing but the actual holding of Mr. Linden's hand in theirs. So they stood, grouped in and out the trees at the further edge of the lawn, till their teacher disengaged himself and came back to the house, leaving the parting directions—to say what they knew, and not try to say what they knew not.