Say and Seal, Volume I

Meanwhile Dr. Harrison had found his sister, and after a little consulting the two had pressed their father into the service; and then the three sought Faith. She was discovered at last on the other lawn, by one of the tables, Miss Harrison having dismayfully recollected that she had asked Faith to help her dress them, and then had left her all alone to do it. But Faith was not all alone; for Mr Simlins stood there like a good-natured ogre, watching her handling and disposing of the green leaves and late flowers with which she was surrounded, and now and then giving a most extraordinary suggestion as to the same.

"Faith," said Miss Harrison after she had introduced her brother,—"I want you to give these favours to the boys. Somebody must do it, and I can't—and you must!"

"You see, my dear," said Judge Harrison, "Sophy and Julius want their fête to go off as prettily as possible; and so they want you to do this for them because you're the prettiest girl here."

"Then I can't do it, sir," said Faith. She blushed very prettily, to be sure, but she spoke very quietly.

"Faith! you will do it for me?" said Miss Harrison.

"I can't, Sophy."

"Nobody would do it so well as you—half!"

"But I can't do it at all." And Faith went on leafing her dishes.

"I dare put in no petition of my own," said the doctor then; "but I will venture to ask on the part of Mr. Linden, that you will do him and the school such a service."

Faith's dark eyes opened slightly. "Did he ask you, sir?"

"I cannot answer that," said the doctor, a little taken aback. "I have presumed on what I am sure are his wishes."

He did not know what to make of her smile, nor of the simplicity with which Faith answered, in spite of her varying colour,

"You have been mistaken, sir."

The doctor gave it up and said he was very sorry.

"Then who shall do it?" said Miss Harrison. "Miss Essie de Staff?"

"She'll do," said the Judge. And the doctor, raising his eyebrows a little, and dropping his concern, offered his arm to Faith to go to the scene of action. So it happened that as Mr. Linden entered the hall from one side door, he met the whole party coming in from the other, the doctor carrying the basket of blue and red favours which he had taken to present to Faith. But he stood still to let them pass, taking the full effect of the favours, the doctor, the red leaves and their white-robed wearer; and then followed in his turn.

All the inhabitants of the house and grounds were now fast gathering on the other lawn. Miss Sophy and her father separated different ways, the former taking the basket to commit it to Miss de Staff; and the doctor being obliged to go to his place in the performance, left his charge where he might. But nobody minded his neighbour now; Faith did not; the boys were drawn up in a large semicircle, and the doctor taking his place in front of them, all in full view of the assembled townsmen of Pattaquasset, proceeded to his duty of examiner.

He did it well. He was evidently, to those who could see it, thoroughly at home himself in all the subjects upon which he touched and made the boys touch; so thoroughly, that he knew skilfully where to touch, and what to expect of them. He shewed himself a generous examiner too; he keenly enough caught the weak and strong points in the various minds he was dealing with, and gracefully enough brought the good to light, and only shewed the other so much as was needful for his purposes. He did not catch, nor entrap, nor press hardly; the boys had fair play but they had favour too.

The boys, on their part, were not slow to discover his good qualities; and it was certainly a comfort to them to know that they were acquitted or condemned on right grounds. Beyond that, there were curious traits of character brought to light, for those who had eyes to read them.

The two head boys—Reuben Taylor and Sam Stoutenburgh, though but little apart in their scholarship were widely different in the manifestation thereof. Sam Stoutenburgh's rather off-hand, dashing replies, generally hit the mark; but the steady, quiet clearheadedness of Reuben not only placed him in advance, but gave indications which no one could read who had not the key to his character. He coloured sometimes, but it was from modesty; while part of Sam Stoutenburgh's blushes came from his curls. Little Johnny Fax, by dint of fixing his eyes upon Mr. Linden's far-off form (he had been petitioned to stand in sight) went bravely through his short part of the performance; and proved that he knew what he knew, if he didn't know much; and of the rest there need nothing be said.

Among the lookers-on there were also indications. To those who did not know him, Mr. Linden's face looked as unmoved as the pillar against which he leaned,—yet the varying play of light and shade upon the one was well repeated in the other. Squire Stoutenburgh nodded and smiled, to himself and his neighbours, and made little aside observations—"That told, sir!"—"Always was a good boy!—studious."—"Yes—Reuben Taylor does well—very well, considering who his father is."

That father the while, stood alone—even beyond the outskirts of the gay party. With Miss Cilly's blue dress he had nothing in common—as little with Faith's spotless white. Dark, weatherbeaten, dressed for his boat and the clam banks, he stood there on the green turf as if in a trance. Unable to follow one question or answer, his eager eye caught every word of Reuben's voice; his intent gaze read first the assurance that it would be right, then the assurance that it was. The whole world might have swept by him in a pageant—and he would scarcely have turned to look!

There was one other listener perhaps, whose interest was as rapt as his; that was Faith. But her interest was of more manifold character. There was the natural feeling for and with the boys; and there was sympathy for their instructor and concern for his honour, which latter grew presently to be a very gratified concern. Then also Dr. Harrison's examination was a matter of curious novelty; and back of all that, lay in Faith's mind a deep, searching, pressing interest in the subject matters of it. What of all that, she knew,—how little,—and how much the boys;—how vastly much Dr. Harrison; what far-reaching fields of knowledge there were in some people's minds. Where was Faith's mind going? Yet she was almost as outwardly quiet as Mr. Linden himself. All her shew of feeling was in the intent eye, the grave face, and a little deepening and deepening tinge in her cheeks.

The questioning and answering was over—the boys were all in their ranks—there was a little hush and stir of expectancy,—and Dr. Harrison gave his hand to a very bright lady with a basket and led her to a position by his side, filling the eye of the whole assembly. Faith looked over to her with a tiny giving way of the lips which meant a great self-gratulation that she was not in the lady's place. There she stood, very much at home apparently,—Miss Essie de Staff, as fifty mouths said at once. She was rather a little lady, not very young, nor old; dressed in a gay-coloured plaid silk, with a jaunty little black apron with pockets, black hair in curls behind her ears, and a glitter of jewelry. It was not false jewelry, nor ill put on, and this was Miss Essie de Staff. She belonged to the second great family of Pattaquasset; she too had been abroad and had seen life like the Harrisons; but somehow she had seen it in a different way; and while the de Staffs had the shew, the Harrisons always had the reality of precedence in the town.

And Dr. Harrison, raising slightly again his voice, which was a melodious one, said,

"The ladies of Pattaquasset intend to honour with a blue ribband the five elder boys who have spoken best; and with a favour of red ribband the five little boys who have done the same on their part. Miss Essie de Staff will do us the honour to bestow them.—Reuben Taylor, will you come forward—here, if you please."

The 'favours' made a little stir among the group; and Reuben, who had been too much absorbed in the examination for its own sake to think much of the question of precedence, came forward at first with hesitation—then steadily and firmly.

Miss Essie stepped a little forward to meet him, gave her basket to Doctor Harrison, and taking a blue favour from it she smilingly attached the same securely to the left breast of Reuben's coat.

"Don't leave your place," said the doctor to him in a low tone;—"I mean," he added smiling,—"go back to it and stay there.—Sam Stoutenburgh!"—

The doctor spoke like a man a little amused at himself for the part he was playing, but he did it well, nevertheless. And Reuben, who would fain have put himself and his blue ribband out of sight behind the rest, went back to his place, while Sam stepped briskly forward and received the decoration in turn. Very different his air from Reuben's,—very different Reuben's grave and grateful bend of the head from the way in which Sam's hand covered at once his heart and the blue ribband. The four boys next in degree to Reuben were severally invested with their blue stars.

"Johnny Fax!"—said Dr. Harrison. "Miss Essie, you are laying us under nameless obligations.—Johnny, come and get your ribband."

Johnny came—looking first at Dr. Harrison and then at Miss Essie, as if a little uncertain what they were going to do with him; but apparently the fluttering red favour pleased his fancy, for he smiled a little, and then looked quite away over Miss Essie's shoulder as she bent towards him. For which neglect of the lady's face his youth and inexperience must account. But when the favour was on, Johnny's eyes came back, and he said simply,

"Thank you, ma'am. Shall I keep it always?"

"By all means!" said Miss Essie. "Never part with it."

The five little fellows were made splendid; and then there was a pause. Miss Essie stepped back and was lost. Doctor Harrison made a sign with his hand, and two servants came on the lawn bringing between them a table covered with a red cloth. It was set down before Dr. Harrison and his sister came beside him.

"My dear friends," said the doctor raising his voice again, and giving his sister at the same time the benefit of a slight play of face which others were not so situated they could see,—"You have all done yourselves and somebody else, a great deal of credit. I hope you will thank him;—as we wish to shew our pleasure to you. It was not to be expected that everybody would be first this time—though on the next occasion I have no doubt that will prove to be the case; but as we could not of course in consequence give stars to all, we will do the best we can. Reuben Taylor—"

Again Reuben came forward; the doctor had pulled off the red cloth, and a tempting pile of books, large and small and nicely bound, rose up to view upon the table. And Miss Harrison as Reuben came near, chose out one of the best and handed it to him, saying softly, "You have done very well."

Now Miss Sophy Harrison was, as everyone knew and said, thoroughly good and kind, like her father. She had chosen the books. And the one she had given Reuben was a very nice copy of the Pilgrim's Progress. She might have felt herself repaid by the one earnest look his eyes gave her,—then he bowed silently and retired.

The list would be too long to go through. Every one was pleased this time; the Harrisons had done the thing well; and it may only be noted in passing that Johnny Fax's delight and red ribband were crowned and finished oil with an excellent Robinson Crusoe. Then broke up and melted off the assembled throng, like—I want a simile,—like the scattering of a vapoury cloud in the sky. It was everywhere and nowhere directly—that which before had been a distinct mass.

"Faith," said Miss Cecilia, almost before this process or dispersion commenced,—"where did you get such a pretty nosegay this time of year?"

"They grew—" said Faith smiling.

"Did they come out of your own garden."

"We don't keep oak trees in our garden."

"I declare! it's elegant. Faith, give me just one of those red leaves, won't you? I want it."

"No indeed!" said Faith, starting back and shielding the oak leaves with her hand, as that of Miss Deacon approached them. "What are you thinking of?"

"Thinking of!" said Cecilia colouring. "So, Faith, I hear you've set up for a school teacher?"

"I've one little scholar," said Faith quietly. "That isn't much 'setting up,' Cecilia."

"One scholar!" said Cecilia contemptuously. "Didn't you go over with all the boys to Neanticut the other day?"

"Yes," said Faith laughing, "indeed I did; but I assure you I didn't go to teach school."

"Miss Derrick," said Dr. Harrison, offering his arm to Faith,—"my sister begs the favour of your assistance—instantly and urgently—you know I presume for what?"

"Yes, I know, Dr. Harrison," said Faith smiling—"I left it unfinished"—

And the two walked away together.

"Seems to me, Mr. Simlins," said Squire Deacon, watching Faith and her convoy with a certain saturnine satisfaction; "I say it seems to me, that the Judge aint making the thing right side upwards. The boys get all the prizes—without Dr. Harrison thinks he has, and the teacher don't seem to be much count. Now what a handsomer thing it would have been to make the boys get him something with their own hard cash,—a pleasure boat—" added the Squire, "or a Bible—or anything of that sort. I thought all this philustration was to set him up."

Mr. Simlins gave a kind of grunt.

"It haint pulled him down much," he said,—"as I see. And I suppose Judge Harrison thinks that drivin' wedges under a church steeple is a surrogate work—without he saw it was topplin'."

Without getting any too clear a notion of the meaning of these words—it took a lively imagination to follow Mr. Simlins in some of his flights, the Squire yet perceived enough to stay his own words a little; and he passed away the tedium of the next few minutes by peering round the corner of the house and getting far-off glimpses of Faith.

"She looks 'most like a spectral illusion," he said admiringly. "The tablecloths aint bleached a bit whiter 'n her dress."

"She aint no more like a spectre than I'm like a ghost," said Mr.Simlins. "Washin' and ironin' 'll make a white frock for any woman."

Then stalking up to Mr. Linden accosted him grimly, after his fashion. "Well Mr. Linden—what d' you think of that farm at Neanticut? don't you want to take it of me?"

"There are too many fences between me and it," was the smiling reply.

"It's good land," Mr. Simlins went on; "you can't do better than settle down there. I'd like to have you for a tenant—give you the land easy."

"Let me pay you in nuts?" said Mr. Linden.

But then came up other farmers and heads of families to claim Mr. Linden's attention; men whose boys were at the school; and who now in various states of gratification, but all gratified, came one after another to grasp his hand and thank him for the good he had done and was doing them.

"You're the first man, sir," said one, a broad-shouldered, tall, strong man, with a stern reserved face,—"you're the first man that has been able to make that boy of mine—Phil—attend to anything, or go to school regular. He talks hard sometimes,—but you do what you like with him, Mr. Linden! I give you my leave. He's smart, and he aint a bad boy, at heart; but he's wild, and he has his own way and it aint always a good one. His mother never had any government of him," said the father, looking towards the identical person whom Dr. Harrison had characterized as 'the perspective of a woman,' and who certainly had the air of one whose mind—what she had—was shut up and shut off into the further extremities of possibility.

Then came up Judge Harrison.

"Well, Mr. Linden, I hope you have been gratified. I have. I declare I have!—very much. You are doing a great thing for us here, sir; and I don't doubt it is a gratification to you to know it. I haven't made up my mind what we shall do to thank you—we've been thanking the boys—but that's, you know,—that's a political expedient. My heart's in the other thing."

"Squire Deacon was givin' me about the same perspective of the case," said Mr. Simlins,—"only he thought he warnt the one to do the thaukin'."

Mr. Linden's face, through all these various gratulations, had been a study. One part of his nature answered, eye to eye and hand to hand, the thanks and pleasure so variously expressed. But back of that lay something else,—a something which gave even his smile a tinge,—it was the face of one who

   "Patiently, and still expectant,   Looked out through the wooden bars."

Sometimes grave, at others a queer sense of his own position seemed to touch him; and his manner might then remind one of a swift-winged bird—who walking about on the grass for business purposes, is complimented by a company of crickets on his superior powers of locomotion. And it was with almost a start that he answered Judge Harrison—

"Thank me, sir? I don't think I deserve any thanks."

"I am sure we owe them," said the Judge,—"but that's another view of the case, I know. Well—it's a good kind of debt to owe—and to pay!—"

And he was lost again among some other of his guests. In the gradual shifting and melting away of groups, it happened that Mr. Linden found himself for a moment alone, when the doctor again approached him.

"Did I do your office well?" he said gently, and half putting his arm through Mr. Linden's as if to lead him to the house.

The answer was laughingly given—

   "'What poet would not mourn to see   His brother write as well as he?'"

"Well," said the doctor, answering the tone, "did I hit your boys?—the right ones?"

"My boys in point of scholarship?—yes, almost as carefully as I should."

"I am glad you were satisfied," said the doctor;—"and I'm glad it's over!—What sort of a life do you lead here in Pattaquasset? I don't know it. How can one get along here?"

He spoke in a careless sort of confidential manner, as perfectly aware that his companion was able to answer him. They were very slowly sauntering up to the house.

"One can get along here in various ways—" said Mr. Linden,—"as in other places. One can (if one can) subside to the general level, or one can (with the like qualification) rise above it. The paths through Pattaquasset are in no wise peculiar, yet by no means alike."

"No," said the doctor, with another side look at him—"I suppose as much. I see you're a philosopher. Do you carry a spirit-level about with you?"

"Define—" said Mr. Linden, with a smile which certainly belonged to the last philosopher he had been in company with.

"I see you do," said the doctor. "What's your opinion of philosophy? that it adds to the happiness of the world in general?"

"You ask broad questions, Dr. Harrison—considering the many kinds of philosophy, and the unphilosophical state of the world in general."

The doctor laughed a little. "I don't know," said he,—"I sometimes think the terms have changed sides, and that 'the world in general' has really the best of it. But do you know what particular path in Pattaquasset we are treading at this minute?"

"A path where philosophy and happiness are supposed to part company, I imagine," said Mr. Linden.

"Pre-cisely—" said the doctor. "By the way, if anything in my father's house or library can be of the least convenience to you while you are travelling the somewhat unfurnished ways of Pattaquasset, I hope you will use both as your own.—Yes, I am taking you to the supper table—or indeed they are plural to-night—Sophy, I have brought Mr. Linden to you, and I leave you to do what you will with him!"

CHAPTER XIV

With a slight congee the doctor left thorn and went back again; and then came the full rush of all the guests, small and great. Miss Harrison claimed Mr. Linden's assistance to marshal and arrange the boys at their table—one being given specially to them; and then established him as well as circumstances permitted at another—between Miss Cecilia Deacon and Miss Essie de Staff. Miss Harrison herself did not sit down. The guests were many, the servants far too few; and Miss Harrison and her brother with one or two helpers, of whom Faith was one, went round from table to table; attending to everybody's wants. The supply of all eatables and drinkables was ample and perfect enough; but without the quick and skilful eyes and hands of these educated waiters, the company could not have been entirely put in possession of them. So Faith's red oak leaves did after all adorn the entertainment, and publicly, though most unconsciously on her part.

"Reuben," she whispered at his shoulder, "there are no roast clams here—shall I give you some jelly? I see you have got substantials."

"No thank you, Miss Faith," said Reuben—adding with some hesitation,"I believe it's ungrateful in me, but I don't want to eat."

"Are you eating your book all the while? I am so glad, Reuben! Where is your father?"

"I think he's home, Miss Faith—he must be by this time."

"Home! I'm sorry. I've been looking for him. Sam—what can I get you? coffee?"

"Miss Faith!" said Sam standing up in his place, "I'd rather have one of those leaves you've been wearing all day than all the coffee that ever was burnt!"

"Leaves! you foolish boy," said Faith, her own colour in an instant emulating them, and as before her hand went up to shield them. "I can't give you one of these, Sam—I'll bring you some coffee."

Away she ran, coming back presently with a cup and a piece of jelly cake, bestowing a fellow piece upon Reuben,

"You can get plenty of oak leaves anywhere, Sam," she said laughing a little.

"But you haven't worn 'em, Miss Faith—and I can't keep this!" said Sam surveying the cake with a very serio-comic face.

"Well, who wants to?" said Joe Deacon. "Hand us over the other cake, that's got nothing between. If you're settin' up to get round anybody, Sam Stoutenburgh, you'll find there's two or three in a bunch—I tell you." Which remark Faith was happily too far off to hear.

"Faith," said Mrs. Somers, leaning back and stopping her as she passed; "do you know why I let Sophy keep you running about so?"

"I like to do it, Mrs. Somers."

"Well that's not the reason. You ought to sit up at the head of the table for your skill in arranging flowers. I didn't know it was in you, child."

And Mrs. Somers bent closer to Faith to take the breath of the roses, but softly for she loved flowers herself.

Faith bore it jealously, for she was afraid of another invading hand; and blushing at the praise she could not disclaim ran away as soon as she was free. But as the tide of supper-time began to ebb, the doctor arrested Faith in her running about and saying that his sister had had no supper yet and wanted company, led her to the place his aunt had spoken of, a clear space at one end of the table, where the doctor also discovered he had taken no supper. The rest of the party sat at ease, or began to scatter again about the grounds. A new attraction was appearing there, in the shape of Chinese lanterns, which the servants and others were attaching in great numbers to the trees and shrubbery. The sun went down, the shades of evening were fast gathering. At last Miss Harrison rose.

"When the lamps are lit, Miss Derrick," said the doctor as they followed her example, "there is a particular effect which I will have the pleasure of shewing you—if you will allow me."

"Dr. Harrison, how do you do!" said a voice that sounded like—perhaps as much like the bark of a red squirrel as anything; and a little figure, with everything faded but her ribbands, and everything full but her cheeks, looked up with a pair of good, kind, honest eyes into the doctor's face. "It makes a body feel young—or old—I don't know which, to see you again," she said. "Though indeed I know just how old you are, without looking into the Bible. Not but that's a good place to look, for various things. And there's a great variety of things there,—if a body had time to read 'em all, which I haven't. I used to read like a scribe when I was young—till my eyes got bad; but a body can't do much without eyes, especially when they have to sew all the time, as I do. I always did think it was one indemnification for being a man, that a body wouldn't have to sew. Nor do much of anything else—for 'man works from sun to sun, but a woman's work is never done.' And I always think the work after sundown comes hardest—it does to me, because my eyes are so bad.—Well, Miss Cilly! don't your dress fit!"—It may be proper to mention that this last sentence was a little undertone.