Say and Seal, Volume I

"The other message," he said, giving her a letter, "you will find there."

"A message?"—said Faith doubtfully and flushing with pleasure—"isn't this one of your sister's letters?"

"Yes. Mayn't she send you a message?"

A very modest and very happy smile and deepening blush answered that; and she ran away with a sudden compunctious remembrance of Mr. Linden's dinner.

After dinner Faith had something to do in the kitchen, and something to do in other parts of the house, and then she would have read the letter before all things else; but then came in a string of company—one after the other, everybody wanting the news and much more than could be given. So it was a succession of flourishing expectations cut down and blasted; and both Faith and her mother grew tired of the exercise of cutting down and blasting, and Faith remembered with dismay that the afternoon was wearing and Mr. Linden had wished to see her again. She seized her chance and escaped at last, between the adieu of one lady and the accost of another who was even then coming up from the gate, and knocked at Mr. Linden's door again just as Mrs. Derrick was taking her minister's wife into the parlour. Her first move this time on coming in, was to brush up the hearth and put the fire in proper order for burning well; then she faced round before the couch and stood in a sort of pleasant expectation, as waiting for orders.

"You are a bright little visiter!" Mr. Linden said, holding out his hand to her. "You float in as softly and alight as gently as one of these crimson leaves through my window. Did anybody ever tell you the real reason why women are like angels?"

"I didn't know they were," said Faith laughing, and with something more of approximation to a crimson leaf.

"'They are all ministering spirits,'" he said looking at her. "But you must be content with that, Miss Faith, and not make your visits angelic in any other sense. What do you suppose I have been considering this afternoon?—while you have been spoiling the last Pattaquasset story by confessing that I am alive?"

"Did you hear them coming in?" said Faith. "I didn't know when they were going to let me get away.—What have you been considering, Mr. Linden?"

"The wide-spread presence and work of beauty. You see what a shock you gave my nervous system yesterday. Will you please to sit down, Miss Faith?"

Faith sat down, clearly in a puzzle; from which she expected to be somehow fetched out.

"What do you suppose is beauty's work in the world?—I don't mean any particular Beauty."

Faith looked at the crimson leaves on the floor—for the window was open though the fire was burning; then at the fair sky outside, seen beyond and through some other crimson leaves yet hanging on the large maple there,—then coming back to the face before her, she smiled and said,

"I don't know—except to make people happy, Mr. Linden."

"That is one part of its use, certainly. But take the thousands of wilderness flowers, and the thousands of deep sea shells; look at the carvings on the scale of a fish, which no human eye can see without a glass, or those other exquisite patterns traced upon the roots and stems of some of the fossil pines, which were hid in the solid rock before there was a human eye to see. What is their use?"

To the wilderness and to the deep sea, Faith's thought and almost her eye went, and she took some time to consider the subject.

"I suppose—" she said thoughtfully—"I don't know, Mr. Linden."

"Did you ever consider those words which close the account of the Creation—'God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good'."

"That is what I was going to say!" she said modestly but with brightening colour,—"that perhaps he made all those things, those you spoke of, for himself?"

"For himself—to satisfy the perfectness of his own character. And think how different the divine and the human standards of perfection! Not the outward fair colour and proportion merely, not the perfect fitness and adaptation, not the most utilitarian employment of every grain of dust, so that nothing is lost,—not even the grandest scale of working, is enough; but the dust on the moth's wing must be plumage, and the white chalk cliffs must be made of minute shells, each one of which shines like spun silver or is figured like cut glass. Not more steadily do astronomers discover new worlds, than the microscope reveals some new perfection of detail and finish in our own."

Faith listened, during this speech, like one literally seeing 'into space,' as far as an embodied spirit can, for the first time. Then with a smile, a little sorrowful, she brought up with,

"I don't know anything of all that, Mr. Linden! Do you mean that chalk is really made of little shells?"

"Yes, really—and blue mould is like a miniature forest. You will know about it"—he said with a smile. "But do you see how this touches the standard of moral perfection?—how it explains that other word, 'Be ye also perfect'."

Faith had not seen before, but she did now; for in her face the answer flashed most eloquently. She was silent.

"That is the sort of perfection we are promised," Mr. Linden went on presently,—"that is the sort of perfection we shall see. Now, both glass and eye are imperfect,—specked, and flawed, and short-sighted; and can but faintly discern 'the balancings of the clouds, the wondrous works of him that is perfect in knowledge.' But then!—

   'When sin no more obstructs our sight,When sorrow pains our hearts no more,How shall we view the Prince of Light,And all his works of grace explore!What heights and depths of love divineWill then through endless ages shine!'"

The words moved her probably, for she sat with her face turned a little away so that its play or its gravity were scarce so well revealed. Not very long however. The silence lasted time enough to let her thoughts come back to the subject never very far from them.

"You are tired, Mr. Linden."

"By what chain of reasoning, Miss Faith?"

"I know by the sound of your voice. And you eat nothing to-day. Do you like cocoa, Mr. Linden?" she added eagerly.

He smiled a little and answered yes.

"Then I shall bring you some!"

Faith stayed for no answer to that remark, but ran off. Half an hour good had passed away, but very few minutes more, when her soft tap was heard at the door again and herself entered, accompanied with the cup of cocoa and a plate of dainty tiny strips of toast.

"Aunt Dilly left some here," she said as she presented the cup,—"and she says it is good; and she shewed me how to make it. Aunt Dilly has lived all her life with a brother who has lived a great part of his life with a French wife—so Aunt Dilly has learned some of her ways—and this is one of them."

But Mr. Linden looked as if he thought 'the way' belonged emphatically to somebody else.

"And so I am under the rule of the blue ribbands still!" he said as he raised himself up to do honour to the cup of cocoa. "Miss Faith, do you know you are subjecting yourself to the penalty of extra lessons?"

"How, Mr. Linden?"

"Don't you know that is one of the punishments for bad conduct? It's a great act of insubordination to bring one cocoa without leave."

She laughed, and then paid her attentions to the fire again; after which she stood by the hearth to see the cocoa disposed of, till she came to take the cup.

"Are you in pain, much, Mr. Linden?" she asked as she did this.

"Not mental—" he said with a smile; "and the physical can be borne Miss Faith, that cocoa was certainly better than I ever had from the hands of anybody's French wife. You must have improved upon the receipt."

"When Dr. Harrison comes for me this evening, shall he come up and see you again?"

"If he wishes—there is no need else."

"How did it happen, Mr. Linden?" she said with a very serious face.

"On this wise, Miss Faith. I, walking home at a rather quick pace, was suddenly 'brought to' as the sailors say, by this shot in my arm. But as for the moment it affected the mind more than the body, I turned and gave chase,—wishing to enquire who had thus favoured me, and why. But the mind alone can only carry one a certain distance, and before I had caught my man I found myself in such danger of fainting that I turned about again, and made the best of my way to the house of Mr. Simlins. The rest you know."

"What did the man run for?"

"There is no thread in my nature that just answers that question," saidMr. Linden. "I suppose he ran because he was frightened."

"But what should have frightened him?"

"The idea of my displeasure probably," said Mr. Linden smiling. "Have you forgotten my character for cruelty, Miss Faith?"

"But—" said Faith. "Why should he think he had displeased you? He wasn't near you, was he?"

"Why I am not supposed to be one of those amiable people who like to be shot," said Mr. Linden in the same tone.

"But how near was he, Mr. Linden?"

"Within gunshot range, of course—the precise distance is not easily measured at such a moment."

"But if he was not near," said Faith, "how could he think that his shot had touched you? He couldn't see it—and your running wouldn't seem like a man seriously injured?"

"He might think I disapproved of discharging a gun at random, in the public road."

"You don't suppose it could have been done on purpose, Mr. Linden!" she said in a changed awe-stricken tone.

"I have no right to assume anything of the kind—there are all sorts of so-called accidents. But Miss Faith! if you look so frightened I shall begin to think you are an accomplice! What do you know about it?" he added smiling.

"Nothing—" she said rather sadly, "except a little look of something,I don't know what, in your face when you said that, Mr. Linden."

"You must not look grave—nor think twice about the matter in any way," he said with a sort of kind gravity that met hers. "Is there light enough for you to read that first chapter of Physical Geography, and talk to me about it?—it is your turn to talk now."

"Do you mean, aloud?—or to myself, Mr. Linden?" she asked a little timidly,

"I mean, to me."

Faith did not object, though her colour rose very visibly. She placed herself to catch the fading light, and read on, talking where it was absolutely necessary, but sparing and placing her questions so as to call forth as few words as possible in reply. And becoming engaged in the interest of the matter she almost forgot her timidity;—not quite, for every now and then something made it rise to the surface. The daylight was fading fast, sunlight had already gone, and the wood fire began to throw its red gleams unchecked; flashing fitfully into the corners of the room and playing hide and seek with the shadows. A little rising of the wind and light flutter of the leaves against the glass, only made the warm room more cheerful. Faith made the fire burn brightly, and finished the chapter by that, with the glow of the flickering flame dancing all over her and her book in the corner where she sat. But pages of pleasure as well as of prettiness, all those pages were.

"Thank you, Miss Faith," Mr. Linden said as she closed the book. "I only wish I could give you a walk now in this bright evening air; but I must wait for that."

A little tap at the door came at this point to take its place in the conversation. It was Mrs. Derrick.

"Child," said the good lady, "here's Dr. Harrison down stairs." And stepping into the room, Mrs. Derrick walked softly up to the couch, and not only made enquiries but felt of Mr. Linden's hand to see if he had any fever. Faith waited, standing a little behind the couch head.

"I'm not quite sure—" she said,—"your hand's a little warm, sir—but then it's apt to be towards night,—and maybe mine's a little cool. If you could only go to sleep, it would do you so much good!"

And Mr. Linden laughingly promised to try, but would not guarantee the success thereof.

Faith went down stairs, a little afraid that she had been doing harm instead of good, and at the same time not seeing very well how she could have helped it. She found Dr. Harrison in the sitting-room, and gave her quiet reasons for not going out with him. The doctor declared "he should be in despair—but that he had hope!" and having made Faith confess that she would like to see his microscope, gently suggested the claims of the next two evenings; saying that he must be in Quilipeak for a day or two soon himself, and therefore was not impatient without reason. Faith did not know how to get off, and gave the doctor to understand that she might be disengaged the next night. Having which comfort he went up to see Mr. Linden. Then followed Mr. Linden's tea, with cresses and grapes which Dr. Harrison had brought himself.

"Mother," said Faith, when the two ladies were seated at their own tea-table,—"did Dr. Harrison dress Mr. Linden's arm again to-night?"

"Yes child—and I guess it was good he did. I think Mr. Linden was almost asleep when I went up."

"Do you know how to do it, mother? if it was wanted when the doctor is not here?"

"I don't know—" said Mrs. Derrick thoughtfully,—"no, child, I don't know how—at least not so I'd like to try. Do you, Faith?"

"No, mother—but could you learn?"

"Why—I suppose I could, child," said her mother, as if she disliked to admit even so much. "But I'd about as lieve have my own arm shot off—I'm so dreadfully afraid of hurting people, Faith—and I always was afraid of him. Why can't the doctor do it? he can come six times a day if he's wanted—I guess he don't do much else."

Faith said no more on the subject, but hurried through her tea and sat down by the lamp in the sitting-room to read her letter. A minute or two she sat thinking, deeply, with her cheek on her hand; then dismissing everything else she opened the precious paper at last.

It was another Italy letter, but took her a very different journey from the last. A little graver perhaps than that, a little more longing in the wish to use eyesight instead of pen and ink; and as if absence was telling more and more upon the writer. Yet all this was rather in the tone than the wording—that was kept in hand. But it was midway in some bright description, that the message to Faith broke forth.

"Tell Miss Faith," she said, "that I would rather have seen her roasting clams down at 'the shore,' than anything I have seen since I heard of it,—which is none the less true, that I should have wanted to stand both sides of the window at once. And tell her if you can (though I don't believe even you can, John Endy) how much I love her for taking such care of one of my precious things. I feel as if all my love was very powerless just now! However—you remember that comforting old ballad—

   'Where there is no spaceFor the glow-worm to lye;Where there is no spaceFor receipt of a fly;Where the midge dares not venture,Lest herself fast she lay;If love come he will enter,And soon find out his way!'

So, Miss Faith, you may expect to see me appear some time in the shape of a midge!—Endecott will tell you I am not much better than that now."

So far Faith got in reading the letter, and it was a long while before she got any further; that message to herself she went over again and again. It was incomprehensible, it was like one of Mr. Linden's own puzzles for that. It was so strange, and at the same time it was such a beautiful thing, that Mr. Linden's sister should have heard of her and in such fashion as to make her wish to send a message! Faith's head stooped lower and lower over the paper, from her mother and the lamp. It was such a beautiful message too—the gracious and graceful wording of it Faith felt in every syllable; and the lines of the old ballad were some of the prettiest she had ever seen. But that Faith should have love sent her from Italy—and from that person in Italy of all others!—that Mr. Linden's sister should wish to see her and threaten to do it in the shape of a midge!—and what ever could Mr. Linden have told her to excite the wish? And what of this lady's precious things had Faith taken care of?—'such care' of! "Mother!"—Faith began once by way of taking counsel, but thought better of it, and went on pondering by herself. One thing was undoubted—this message in this letter was a matter of great pleasure and honour! as Faith felt it in the bottom of her heart; but in the midst of it all, she hardly knew whence, came a little twinge of something like pain. She felt it—yes, she felt it, even in the midst of the message; but if Faith herself could not trace it out, of course it can be expected of nobody else.

CHAPTER XXII

Phil Davids, taking his morning walk through the pleasant roads of Pattaquasset, engaged in his out-of-school amusements of hunting cats and frightening children, was suddenly arrested in the midst of an alarming face ('got up' for the benefit of Robbie Waters) by the approach of Sam Stoutenburgh. In general this young gentleman let Phil alone, 'severely,' but on the present occasion he stopped and laid hold of his shoulder.

"Phil Davids! I've a warrant against you."

"Hands off, Sam! and let a man alone, will you! What do you mean by that?" said Phil gruffly.

"Yes—I'll let him alone—when I find him, if he's like you," said Sam with great coolness and some little contempt. "But if you're tired of your own face, Phil, why don't you make up a handsome one, while you're about it? Keep out of his way, Robbie! can't you?"

"Guess you don't know what folks says o' yourn! Do you?" said Phil, wriggling his shoulder from under Sam's hand, "I do!"

"I guess I know as much as is good for me," replied the undaunted Sam. "But that's none of your business just now. Mr. Linden wants to see you, Phil—and it aint often anybody does that, so you'd better make the most of the chance." With which pleasing sentiment, Sam released Phil, and taking a sharp run after Robbie. Waters enticed him into a long confidential conversation about his new Sunday school teacher. In the midst of which Phil's voice came again.

"'Twon't hurt you Sam—jest listen once. They say, Sam Stoutenburgh would have been a Lady apple, if he hadn't grown to be such a Swar, and all the while he thinks he's a Seek-no-further. That's what folks says. How d'ye like it?"

"Firstrate!" said Sam—"glad I missed the Lady apples, anyhow,—and as for 'tother, never thought myself one yet—don't like 'em well enough. When you get through paying me compliments, Phil Davids, you'd better go and see Mr. Linden."

"Guess I will!" said Phil swaggering off,—"when I want to see him; and that aint to-day, by a long jump."

"He said you were to come—" Sam called after him. "If I wasn't a Stoutenburgh sweeting, Phil Davids, I'd teach you to talk of him so! If I only was!—" Sam added sotto voce, "wouldn't I pack myself up in a basket! Robbie, what sort of flowers did Miss Faith have in her bonnet?" At which interesting point the two turned a corner out of Phil's sight.

But Phil pursued his way; decently regardless of threats or invitations, and having a wholesome opinion of his own that in holiday time Mr. Linden had nothing to say to him. In no possible time had he anything to say to Mr. Linden that he could help. So it happened, that coming in soon after Mr. Linden had dismissed his breakfast, Faith found Mr. Linden alone. She brought to his side a basket of very fine-looking pears.

"Mr. Davids has sent you these, Mr. Linden."

"He is very kind," said Mr. Linden. "That is more than I asked for. He hasn't sent Phil in the basket too, has he?—as the easiest way of getting him here."

Faith rather startled, and passing over that asked Mr. Linden how he did. Which point, having learned all he wanted upon the other, Mr. Linden was also ready for. Faith then leaving the basket by the couch side, went to the fire and hearth, and put them more thoroughly to rights than Cindy's delicacy of touch, or of eye, had enabled her to do; and going on round the room, care fully performed the same service for everything in it generally. This work however was suddenly stopped in the midst, and coming to the head of the couch, rather behind Mr. Linden, Faith spoke in a low and ill-assured tone.

"Mr. Linden—will you let me be by this morning when Dr. Harrison dresses your arm?"

There was a moment's silence, and then raising himself up and turning a little so as to see her, Mr. Linden answered, gravely though smiling,

"No, Miss Faith!"

She coloured very much and drew back.

"I asked—" she said presently, speaking with a good deal of difficulty,—"because he spoke of being away—and then there would be no one to do it—and mother is afraid—"

And there Faith stopped, more abashed than anybody had ever seen her in her life before. He held out his hand, and took hers, and held it fast.

"I know—" he said,—"you need not tell me. When is the doctor going away?"

"I don't know," she said almost under breath—"he said perhaps—or I thought—I understood him to mean in a few days."

"Miss Faith!"—and the tone was half expostulating, half scolding, half caressing. "Come here and sit down by me," he said, gently drawing her round to the low chair at his side, "I want to talk to you. Do you need to be told why I said no?"

She sat down, but sunk her head a little and put up her other hand to shield the side of her face which was next him. The answer did not come at once—when it did, it was a low spoken "no." Her hand was held closer, but except that and the moved change of his voice, Mr. Linden took no notice of her fear.

"I would not let Pet do it—" he said gently, "if I could help it. My child, do you know what a disagreeable business it is? I could trust you for not fainting at the time, but I should ill like to hear of your fainting afterwards. And then if you chanced to hurt me—which the doctor often does—you would be unhappy for the rest of the day,—which the doctor by no means is. That is all—I would a great deal rather have your hands about me than his, but a thing that would give you pain would give me very doubtful relief. I had rather go with my arm undressed."

He had gone on talking—partly to give her time to recover; but the silent look that was bent upon that shielded face was a little anxious.

She dropped the hand that shielded it presently, and shewed it flushed and wistful, yet with a tiny bit of smile beginning to work at the corners of the mouth.

"Then Mr. Linden," she said almost in the same tone and without turning her face,—"if you have no other objection—please let me come!"

"But that one is strong enough. You may send Cinderella up to take a lesson."

"You said that was all?" she repeated.

"That is the only real objection—I would not raise even that in a case of greater need. But I suppose unskilful hands could hardly do me much mischief now. So if you will send Cinderella," he added with a smile, "she may enlarge her world of ideas a little."

"Mr. Linden,"—said Faith looking at him now fearlessly—"I am going to come myself."

"You are!" he said, looking at her—and then his eyes went from her to the fire, and back again to her face. "Then if you faint away, Miss Faith, and I jump up to take care of you (which I shall certainly do) I may faint myself—at which stage of the proceedings Dr. Harrison will have his hands full."

"I shall not faint—before nor after," she said, shaking her head.

"I should not like to count too much upon your unfeeling disposition," said Mr. Linden, in whose face different currents of thought seemed to meet and mingle. "And then you see, my senses may be guilty of as great a breach of politeness as the warder in a German story I was reading yesterday."

"What was that?"

"It fell out," said Mr. Linden, "that a lady of surpassing beauty arrived at a certain castle; and next day, the lord of the castle brought before her his warder, bound in chains for a great breach of politeness; he having failed to give his lord notice of the lady's approach! The warder thus defended himself: he had indeed seen the lady, but his dazzled eyes mistook her for another sun! So," added Mr. Linden smiling, "if my eyes should mistake you for a sunbeam or a maple leaf, I might forget myself, and not keep my patience so perfectly as I ought under the hands of such a chirurgeon."