Say and Seal, Volume I

"What are you meditating, Miss Derrick?" the doctor said at length, almost the first word he had spoken.

"I was thinking, just at that minute, sir, of the use of beauty in the world."

"The use of beauty!" said the doctor, looking at her; he would have been astonished, if the uppermost feeling had not been of relief. "What is its use? To make the world civilized and habitable, isn't it?"

"No—" said Faith,—"I should think it was meant to make us good. Look at the horses, Dr. Harrison!"

The carriage had turned an angle of the road, which brought the wind pretty strongly in their faces. The horses seemed to take it as doubtful fun, or else to be inclined to make too much fun of it. They were all alive with spirit, rather excited than allayed by their miles of quick travelling. The doctor tried to quiet them by rein and voice both.

"They get a little too much oats for the work they do," said he. "I must take them out oftener. Take care of this wind, Miss Derrick; I haven't a hand to help you. What's that?—"

'That' was a bunch of weeds thrown into the road just before the horses' heads, from over the fence; and was just enough to give them the start which they were ready for. They set off instantly at full run. The road was good and clear; the carriage was light; the wind was inspiriting, the oats suggestive of mischief. The doctor's boasted rein and hand with all the aid of steel bits, were powerless to stop them. In vain he coaxed and called to them; their speed increased every minute; they had made up their minds to be frightened, and plunged along accordingly. The doctor spoke once or twice to Faith, encouraging or advising her; she did not speak nor stir.

They were just hearing the brow of a hill, when an unlucky boy in the road, thinking to stay their progress, stepped before them and waved his hat over his head. Faith heard an execration from the doctor, then his shout to her, "Don't stir, Miss Derrick!"—and then she hardly knew anything else. The horses plunged madly down the hill, leaped carriage and all across a fence at the bottom of it, where the road turned, overthrew themselves and landed the doctor and Faith on different sides of the carriage, in a meadow.

The doctor picked himself up again, entirely unhurt, and going round to Faith lifted her head from the ground. But she was stunned by the fall, and for a few minutes remained senseless.

In these circumstances, no house being near, the doctor naturally shouted to a cap or hat which he saw passing along the road. Which cap also it happened belonged to Sam Stoutenburgh, who was on an errand into the country for his father.

If ever Dr. Harrison was unceremoniously put aside, it was then. Sam had come rather leisurely at first—then with a sort of flying bound which cleared the fence like a thistle down, he bore down upon the doctor, and taking up Faith as easily as if she had been a kitten, absolutely ran with her to a spring which welled up through the long meadow grass a few yards off. There the doctor found him applying the cold water with both gentleness and skill, for Sam Stoutenburgh had a mother, and her fingers had been so employed about his own head many a time.

"You're a handy fellow!" said the doctor with a mixture of expressions, as he joined his efforts to Sam's.—"That will do it!"—

For Faith opened her eyes. The first word was "Mother!"—then she sat up and looked round, and then covered her face.

"Are you hurt?" said Dr. Harrison after an instant.

"No sir, I think not—I believe not."

"Can you stand up?"

With the help of his hand she could do it easily. She stood silent, supported by him, looking on the prostrate horses and shattered curricle; then turned her grave eyes on the doctor.

"Don't stand too long, Miss Faith!" said Sam earnestly, with trembling lips too, for the manhood in him had not got very far. "Are you sure you're not hurt?"

"Sam!" said Faith giving her hand to him.—"I didn't know it was you who was helping me."

"I only wish I'd been here for you to fall upon!" said Sam, with a queer mingling of grief and pleasure. "Seems as if folks couldn't always be in just the right place."

"I am not hurt," she said with a little shudder.

"Now, how are you going to do to get home?" said the doctor looking much concerned. "Shall I—"

"I will walk home," she said interrupting him.

"You are not able! We are three miles, at least, from Mrs. Derrick's house. You could not bear it."

"I can walk three miles," she said with a faint, fair smile. "I will go home with Sam, and you can take care of the horses."

"That would be a tolerably backhanded arrangement!" said the doctor.—"Young man, will you bring these horses into town for me—after I get them on their legs—to Judge Harrison's, or anywhere?—I must take care of this lady and see her safe."

"Yes—I'll bring 'em into town," said Sam, "but Miss Faith's to be seen to first—if they don't get on their legs all night! That'll be a work of time, I take it. Miss Faith—could you walk just a little way?—there's a house there, and maybe a wagon."

"You don't understand me," said the doctor. "I asked if you would do me the favour to bring my horses into town. I will take care of the lady."

Sam considered a minute—not the doctor but things.

"Miss Faith," he said, "I can run faster than you can walk, beyond all calculation. If you'll keep warm here, I'll run till I find a wagon—for if you don't ride and tell the story some one else will,—and then there's two people will be worse hurt than you are. You'd get home quickest so." Faith was about to speak but the doctor prevented her.

"Then you refuse to take care of my horses?" he said. "I told you I would take care of the lady."

"Bother the horses!" said Sam impatiently,—"who's to think about horses with Miss Faith here frightened to death? I'm ready to drive 'em all over creation, when I get ready, Dr. Harrison!"

Faith in her turn interposed.

"I would rather walk than wait, Dr. Harrison. If Sam knows some house near by, I would rather walk so far with him than wait for him to go and come again. We could send some one to help you then. Sam, you'll help Dr. Harrison get the horses up."

So much Sam was willing to do, and the doctor with such grace as he might, accepted; that is, with no grace at all. The horses with some trouble and difficulty were raised to their feet, and found whole. The carriage was broken too much to be even drawn into town. Faith then set out with her escort.

"How far is your house, Sam?"

But Sam shook his head at that—the nearest one of any sort was a poor sort of a place, where they sometimes had a wagon standing and sometimes didn't. "But we can try, Miss Faith," he said in conclusion. Sam's arm was a strong one, and certainly if he could have induced his companion to lean her whole weight on it his satisfaction would have increased in proportion; as it was he gave her good help. And thus they had walked on, in the fading afternoon light, more than what to Faith was "just a little way," when the first house came in sight.

Fortunately the wagon was at home; and before it stood an old horse that one of the men said "he should like to see run!"—but for once such deficiency was the best recommendation. Another man set off on foot to find and help Dr. Harrison, and the owner of the slow horse gave the reins to Sam. The wagon was not on springs, and the buffalo skin was old, and the horse was slow!—beyond a question; but still it was easier than walking, and even quicker. Sam Stoutenburgh did his best to make Faith comfortable—levying upon various articles for that purpose, and drove along with a pleasure which after all can never be unmixed in this world! Even Sam felt that, for his long-drawn "Oh Miss Faith!"—said much, and carried Faith's thoughts (she hardly knew why) to more than one person at home.

"Sam," said Faith, "I don't want to say anything about this to-night."

"Well, ma'am—I won't say a word, if I can help it. Do you mean to anybody, Miss Faith?"

"Not to anybody. I mean, not to any one at home."

"I won't if I can help it," Sam repeated. "But it's my night to stay with Mr. Linden."

"Is it?—Well—what if it is?"

"I don't know—" said Sam dubiously,—"he has a funny way of reading people's faces."

"But what is going to be in yours, Sam?"

"I don't know that, neither," said Sam. "But the fact is, Miss Faith, he always does find out things—and if it's anything he's got to do with you may just as good tell him at once as to fuss round."

A pretty significant piece of information! Upon which Faith mused.

It was not so late when they reached Mrs. Derrick's door, that the good lady's anxiety had got fairly under way. At that moment indeed, she had quitted the front of the house, and gone to hurry Cindy and the teakettle; so that Faith was in the house and her escort dismissed, before Mrs. Derrick appeared.

"Why pretty child!" she said—"here you are! I was very near getting worried. And I went up and asked Mr. Linden what time it was, lest the clock shouldn't be right; but he seemed to think it wasn't worth while to fret about you yet. You're tired to death!" she added, looking at Faith. "You're as pale as anything, child!"

"Yes mother—I'm very tired."

And very glad to get home, she would have said, but her lips failed it.

"Well do sit down, child," said her mother, "and I'll take your things up stairs. Tea's all ready—that'll do you good, and then you shall go right to bed."

But that did not seem what Faith was ready to do; instead of that, she preferred to sit down by her mother, and wrap her arms round her again and lay her head in her mother's lap. Even then she did not sleep, though she was by no means inclined to talk and answered Mrs. Derrick's fond or anxious words with very few in return, low and quiet, or with quiet caresses. And when her mother was silent, to let her sleep, Faith was silent too.

They had sat so motionless for awhile, when Faith changed her posture. She got up, sat down on a chair by her mother's side, laid her head in her neck and wrapped arms round her in turn.

"Mother—" she said most caressingly,—"when will you begin to followChrist with me?—I want that, I want that!"—

CHAPTER XXV

While Dr. Harrison was sleeping off the effects of his exertions, mental and physical, of the preceding day; and his horses in their stable realized that the reaping of wild oats has its own fatigues; Mrs. Derrick was stirring about with even unwonted activity, preparing for that unwonted breakfast up stairs. An anxious look or two at Faith's sleeping face had assured her mother that the fatigue there had been nothing very serious; and Mrs. Derrick went down with a glad heart to her preparations. There Faith joined her after awhile, and as breakfast time approached, Mrs. Derrick suggested that Faith should go up and see that the table was all right, and receive the breakfast which she herself would send up. Cindy was already there, passing back and forth, and the door stood open to facilitate her operations.

If Faith had felt curious as to the success of Sam Stoutenburgh's efforts at concealment, her curiosity was at once relieved. The room as she saw it through the half-open door was bright with firelight and sunshine; the spoons and cups on the little table shone cheerily in the glow; and all things were in their accustomed pretty order and disorder. But the couch was empty, and Mr. Linden stood by the mantelpiece, leaning one arm there, his face bent down and covered with his hand.

Faith had no need to knock—the door being open and Cindy in full possession; but as her light step came near the fire he turned suddenly and held out his hand to her without a word. Then gently pushing her back to the corner of the couch, Mr. Linden bade her "sit down and be quiet—" and he himself took a chair at her side. She could hardly tell how he looked—the face was so different from any she had ever seen him wear.

For a minute she obeyed orders; then she said, though with an eye that avoided meeting his,

"I mustn't be quiet, Mr. Linden—I must see to the breakfast table."

If his first motion was to hinder that, he thought better of it, and suffered her to go and give her finishing touches; watching her all the time, as she felt, but without speaking; and when Cindy shut the door and tramped down stairs, the room was very still. Only the light crackling of the hickory sticks in the chimney, and those soft movements about the table. If ever such movements were made with pleasure—if ever a face of very deep peacefulness hovered over the placing and displacing of knives and forks, plates and salt-cellars,—it was then. Yet it was not a very abstracted face, nor looked as if the outward quiet might be absolutely immovable. The last touch put to the table, Faith glanced at the hickory sticks on the fire; but they wanted nothing; and then her look came round to Mr. Linden, and the smile which could no longer be kept back, came too; a smile of touching acknowledgment.

"Miss Faith, will you come and sit down?"

She came, silently.

One deep breath she did hear, as Mr. Linden arranged the cushions and with gentle force made her lean against them, but either he did not feel himself able to touch directly what they were both thinking of—or else thought her not able to bear it. His tone was very quiet, the rest of his hand upon her hair hardly longer than it had been yesterday, as he said,

"What will my scholar be fit for to-day?—anything but sleep?"

For a moment it was a little more than she could bear, and her face for that moment was entirely grave; then she smiled up at him and answered in a tone lighter than his had been,

"Fit for anything—and more fit than ever, Mr. Linden. I only rest here because you put me here."

The next remark diverged a little, and was given with darkening eyes.

"How DARED he take you with those young horses!"

"He thought he could do just what he pleased with them—" said Faith, shaking her head a little.

"And with you—" was in Mr. Linden's mind, but it came not forth."Where is your mother?—does she know?"

"Mother's coming," said Faith raising herself from the cushions,—"as soon as she sends up the breakfast. She doesn't know yet. I told Sam not to tell you, Mr. Linden.

"How do you do to-day?"

She answered him with a bright fair glance and in a tone as sweet as happiness could make it,

"Very well!"

Mr. Linden's eyes went from her to the opening door and the entering dishes.

"Sara was not in fault, Miss Faith,—I heard you come home."

In the train of the dishes came Mrs. Derrick, and looked with a little amaze at Mr. Linden off the couch and Faith upon it. But if the first didn't hurt him, she knew the second wouldn't hurt Faith, with whose appearance her mother was not yet quite satisfied. And when they were all at the table, Mrs. Derrick might wonder at those words of very earnest thanksgiving that they were all brought together again, but they needed no explanation to any one else. In all her life Faith had never known just such a breakfast. That sweet sense of being safe—of being shielded,—of breathing an atmosphere where no evil, mental, moral, or physical, could reach her,—how precious it was!—after those hours of fear and sorrow. If her two companions had visibly joined hands around her, she could not have felt the real fact more strongly. And another hand was nearer and more precious still to her apprehension; even the one that made theirs strong and had brought her within them. Faith's face was a fair picture, for all this was there. But Faith's words were few.

How many Mr. Linden's would have been, of choice, cannot be known; for Mrs. Derrick's mind was so intent upon the last night's expedition, so eager to know how the poor woman was, and what she said, and where she lived; and how Faith enjoyed the drive, and what made her get so tired,—that he had full occupation in warding oil the questions and turning them another way. In compliance with her wishes he had taken his usual place on the couch, and there made himself useful both with word and hand; the particular use of breakfast to him, was not so apparent.

It was over not a bit too soon; for Cindy had not finished the work of removing it before she brought up word that the doctor was come and wanted to see Mis' Derrick. Faith judged the enquiry was meant for herself and ran down stairs accordingly. The doctor was satisfied that she was none the worse of her ride with him, but had brought a very serious face to the examination.

"Have you forgiven me, Miss Derrick?"

"I have nothing to forgive, sir!" Faith told him with a look that gave sweet assurance of it.—"I am not hurt. I am very glad I went."

"May I say," said the doctor, and he looked as if he was uneasy till he had said it,—"that you misjudged me yesterday from that woman's words. I did not choose to interrupt her—and the severity of your remarks to me," he said with a little smile which did not want feeling, "took from me at the moment the power to justify myself. But Miss Derrick, I have not done what you seemed to suppose—and fairly enough, for she gave you to understand it. I never set myself to overthrow her belief in anything. I have hardly held any conversation with her, except what related to her physical condition; if I have said anything it has been a word intended to quiet her. I saw her mind was very much disturbed."

Faith had looked very grave, with eyes cast down, during the hearing of this speech. She raised them then, at the end, and said with great gentleness,

"There is but one way to give quiet that will stand, Dr. Harrison."

"I am sure you are right," he said looking at her with an unwonted face, nearer to reverence than Dr. Harrison was often known to give to anything "I hope you will go and see that poor creature again and undo any mischief my careless words may have done."

"Won't you undo them yourself, Dr. Harrison?"

"I will endorse yours, so well as I can!" he said. "But won't you see her again?"

"If I can,—I will try to go."

"May I see Mr. Linden?" was the next question in a lighter tone; and receiving permission the doctor moved himself up stairs. He entered Mr. Linden's room with a quiet, composed air, very different from the jaunty manner of yesterday; and applied himself with business quiet to Mr. Linden's state and wants. And the reception he met was not one to set him a talking. It was not tinged with the various feelings which the thought of him had stirred in Mr. Linden's mind that night and morning,—if they lived still it was in the background. The grasp of his hand was firmer than usual, the tone more earnest, which said, "I am very glad to see you!"—and yet the doctor felt that in them both there was more—and also less—than mere personal feeling.

He had nearly finished the arrangements of Mr. Linden's arm when he remarked, "Did you hear the result of our expedition yesterday?"

A grave 'yes,' answered him.

"You see," said the doctor, "I couldn't manage the wind!"

But to that there was no reply.

"It was just that," said the doctor. "Those horses had been taking whiskey, I believe, instead of oats; and the wind just made them mad. They ran for pure love of running!—till a little villain threw up his hat at them—and then indeed it was which could catch the clouds first."

If the doctor wanted help in his account, he got none. He drew back and took a survey.

"What's the matter, Linden?—you look more severe at me this morning than Miss Derrick does;—and I am sure she has the most reason."

"I have a prudent fit come over me once in a while," said Mr. Linden goodhumouredly, but with a little restless change of position. "I'm afraid if I talk much upon this subject I shall get out of patience—and I couldn't lay all the blame of that upon you."

"What blame—do you pretend—to lay upon me, as it is?" said the doctor not illhumouredly.

"There'll be no pretence about it—when I lay it on," said Mr. Linden.

"Enact Macduff—and lay on!" said the doctor smiling.

"Let it suffice you that I could if I would."

"The shadows of strokes suffice me!" said the doctor. "Am I a man of straw? Do you take me for Sir Andrew Aguecheck? 'horribly valiant' after his fashion. What have I done, man?" He stood, carelessly handsome an handsomely careless, before the couch, looking down upon Mr. Linden as if resolved to have something out of him.

A part of the description applied well to the face he was looking at—yet after a different fashion; and anything less careless than the look Mr. Linden bent upon him, could not be imagined. It was a look wherein again different feelings held each other in check,—the grave reproof, the sorrowful perception, the quick indignation—Dr. Harrison might detect them all; and yet more, the wistful desire that he were a different man. This it was that answered.

"What have you done, doctor?—you have very nearly given yourself full proof of those true things which you profess to disbelieve."

"How do you know that I disbelieve anything?" said the doctor, with a darkening yet an acute look;—"much more that I profess to disbelieve?"

"How do I know whether a ship carries a red or a blue light at her masthead?"

"You don't, if she carries no light at all; and I do not remember thatI ever professed myself in your hearing on either side of the 'things'I suppose you mean."

"What do you say of a ship that carries no light at all?"

"Must a ship always hang out her signals, man?"

"Ay—" said Mr. Linden,—"else she may run down the weaker craft, or be run down by the stronger."

"Suppose she don't know, in good truth, what light belongs to her?"

"It is safe to find out."

"Who has told you, Linden, that I believed or disbelieved anything?"

"Yourself."

"May I ask, if any other testimony has aided your judgment, or come in aid of it?"

"No," said Mr. Linden, looking at him with a grave, considering eye. "I am not much in the habit of discussing such points with third parties."

The doctor bit his lip; and then smiled.

"You're a good fellow, Linden. But you see, I can afford to say that now. I have you at advantage. As long as you lie there, and I am your attending physician—which latter I assure you I look upon as a piece of my good fortune—you can't, knock me down, if you feel disposed. I am safe, and can afford to be generous. As to the lights," said the doctor taking up his hat, "I agree to what you say—and that's more of a concession than I ever made on the subject before. But in the atmosphere I have lived in, I do assure you I have not been able to tell the blue lights from the red!"

"I believe you," said Mr. Linden,—"nor was it altogether the fault of the atmosphere. Even where the colour is right, the glass is sometimes dim. What then?"

"What then? why the inference is plain. If one can not be distinguished from the other, one is as good as the other!"

"And both shine with a steady clear light upon the heavenward way?"

"There's no question of shining," said the doctor half scornfully, half impatiently. "If they shew colour at all, it is on a way that is murky enough, heaven knows!"

"Then what have they to do with the question?" said Mr. Linden,—"you are applying rules of action which you would laugh at in any other case. Does the multitude of quacks disgust you with the science of medicine?—does the dim burning of a dozen poor candles hinder your lighting a good one? You have nothing to do with other people's lights,—let your own shine!"

Dr. Harrison stood looking at his adviser a minute, with a smile that was both pleased and acute.

"Linden"—said he,—"it strikes me that you are out of your vocation."

"When I heard that account last night,"—Mr. Linden went on—and he paused, as if the recollection were painful,—"the second thing I thought of was your own words, that heaven is not in 'your line.'"

"Well?—" said the doctor swinging his hat and beginning to pace up and down the room, and speaking as if at once confessing and justifying the charge laid to him,—"Now and then, I believe, a bodily angel comes down to the earth and leaves her wings behind her—but that's not humanity, Linden!"

"True servant of God, is as fair a name as angel," said Mr. Linden; "and that is what humanity may be and often is. 'Though crowns are wanting, and bright pinions folded.'"