Say and Seal, Volume I

"This isn't a cold light."

"No, truly. And just so far as the saints on earth walk in a cold light, so far, I think, their light is less glorious."

"I don't see how they can,"—said Faith timidly.

"They do—sometimes,—standing aloof like those ice-peaks. You can see the white garments, but no glory transfigures them. Such a face as Stephen's, Miss Faith, is worth a journey to see."

Faith thought so; wondered how many such faces he had seen. Her meditations plunged her too deep for words.

"What are you musing about?—if I may ask," Mr. Linden said presently.

She coloured but answered, "I was thinking what one must be, to have a face like Stephen's."

"That is the promise, you know—from 'glory to glory.' 'From grace to glory' must come first. 'What one must be'—yes, that is it. But it is good to measure the promises now and then."

Faith laid that last remark up in her heart, enshrining it in gold, as it were. But she said nothing.

"How is it with you?" he said turning his eyes full upon her,—"you have not told me lately. Are the clouds all gone?"

Her look met his, wistful, and simple as her answer.

"I see the light through."—

"'Unto the perfect-day'!" Mr. Linden said, his smile—slight as it was—bringing a sort of illumination with it. After a few minutes he turned to her again.

"Miss Faith, one whom Christ has called into his army should wear his uniform."

"What, sir?"—she said, the colour starting readily.

"With the private vows of allegiance, there should be also a public profession."

"Yes,"—she said, "I suppose so.—I am willing—I am ready."

Timid, modest, even shrinking as she was, more in view of the subject than of her adviser, her face was as frank as the day. His hand quitted the reins a moment, taking hers and giving it a sort of 'right-hand-of-fellowship' clasp, glad and warm and earnest, as was his look.

"I am not going to ask you anymore questions," he said,—"you will tell me if there are any you wish answered."

Her "Thank you" was a little breathless.

For a while the old horse jogged on in his easy way, through the woods and the fall flowers and the sunny glow; and the eyes of the two travellers seemed to be busy therewith. Then Faith said with a little timid touch upon her voice,

"Mr. Linden—I suppose it was you that put a little green book in my basket last night?"

"Jumping at conclusions again!" he said. "What sort of a little green book was it?"

"I don't know! I suppose you can tell me."

"Do you suppose I will?"

"Why not? What did you expect me to do with it, Mr. Linden?"

"Find out what sort of a book it is."

"You know I can't read a word of it," said Faith rather low.

"Look at that old house," said Mr. Linden.

They were passing a cleared field or two, one of which seemed yet under cultivation and shewed corn stalks and pumpkin vines, but the other was in that poverty-stricken state described by the proverb as 'I once had.' The house was a mere skeleton. Clapboards, indeed, there were still, and shingles; but doors and windows had long since been removed—by man or Time,—and through the open spaces you could see here a cupboard door, and there a stairway, and there a bit of partition wall with its faded high-coloured paper. No remnant of furniture—no rag of old clothes or calico; but in the dooryard a few garden flowers still struggled to keep their place, among daisies, thistles and burdocks. The little field was bordered with woodland, and human voice or face there was none. The sunbeams which shone so bright on the tinted trees seemed powerless here; the single warm ray that shot through one of the empty window frames fell mournfully on the cold hearthstone.

"Yes," said Faith.—"I don't know who ever lived there. It has stood so a good while."

The road grew more solitary still after that, passing on where the trees came close upon either hand, and arched their branches overhead, casting a deep and lonely shadow. The flowers dwindled, the briars and rank grass increased.

"As to 'Le Philosophe sous les toits,' Miss Faith," said Mr. Linden, touching the horse with his whip, "there are just two things to be said. In the first place—with the help of another book or two which are not beyond reach—you may make his acquaintance quite comfortably by yourself. In the second—no, I shall not tell you the second,—that you may find out by yourself too. There is Charles twelfth—and all his subjects one might judge."

For on Captain Samp's blackberry hill—albeit blackberries were bygone things—a troop, a flock of children were scattered up and down, picking flowers. Golden rod and asters and 'moonshine,' filled the little not-too-clean hands, and briars and wild roses combed the 'unkempt' hair somewhat roughly. Whiteheaded youngsters all of them, looking (but for small patterns of blue calico and nankeen) not unlike a drove of little pigs. Next appeared an imposing array of sunflowers, below which prince's feather waved in crimson splendour, and the little brown capital of 'Sweden' stood revealed. Or I should say, partially; for the house stood in the deepest corner of the shade, just where the road took a sharp turn towards the sunlight; and Mr. Linden alighted and tied his horse to a tree, with little fear that anything would happen to him unless the darkness put him to sleep.

"Charles twelfth has the best of it just now, Miss Faith," he said as he opened the gate for her. "Why do people build houses where they cannot see the sun!"

They were met at the door by Mrs. Seacomb.

"Do tell!" she said—"why if this aint you! But what made you come so late? and how slow your horse did come when he was about it. I've been watchin' you this age. Well Faith—I declare—you're as pretty as a posie! And this is the teacher I s'pose—Guess likely you haint been down this way afore, sir,—it's a good ways, and the road's lonesome, but it's a fine place when you're here—so retired and shady."

All Mr. Linden's command of countenance only enabled him to answer the last remark with a strong affirmative.

"Yes sir," said Mrs. Seacomb, "it is; and there's a good many of the trees is evergreens, so the shade never goes off. I do s'pose, if I could keep the children more to home they wouldn't get nigh so brown as they do; but if I was to run out in the lot and whip 'em home every half hour they'd be back again afore I could count one. Now Genevievy—she does stay round under the trees a good deal, but then she's fond of flowers. She'll be real glad to see you Faith, and so'll your mother"—and Mrs. Seacomb at last got her visiters into the parlour.

The parlour was as brown as the rest of the house. The visiters had not time to remark more particularly; for their attention was claimed by a tall girl of about Faith's age, with a loosely built, strong jointed frame, in as marked contrast as possible to the clean outline and soft angles of the other. She shook hands very cordially with Faith, but made a reverence to the 'teacher.'

"Won't you take a chair, sir," she said, setting one for the gentleman. "Aint it an age since we've looked at you, Faith! Your mother's been here a long spell. Ma' was proud to see her come it. You haint been here, seems to me, ever before!"

"How do you do, Genevieve?"

"I'm respectable well. Can't do nothin' uncommon, you know, down in this 'eclusion. I guess it's as good to see company as blackberries. We don't get it though.—I hope you don't mind a lonely sitiwation, sir?" The last words with deep gravity and a bending head.

"It agrees well with a contemplative mind," replied the gentleman, resolving that the young lady should not talk 'high english' alone.

"It does!" said Genevieve admiringly, taking him all in with her eyes. "There is always something to look at to make you contemplate.—Then you don't think it an objection, sir, to live so far away from society as this?"

"I have lived further away from society than this," said Mr. Linden. "I have seen regions of country, Miss Seacomb, where you could not even hear of anybody but yourself."

"I declare!—And war' n't it awful still, sir?"

"It was beautiful, still," said Mr. Linden.

"I reckon it was!"

At this juncture Charles twelfth made his appearance, and Mr. Linden at once turned to him—

"Well sir—how are the Turks?"

To which Charles twelfth, being taken much by surprise, replied,

"They're pretty well."

"Genevievy," said her mother, "if you'll make yourself agreeable, I'll go hurry tea afore the rest of the children comes. They will all come to table, and there's so many." And Mrs. Derrick as in duty bound, followed her to help.

"I'll go tell 'em!" said Charles twelfth as Mrs. Seacomb went out.

"No you will not"—said Mr. Linden,—"you will not go out of the house again till I give you leave. Why don't you come to Sunday school and learn to behave yourself?"

"What else?"—said Charles twelfth.

"What else!" said Mr. Linden,—"that will take you some time.Afterwards you will learn all the lessons your teacher gives you."

"Who'll he be?" said Charles twelfth coming a little nearer. "You?"

"No indeed," said Mr. Linden, "I have quite enough to do now. I dare say this lady will take you into her class—if you ask her politely."

It was worth while to see Faith's face now, for the little stir and the flush and the sweet gravity that was in it. Not so much as a glance went to Mr. Linden, but leaning forward towards the young enemy of Peter the Great, she said in her sweet tones,

"Will you come?"

Charles twelfth looked up at her rather earnestly, though his finger was in his mouth the while; and then having ended his scrutiny gave a grave little nod of assent, and moved round and stood at her side.

"Look here," said Faith,—"don't you want to shew me how the sunflowers grow in your garden?"

"They bain't mine—" said Charles twelfth.—"I'll shew you my house—if he'll let me go."

That difficulty being got over, Charles twelfth trotted out of the front door, and on through the long grass, to a remarkable edifice of clam shells, broken earthenware, moss and corn cobs, which was situated close by the fence. Faith commented and asked questions, till she had made herself slightly familiar to the young woodsman's mind; and then it was agreed that he should come Sunday morning bright and early to Mrs. Derrick's and he and Faith would go to Sunday school together. By the time this arrangement was thoroughly entered into, the summons came to tea.

"Now do just set down and make yourselves at home," said Mrs. Seacomb, "and eat as if you were home too. Faith," she added in a good sized whisper—"I did like to forgot all about it!—and your mother could have telled me, too, but you'll do just as well,—does he always take cold pork and potatoes to his supper?"

Faith's eyes involuntarily opened; then as the meaning of this appeal broke upon her she answered with a very decided "No, ma'am."

"'Cause we've got some handy," Mrs. Seacomb said. "Now Mr. Simpson, he staid with us a spell, and he couldn't do without it—if I had pound cake and plum cake and mince pie for supper, it made no differ—and if there warn't but one cold potato in the house it made none either; he wanted that just the same. To be sure he was easy suited. And I didn't know but all school teachers was the same way. I never had much experience of 'em. Genevievy—just lock the front door and then the children can't get in,—the back door is locked. I do take to peace and quiet!"

"Is Charles twelfth much like his brothers and sisters, ma'am?" saidMr. Linden.

"Well no—" said Mrs. Seacomb, dealing out blackberry jam,—"he always was an uncommon child. The rest's all real 'sponsible, but there's none of 'em alike but Americus Vespucus.—It's fresh, Faith—the children picked the blackberries in Captain Samp's lot.—Charles twelfth does act sometimes as if he was helped. I thought he took a turn awhile ago, to behave like the rest—but he's reacted." And having emptied the dish of jam Mrs. Seacomb began upon the cheese.

"Which is Americus?" said Faith. "Is he older or younger than Charles twelfth Mrs. Seacomb?"

"Well he's older," said Mrs. Seacomb;—"that's him," she added, as a loud rattling of the back door was followed in an incredibly short space of time by a similar rattling at the front, after which came the clatter of various sticks and clods at the window.

"I guess you won't care about seein' him nearer," said Mrs. Seacomb, stirring her tea composedly. "Only don't nobody open the door—I do love peace and quiet. They won't break the window, 'cause they know they'd catch it if they did."

"Children is a plague, I do s'pose," remarked Genevieve. "Is your tea agreeable, sir?"

Which question Mr. Linden waived by asking another, and the meal proceeded with a peace and quietness which suited no ideas but Mrs. Seacomb's. At last tea was over; the ladies put on their bonnets again, and the old horse being roused from his meditations, the party set forward on their pleasant way home.

Doubly pleasant now, for the sun was just setting; the air was fresher, and the glow of the sunset colours put a new 'glory' upon all the colours of earth. And light and shadow made witching work of the woody road as long as the glow lasted. Then the colours faded, the shadows spread; grey gathered where orange and brown had been; that glory was gone; and then it began to be shewn, little by little, as the blue also changed for grey, that there is "another glory of the stars." And then presently, above the trees that shaded Mrs. Seacomb's retreat, the moon rose full and bright and laid her strips of silver under the horse's feet.

Were they all exhausted with their afternoon's work? or was this shifting scene of colour and glory enough to busy their minds? Mr. Linden found his way along the road silently, and the two ladies, behind him seemed each to be wrapped in her own thoughts; and moonlight and star light favoured that, and so on they jogged between the shadowy walls of trees tipped and shimmering with light, and over those strips of silver on the road. Out of the woods at last, on the broad, full-lit highway; past one farm and house after another, lights twinkling at them from the windows; and then their own door with its moon-lit porch.

The old horse would stand, no fear; the reins were thrown over his back, and the three went in together. As Mrs. Derrick passed on first and the others were left behind in the doorway, Faith turned and held out her hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Linden!"—she said softly.

He took the hand, and inquired gravely, "whether she was taking leave of him for the rest of his natural life?"

Faith's mood had probably not been precisely a merry one when she began; but her low laugh rung through the hall at that, and she ran in.

CHAPTER IX

Mr. Simlins stood on his doorstep and surveyed such portion of his fair inheritance as his eye could reach from that point. Barns and outhouses already in good order, Mr. Simlins favoured with a mental coat of paint; fences were put up and gate-posts renewed, likewise in imagination. Imagination went further, and passed from the stores of yellow grain concealed by those yellow clapboards, to the yellow stubble-fields whence they had come; so that on the whole Mr. Simlins took rather a glowing view of things, considering that it was not yet sunrise. The cloudless October sky above his head suggested only that it would be a good day for digging potatoes,—the white frost upon the ground made Mr. Simlins 'guess it was about time to be lookin' after chestnuts.' The twitter of the robins brought to mind the cherries they had stolen,—the exquisite careering of a hawk in the high blue ether, spoke mournfully of a slaughtered chicken: the rising stir of the morning wind said plainly as a wind could (in its elegant language) that 'if it was goin' to blow at that rate, it would be plaguey rough goin' after round clams.' With which reflection, Mr. Simlins turned about and went in to his early breakfast of pork and potatoes,—only, as he was not a 'teacher,' they were hot and not cold.

Thus pleasantly engaged—discussing his breakfast,—Mr. Simlins was informed by one of his 'help,' that a boy wanted to see him. Which was no uncommon occurrence, for all the boys about Pattaquasset liked Mr. Simlins.

"Just as lieves see him as not," said Mr. Simlins—"if he don't want my breakfast. Come in, there, you!"—

And Dromy Tuck presented himself.

"'Early bird catches the worm,'" said Mr. Simlins. "Don't want my breakfast, Dromy, do you?"

"Had mine afore I started," replied Dromy. "But the thing's here. Mr.Linden says as how we wants your nuts off o' them trees over toNeanticut—and he says if you don't want 'em, why it'll fit, he says.And if you do, why you may keep 'em that's all."

"What's Mr. Linden goin' to do with the nuts, s'pos'n he gets 'em?"

"He aint agoin' to get 'em," said Droiny—"it's us;—us and him. You see we did somethin' to please him, and so now he said as how he'd like to do somethin' to please us, if he only knowed what it was. And there wa'n't a boy of the hull on 'em as didn't say he'd rather go after nuts than any other livin' thing whatsomedever."

"And now I s'pose you're askin' for them particular nuts to please me. It's a round game we're on," said Mr. Simlins. "How're you goin' to get to Neanticut? same way Jack went up his bean?—won't pay."

"He didn't tell—" said Dromy. "He don't say everything to oncet, commonly."

"When 'you goin'?"

"Don' know, sir. Mr. Linden said as how we'd better go afore the nuts did. And Saturday aint fur off."

"Saturday—well! You tell Mr. Linden, if he'll send Reuben Taylor here Saturday morning, he can take the big wagon; it'll hold the hull on ye, and I guess I'll do without the team; and if he wants to go into the old house and make a fire in case you want something to eat afore you get home, there's not a soul in it and no wood nother—but you can pick it up; and I'll give Reuben the key. Now don't you splice the two ends o' that together by the way."

Great was the stir in a certain stratum of Pattaquasset that day! Many and startling were the demands for pies, cheese, and gingerbread, to be answered on the ensuing Saturday. Those good housewives who had no boys at school or elsewhere, thought it must be 'real good fun' to help them get ready for such a frolic,—those who had boys—wished they had none! As to the rest, the disturbance spread a little (as disturbances are wont) from its proper sphere of action. Two boys even invaded Mrs. Derrick's peaceful dwelling, and called down Faith from conquering Peru. These were Reuben Taylor and Joe Deacon; for Joe with a slight variation of the popular adage, considered that 'once a scholar, always a scholar.' Reuben seemed inclined on his part to leave the present business in Joe's hands, but a sharp nudge from that young gentleman's elbow admonished him not only to speak but to speak quickly. Reuben modestly preferred his modest request, guiltless of any but the most innocent arrangement of his words.

"We boys are all going over to Neanticut nutting, next Saturday, Miss Faith," he said, "and we thought as Mr. Linden was going, maybe you'd like to go too—and we'd all enjoy it a great deal more."

"There ain't room in the wagon," put in Joe—"but I s'pose you kin fix that."

"Joe!" said Reuben flushing up. "There's plenty of room, Miss Faith—there isn't one of us that wouldn't find it, somehow. I could walk easy enough, I know that."

Faith flushed up too on her part a little, unconsciously; and asked who else was going.

"Sam aint"—said Joe, as if that was all he cared about.

"Only the boys, Miss Faith," said Reuben with another glance at his comrade. "But it's a pretty place over there,—and so's the ride. There's room for Mrs. Derrick too if she'd like it," Reuben added,—"I suppose we shall be gone all day."

"It's very good of you to come and ask me, both of you," said Faith, evidently in perplexity;—"and I should like to go dearly if I can, Reuben—but I am afraid I can't. I am glad if the wagon's big enough to hold you all without me. You'll have a great time."

"You may say that!" said Joe—while Reuben looked down, disappointed.

"We didn't know whether you would," he said—"but Mr. Linden said you wouldn't be displeased at our asking. We asked him first, Miss Faith—or we shouldn't have made so free. And you shall have some of the nuts, anyway!"

A little cheered with which view of the subject, Reuben made his bow, and Joe Deacon whistled after him out of the gate.

Faith looked after them, disappointed too. There was a grave set of the lines of her mouth, and it was with rather a thoughtful face that she looked down the road for a minute. Then remembering the volume of Prescott in her hand, which her finger still kept open, she went up stairs again and set herself down to finish her treasure. Faith's reading-place, it must be known, was no other than a deep window-seat in Mr. Linden's room. That was a large, old-fashioned room, as has been said, with brown wainscottings and corner and window cupboards; and having on two sides a pleasant exposure, the light generally made it a winsome place to look at. Now, in this October weather, it came in mellow and golden from a softened sun and changing foliage; the brown wood and white walls and dark old furniture and rich bindings of books, all mingled in the sunlight to make a rich sunny picture.

There were pictures outside too and pleasant ones. From the south window, straight down the street, the houses and trees and the brown spire of the Methodist church stretched away—roofs and gable ends and the enormous tufty heads of the elm trees that half hung over them. At the back of these houses, the eye went uninterruptedly over meadows and fields to the belt of woods which skirted at a little distance the line of the shore from the Lighthouse to Barley Point—here and there a break through which a schooner might be seen standing up or down the Sound; elsewhere only its topsails might be discerned above the woods. The western window took in the break where Barley Point lay; and further on in the southwest a distant glimpse of the Sound, with the little brown line of Monongatesak Point. The lane leading to the shore ran off due west, with houses, gardens, orchards, bordering it and spotting the country generally. A fair country—level and rich—all the range west and northwest was uninterrupted smooth fields; the eye had full sweep to the wide horizon; the dotting of trees, barns and houses, only enriched it, giving the sweet air of peaceful and happy occupation.

Faith's place was the deep low sill, or seat, of that western window. There often Faith's book rested, while on the floor before it the reader sat. This time the book was near finished, and a few more leaves turned over changed the 'near' into 'quite.' Faith stood then considering the books. The name of Prescott on another volume had tempted her, for she had taken it down and considered the title page; before settling to it, Faith laid her hand on one of another set not yet much examined; a set of particular outside beauty. But what was the inside? For Faith stood by the cupboard door, not looking here and there, but leaf by leaf walking into the middle of the book. Faith rested the volume on the shelf and turned over more leaves; and at last dropped down by her window seat, laid the book there, put her cheek on her hand as usual, a cheek already flushed, and lost herself in the very beams of the afternoon sun.

It might have been a dream, it might have been a vision (only that vision it was not)—it might have been reality; wrapped up in her book, what should Faith know? Yet when some crisis was turned over with the leaf, and the real world began to supplant the unreal, Faith started up and looked round. Had she heard a step? a rustling of paper on the table? The door was firmly shut, the shadowy corner near by had lost the sunbeams, but was else unchanged; the table looked just as before—unless—Had there been a letter lying there when she came in?—Faith never could tell.

The door opened now, however, and Mrs. Derrick entered—peering in somewhat anxiously.

"Why here you are, pretty child!" she said, "I began to think you were lost! Mrs. Somers has been here, and so's Miss Harrison, and they wanted to see you ever so much. I don't think that's a good cheese we cut last night, Faith,—I guess I'll cut another."