Say and Seal, Volume II

"Hope you'll come along again some day," said he. "And" (waggishly) "don't come without the lady!"—

The rope was drawn in and the little skiff shot ahead smoothly and silently from the great brown fishing boat and her equally brown owners. Gliding on—watched for a little by the fishers, then their attention was claimed by the flapping shad in the net, and the sail boat set her canvas towards Kildeer river. Mr. Linden went forward and bestowed his prisoner a little more out of sight and sound in some place of safety, and then sitting down in the prow dipped his hands in the blue water and took a survey of Faith, as she sat in the stern—the tiller in her hand, the shadow of the sail falling partly across; the spring zephyrs playing all about her.

"Little bird," he said, "why don't you sing?"

A smile of much and deep meaning went back from the stern to the prow; but she presently made the somewhat obvious remark that "birds do not always sing."

"A melancholy fact in natural history! the truth of which I am just now experiencing. What shall be done with them at these times—are they to be coaxed—or chidden or fed with sponge cake? Have you got any in your basket?"

"Are you hungry?" said Faith.

"Only for words—or songs—or some other commodity of like origin," Mr. Linden said, coming back to his old place. "What shall I have?—if I cannot get the two first?"

"You might have a little patience?—"

"'Patience', my dear, 'is a good root'—but nothing akin to sugar canes."

"There's no need of it, either," said Faith laughing,—"for you can sing if I can't."

"No, there is no need of it, and therefore—Now, little bird, will you please not to fly past the outlet of Kildeer river?"

Laughing, colouring, Faith nevertheless bent a very earnest attention upon this difficult piece of navigation. For the opening of Kildeer river was as yet but slightly to be discerned;—a little break in the smooth shore line,—a very little atmospheric change in the soft leafy hues of the nearer and further point. Faith watched, as only a young steersman does, for the time and place where her rudder should begin to take cognizance of the approaching change of course. A little wider the break in the shore line grew,—more plain the mark of a break in the trees,—and almost suddenly the little stream unfolded its pretty reach of water and woodland, stretching in alluringly with picturesque turns of its mimic channel. Faith needed a little help now, for the river was not everywhere navigable; but after a few minutes of pretty sailing among care-requiring rocks and sand-banks, where the loss of wind made their progress slow, the little skiff was safely brought to land at a nice piece of gravelly shore. It was wonderful pretty! The trees with their various young verdure came down to the water's edge, with many a dainty tint; here one covered with soft catkins of flower,—there one ruddy with not yet opened buds. The winding banks of the stream on one hand; and on the other the little piece of it they had passed over, with the breadth of the Mong beyond. Through all, May's air and Spring's perfume, and the stillness of noonday.

   "Inverted in the tideStand the grey rocks, and trembling shadows throw.And the fair trees look over, side by side,And see themselves below."

So Mr. Linden told Faith, as he was putting his sail in trim repose, and then—telling her that the guiding power was still in her hands, requested to know what they should do next.

"Why," said Faith merrily, "I thought you had business to attend to?"

"I had—" said Mr. Linden,—"but I reflected that you would probably give me full occupation, and so got rid of the business first."

"Then you have nothing to do here?"

"A great deal, I suppose; but I know not what."

Faith fairly sat down to laugh at him.

"What do you think of having lunch, and then going after flowers?"

"I consider that to be a prudent, bird-like suggestion. Do you expect me to cook this fish for you? or will you be content to take it home to your mother, and let us feast upon—

   "'Herbs, and such like country messes,Which neat-handed Phyllis dresses'?"

"Have you all the books in the world in your head?"—said Faith, laughing her own little laugh roundly. "How plain it is Mr. Linden has nothing to do to-day!—Would you like to help me to gather some sticks for a fire, sir? I think you had better have something on your hands."

"Do you?" he said lifting her out of the boat in his curiously quick, strong, light way,—"that was something on my hands—not much. What next?—do you say we are to play Ferdinand and Miranda?"

Faith's eye for an instant looked its old look, of grave, intelligent, doubtful questioning: but then she came back to Kildeer river.

"I haven't played that play yet," she said gaily; "but if you'll help me find some dry sticks—your reward shall be that you shall not have what you don't like! I can make a fire nicely here, Endecott; on this rock."

"Then it was not about them you were reading in that focus of sunbeams?"

"What?—" she said, looking.

"Once upon a time—" Mr. Linden said smiling,—"when you and Shakspeare got lost in the sunlight, and wandered about without in the least knowing where you were."

"When, Endecott?"

"Leave that point," he said,—"I want to tell you about the story. Ferdinand, whom I represent, was a prince cast away upon a desert shore—which shore was inhabited by the princess Miranda, whom you represent. Naturally enough, in the course of time, they came to think of each other much as we do—perhaps 'a little more so' on the part of Miranda. But then Miranda's father set Ferdinand to carrying wood,—as you—acting conscientiously for Mrs. Derrick—do me."

"I wonder if I ever shall understand you!" exclaimed Faith desperately, as her laugh again broke upon the sweet air that floated in from the Mong. "What has my conscience, or Mrs. Derrick, to do with our lunch fire? Why was the other prince set to carrying wood?"

"For the same reason that I am!" said Mr. Linden raising his eyebrows."To prove his affection for Miranda."

How Faith laughed.

"You are mistaken—O how mistaken you are!" she exclaimed. "It shews that though you know books, you don't know everything."

And running away with her own armful of sticks and leaves, back to the rock spoken of near where the vessel lay, Faith was stopped and relieved of her load, with such an earnest—

   "'No, precious creature,I'd rather crack my sinews, break my back,Than you should such dishonour undergo'—"

that she could do nothing but laugh, till the sticks were fairly on the rock. Then Faith went to laying them daintily together.

"I hope you've no objection to my making the fire," she said; "because I like it. Only, Endecott! the matches are in the basket. Could you get them for me? Indeed I shall want the basket too out of the boat."

Whereupon Mr. Linden—

   "'The very instant I saw you, didMy heart fly to your service: there reside,To make me slave to it; and for your sake,Am I this patient log man'!—"

But anything less like those two last words than the way in which hesprang into the boat, and brought the basket, and got out what shecalled for, could hardly be.

"How many matches do you want?" he said, looking demurely at her as he gave her one.

"All of them,—basket and all, Endecott. You are so patient that you do not hear."

"And you so impatient that you do not see—'basket and all' are at your side, fair princess.—Stand back,—it may be very well for the winds to 'blow, and crack their cheeks,' but I think it should be confined to them." And she was laughingly held back, where she could only use her eyes about the fire.

"That's my province," said Faith. "I think any effort to make a princess of me, will—fail. Did Miranda pick up any wood herself?"

"You can't help being a princess if I am a prince," said Mr. Linden.

"I don't see how it follows," said Faith. "Only let me get at that fire, and the fancy will pass away. Endecott!—it is absolutely necessary that some wood should be put on; and I don't believe princes know how."

"Princes," said Mr. Linden, holding her a little off with one hand, while with the other he replenished the fire, "are especially famed for their power of doing impossible things in desert places. And the princess will follow—whether you can see it or not. Is that blaze aspiring enough for you?"

"Yes, but it needs to be kept up—I want a good bed of coals."

A fine fire was on its way at last, and while waiting for it to burn down to the desired bed of coals, the temporary prince and princess sat down on the rock to feast their eyes in the mean time. A little past midday, it was not the picturesque hour for another season; but now, in the freshness of Spring, the delicate beauties of colour and light could bear the full meridian sun and not ask for shadows to set them off; other than the tender shade under the half-leaved trees. It was a warm enough day too, and those same leaves were making a great spring towards their full unfolding. Birds were twittering all around, and they only filled up the silence.

"Isn't it worth coming for!—" said Faith, when they had taken it all in for a few minutes without interrupting the birds.

"More than that—and the 'it' is very plural. Faith, do you see that butterfly?"—A primrose-winged rover was meandering about in the soft air before them, flitting over the buttercups with a listless sort of admiration.

"Poor thing, he has come out too soon," said Faith. "He will have some frost yet, for so summery as it is to-day." But Faith gave a graver look at the butterfly than his yellow wings altogether warranted.

"Among the ancients," said Mr. Linden, "the word for a butterfly and the word for the soul were the same,—they thought the first was a good emblem of the lightness and airiness of the last. So they held, that when a man died a butterfly might be seen flitting above his head. I was thinking how well this one little thing shews the exceeding lowness of heathen ideas."

"Did they think the butterfly was his very spirit, in that form?"

"I suppose so—or thought they did. But look at that creature's wavering, unsteady flight; his aimless wanderings, anywhere or nowhere; and compare it with the 'mounting up with wings as eagles', which a Christian soul may know, even in this life,—compare it with the swift 'return to God who gave it'—with the being 'caught up to meet the Lord' which it shall surely know at death."

"And the butterfly isn't further from that," said Faith clasping her hands together,—"than many a real, living soul in many a living person!"—

"No, not further; and so what the old Greeks made an emblem of the immortal soul, gives name, with us, to those persons who are most tied down to mortality. What were you thinking of, a minute ago, when I shewed you the butterfly?"

"I was thinking of somebody that I am afraid a butterfly will always remind me of,"—Faith answered with a slight colour;—"and of the time he got the name."

"He got it by favour of his office, you know—not otherwise."

"I know—"

But with that, Faith jumped up to see to the state of the fire; and then after some conjuration in her basket produced a suspicious-looking tin vessel, for which the proper bed of coals was found. Leaving it and the fire to agree together, Faith came back to the rock and Mr. Linden and stood a little while silently looking and breathing the sweetness.

"I always did love everything in the world, that my eyes could see," she said gravely. "But I love them so much more now!—now that the hand that made them is not such a strange far-off hand to me. It makes a kind of new world to me, Endecott."

"Yes—and you can understand how—even without physical changes—when we 'shall know as we are known,' the 'heavens and earth wherein dwelleth righteousness' may be preëminently 'new'."

Faith stood without reply a few minutes longer, then ran back to her fire; and after a short space called to Mr. Linden to ask if he would like to come and see what the prince had been picking up wood for?

To which the prince responded with very un-royal alacrity, bringing a well-put-together knot of buttercups to adorn one side of Miranda's head; which he declared looked better than gold beads, if they didn't cost as much.

A napkin was spread on the rock, conveniently near to the fire; on which plates and bread and a bottle of cream and a dainty looking pasty were irregularly bestowed. Mr. Linden threw himself down on the moss; and Faith had got a cup and saucer out of her basket and was just sugaring and creaming the prince's reward before applying to her dish on the fire for the crowning coffee; when her eye was caught by a spectator lately come upon the scene. No other than a somewhat ragged little boy, who eyeing them from the bank had been irresistibly lured nearer and nearer, by the grace of the preparations and the steam of the hot coffee perhaps, till he now stood by the trunk of the nearest tree.

"What are you doin'?" he said.

"What are you?" said Mr. Linden, turning to look at the boy—not just as he looked at the coffee, but very much as the coffee looked at him. "Did you never see people eat dinner?"

The boy stood his ground with, "What you got?"

"When was the last time?" said Mr. Linden. ("Princess—this may turn out to be a subject!")

"Last time what?" said the "subject" stoutly.

"The last time you saw people eating dinner," said Mr. Linden. "Did you ever go to the Museum?"

"I've went to Pettibaug!"—

"When is the last time you saw people eating dinner?" said Faith.

"We haint got none to our house."

"What's the matter?"

"Mintie said there warn't nothin' to eat and I might go a blackberryin'."

"You've come to the right place," said Mr. Linden,—"I don't believe they're ripe anywhere else. Who is 'Mintie'? and who stays with her while you're after blackberries?"

"Mintie's sissy. There aint nobody stayin' with her—she's stayin' along o' mother—when she's up."

"Where is she?—I mean where does she live—and you, and Mintie. Where is your house?"

"Round there—'Taint fur. What you got?"

Faith set down her cup and looked at Mr. Linden.

"What is the matter with your mother?"

"She's sick."

"Well if I give you a basket, and this lady puts some dinner in it for your mother and Mintie and you, do you think you can carry it home?"

"Is your sister sick too?" said Faith.

"She's got the fever nagur."

"Endecott," said Faith softly,—"shall we go and see them?"

"Yes, of course. What's your name, child?"

"My name's Bob Tuck."

Mr. Linden looked at him.

"How comes it that you and Dromy are no more alike?" he said.

"Mother says Dromy aint like nothin' I be."

"Well Bob Tuck," said Mr. Linden smiling, "have you got a broom at home?"

"There's two old ones."

"Then if you will go home and sweep the floor as well as you can, with the two old brooms, and set the table, I'll bring this lady to see you and we'll carry the basket—(which means, Princess, that I will!)—and you can let the blackberries hang on till they get ripe. Do you understand?"

"If I'll sweep the floor, you'll fetch the basket?" said Bob.

"Yes. And you can wash your hands nicely and be ready to help me take the things out of it."

Bob started. "How soon 'll you come?"

"As soon as I finish my dinner."

"How good it is I brought the whole pie!" said Faith, as she poured the delayed coffee upon the cream and sugar. "And there's your shad, Endecott! unless you prefer to take that home, and we'll send something else.—Now you see what you picked up sticks for?"

"I see—" Mr. Linden said, looking at her. "And you see, Princess, what royalty is apt to meet if it will go wandering round the world."

"What?"

"Bob Tuck!—"

"Well—it's a good thing for Bob Tuck to meet with royalty,"—saidFaith, looking at the pie Mr. Linden was cutting.

"Princess," said Mr. Linden, "have you any 'Queen Anne' in your basket?"

Faith looked, her merry, puzzled, grave look of inquiry,—and then there was nothing for it but a ringing laugh again.

"I would rather have that at a venture, if I were the sick one," said Mr. Linden. "But the specific most prized by that class of the population who have 'fever nagur', is called in their vernacular 'Queen Anne'—anglice, quinine. Faith, you have no idea how those buttercups are beautified!"

"Flowers always are, that you handle," said Faith.

"You see how appropriate they are to my Sunbeam—for

'The buttercup catches the sun in his chalice'."

"What is a chalice?"

"A sort of cup—a church service cup, generally. Did you admire so much the head of clover I gave you once down at the shore?"

Faith gave him a curious glance of recollection; but though there was a half smile on her face too, she remained silent.

"Well, little bird?" he said smiling. "Of what is that look compounded?"

"Various things, I suppose. Let me have your cup, Endecott?"

"Do you know," he said, "that for a scholar, you are—remarkably—unready to answer questions?"

"I didn't know it."

"Are you not aware of any class of recollective remarks or inquiries which now and then break forth, and which you invariably smother with a thick blanket of silence?"

There was another quick glance and smile, and then Faith said as she handed him his cup,—

"What do you want to know, Endecott?"

"I want to know where there was ever just such another princess. And by the way, speaking of the shore—I have something that belongs to her."

"To me?"

"Oui, mademoiselle."

"May I know what?"

"You may, yet not just now. You may guess what it is."

But Faith gave up guessing in despair at one of Mr. Linden's puzzles.

The basket was repacked when the lunch was done; and they set out on their walk. The way, following Bob's direction, led along the bank under the trees, turning a little before the Mong was reached. The house was soon found; standing alone, in an enclosed garden ground where no spade had been struck that season; and at the end of a farm road that shewed no marks of travel.

Bob had not only swept the room, but his tidings had roused apparently his sister to prepare herself also; for Mintie met them as they came in. She was a handsome girl, with a feverish colour in her cheeks that made her appearance only more striking. There was pride and poverty here, clearly. Faith's simple words neither assumed the one nor attacked the other. The girl looked curiously at her and at the other visiter.

"Who be you?"

"We do not live in this neighbourhood," said Faith. "We came up toKildeer river to-day, and met your little brother down by the shore."

"What did he say to you?"

"He told us you were sick and in want of help."

Another look laid the girl's jealousy asleep. She told her story—her father had died six months ago; she and her mother and brother lived there alone. It was an "unlikely place to get to," and no neighbours very near. Her mother had been sick abed for a number of weeks; and she had had all to do, and now for a week past had been unable to do anything, go to Pettibaug or anywhere else, to get what they wanted. And so they "had got out of 'most everything." Dromy Tuck, Mr. Linden's scholar, lived at Farmer Davids' in the capacity of farm-boy; Mrs. Davids being a far-off connexion.

So much was all pride permitted to be told. Without much questioning, her visiters contrived to find out what they could do for her. Faith put the coffee-pot on the fire, declaring that it would do Mintie good like medicine; and served it to her when it was hot, with some bread and chicken, as if it had been indeed medicine and Faith a doctor. Then while Bob and she were dining, Faith went in to see the sick woman. She was much more communicative, and half avowed that she believed what she wanted now was "nourishing things"—"but with me lyin' here on my back," she said, "'taint so easy to find 'em." Faith gave her a cup of coffee too and some bread; she had hardly drunk any herself at lunch; and leaving her patient much inspirited, came back to Mr. Linden in the other room. Apparently his words and deeds had been acceptable too,—Bob's face was shining, not only with dinner but with the previous cold water applications which Mr. Linden had insisted on, and Mintie's mind was evidently at work upon various things. The basket was soon emptied of all but its dishes, and the prince and princess went on their way down the hill.

"Faith," said Mr. Linden, "shall we go and sit in the boat for half an hour, considering various things, and then have our wild flower hunt? Or would you prefer that first?"

"O no! I would rather have the half hour in the boat."

It was good time yet in the afternoon, and though the little boat now lay partly shadowed by the hill, it was none the worse resting place for that. Again Faith was seated there in all the style that shawls and cushions furnished, and just tired enough to feel luxurious in the soft atmosphere. Mr. Linden arranged and established her to his liking; then he took out of his pocket a letter.

It was one which had been opened and read; but as he unfolded it, there appeared another—unopened, unread; its dainty seal unbroken, and on the back in fair tracery, the words, "Miss Faith Derrick." As Faith read them and saw the hand, her eye glanced first up at Mr. Linden with its mute burden of surprise, and then the roses bloomed out over her cheeks and even threw their flush upon her brow. Her eye was cast down now and fixed on the unopened letter, with the softest fall of its eyelid.

"Shall I read you a part of mine first?"

"If you please. I wish you would."

"Only a little bit," he said smiling—thinking perhaps that she did not know to what she gave her assent so readily,—"you shall read the whole of it another time." The "little bit" began rather abruptly.

"'I have written to your darling, Endy—Not much, tell her; because what I have in my heart for her cannot be told. I know how precious any one must be whom you love so much. But make her love me a little before she reads my letter—and don't let her call me anything but Pet—and then I shall feel as if I had a sister already. And so I have, as you say. What a glad word!—I could cry again with the very writing of it.

'Endy—I did cry a little over your letter, but only for joy: if it had been for sorrow I should have cried long ago; for I knew well enough what was coming. Only I want more than ever to be at home,—and to see you, and to see Faith—don't let her think I am like you!

'My letter wouldn't hold much, as I told you. But I give you any number of (unspeakable!) messages for her, John Endy. I suppose you will take charge of them? I may feel sure they have all reached their destination?'"

Long before the reading was finished, Faith's head had sunk—almost to the cushions beside her. The reader's voice and intonation had given every word a sort of ring in her heart, though the tone was low. One hand came round her when she put her head down, taking possession of her hand which lay so still, with the unopened letter in its clasp. But now she was gently raised up.

"Precious child," Mr. Linden said, "what are you drooping your head for?"

"For the same reason she had, I suppose,—" said Faith half laughing, though witnesses of another kind were in her eyes.

"Who are you talking about?"

"Your sister."

"Why don't you begin to practise your lesson?"

Perhaps Faith thought that she was. She looked at nothing but her letter.

"Will you wait for your messages till we get home?—this place not being absolute seclusion."

"Shall I read this now?" said Faith rather hastily.

"I should think there would be no danger in that."

With somewhat unsteady fingers, that yet tried to be quiet, Faith broke the seal; and masking her glowing face with one hand, she bent over the letter to read it.

"My very dear, and most unknown, and most well-known little sister! I have had a picture sent me of you—as you appeared one night, when you sat for your portrait, hearing Portia; and with it a notice of several events which occurred just before that time. And both picture and events have gone down into my heart, and abide there. Endecott says you are a Sunbeam—and I feel as if a little of the light had come over the water to me,—ever since his letter came I have been in a state of absolute reflection!