Say and Seal, Volume II

"I thought my love would not be the first to 'find out the way'—even then when I wrote it! Faith—do you know that there is nobody in the world just like him? because if you do not—you will find it out!—I mean! like Endecott—not like Love. My dear, I beg pardon for my pronoun! But just how I have loved you all these months, for making him so happy, I cannot tell you.

"And I cannot write to-day—about anything,—my thoughts are in too uneven a flow to find their way to the end of my pen, and take all possible flights instead. Dear Faith, you must wait for a letter till the next steamer. And you cannot miss it—nor anything else, with Endecott there,—it seems to me that to be even in the same country with him is happiness.

"You must love me too, Faith, and not think me a stranger,—and let me be your (because I am Endy's)

"PET."

Faith took a great deal more time than was necessary for the reading of this letter. Very much indeed she would have liked to do as her correspondent confessed she had done, and cry—but there was no sign of such an inclination. She only sat perfectly moveless, bending over her letter. At last suddenly looked up and gave it to Mr. Linden.

"Well?" he said with a smile at her as he took it.

"You'll see—" she said, a little breathlessly. And still holding her hand fast, Mr. Linden read the letter, quicker than she had done, and without comment—unless when his look shewed that it touched him.

"You will love her, Faith!" he said as he folded the letter up again,—"in spite of all your inclinations to the contrary!"

"Do you think that is in the future tense? But I am afraid," addedFaith,—"she thinks too much of me now."

"She does not think as much of you as I do," Mr. Linden said, with a look and smile that covered all the ground of present or future fear. "And after all it is a danger which you will share with me. It is one of Pet's loveable feelings to think too much of some people whom she loves just enough."

Humility is not a fearful thing. Whatever had been in Faith's speech, her look, bright, wistful, and happy, had no fear, truly bumble though it was. "There is no danger of my loving this letter too much"—she said as she carefully restored it to its envelope; said with a secret utterance of great gratification.

The promised half hour was much more than up, and the broadening shadow on Kildeer river said that the time which could be given to wild flowers was fast running away. Perhaps, too, Mr. Linden thought Faith had mused and been excited enough, for he made a move. Everything in the boat was put up in close order, and then the two went ashore again, flower basket in hand.

The long shadows heightened the beauty of the woods now, falling soft and brown upon the yet browner carpet of dry leaves, and the young leaves and buds overhead shewed every tint, from yellow to green. Under the trees were various low shrubs in flower,—shad-blossom, with its fleecy stems, and azalia in rosy pink; and the real wild flowers—the dainty things as wild in growth as in name, were sprinkled everywhere. Wind flowers and columbine; orchis sweet as any hyacinth; tall Solomon's seal; spotless bloodroot; and violets—white, yellow, and purple. The dogwood stretched its white arms athwart hemlock and service; the creeping partridge berry carried its perfumed white stars over rocks and moss in the deep shade below. Yellow bellwort hung its fair flowers on every ridge; where the ground grew wet were dog's-tooth violet and chick wintergreen. There the red maples stood, with bunches of crimson keys,—at the edge of the higher ground their humbler growing sister the striped bark, waved her green tresses. There seemed to be no end to the flowers—nor to the variety—nor to the pleasure of picking.

"Faith—" said Mr. Linden.

Faith looked up from a bunch of Sanguinaria beside which she was crouching.

"I find so much Mignonette!—do you?"

Faith's eye flashed, and taking one of those little white stars she threw it towards Mr. Linden. It went in a graceful parabolic curve and fell harmlessly, like her courage, at his feet.

"What has become of the princess?"

"You ought rather to ask after the prince!" said Mr. Linden, picking up the Sanguinaria with great devotion. "Is this the Star of the Order of Merit?"

"I am not Queen Flora. I don't know."

"As what then was it bestowed?"

"It might be Mignonette's shield, which she used as a weapon because she hadn't any other! Endy, look at those green Maple flowers! You can reach them."

He gathered some of the hanging clusters, and then came and sat down where she was at work and began to put them into her basket, arranging and dressing the other flowers the while dextrously.

"Do you know, my little Sunbeam," he said, "that your namesakes are retreating?"

"I know it, Endy," she said hastening her last gatherings—"and I am ready."

They began their homeward way to the boat, wandering a little still, for flowers, and stopping to pick them, so that the sun was quite low before Kildeer river was reached. There Mr. Linden stood a moment looking about.

"Do you see the place where we sat, Faith?" he said,—"over on the other bank?"

She looked, and looked at him and smiled—very different from her look then! A glance comprehensive and satisfactory enough without words, so without any more words they went on their way along the shore of the river. As they neared their boat, the rays of the setting sun were darted into Kildeer river and gilded the embayed little vessel and all the surrounding shores. Rocks and trees and bits of land glowed or glistened in splendour wherever a point or a spray could catch the sun; the water in both rivers shone with a long strip of gold. They had had nothing so brilliant all day.

In the full glow and brightness Faith sat down in the boat with her flowers near her, and Mr. Linden loosened the sail. How pretty the bank looked as they were leaving it! the ashes of their fire on the rock, and the places where they had sat or wandered, and talked—such happy words!

"I shall always love Kildeer river," said Faith with little long breath, "because I read my letter here."

"And so shall I," said Mr. Linden,—"but my love for it dates back to the first piece of reading I ever did in its company." He looked back for a minute or two—at the one shore and the other—the sunlight, the trees, the flowery hillside, and it was well then that his face was not seen by Faith—there fell on it such a shadow of pain. But he presently turned to her again with just the former look.

"Now," he said, "do you think you can steer home in the twilight?"

"I don't know. Can I? I can follow directions."

"And I can give them."

And with that arrangement they ran out from the clean woody shores of Kildeer river, and set their sail for Pattaquasset. How fair, at that point of weather and day! a little quieter than the morning spring-tide of everything, but what was less gay was more peaceful; and against a soft south wind the little boat began to beat her way down, favoured however by the tide. These tacks made Mr. Linden's counsels more especially needed, but the short swift runs back and forth across the river were even more inspiriting than a steady run before the wind, and the constant attention which helm and sail required made talk and action lively enough.

"This is good, Endecott!" said Faith as the little boat came about for the fifth or sixth time.

"Faith," he said, smiling at her, "you look just as fresh as a rose!—the day does not seem to have tired you one bit."

"Tired!" she said,—"yes, I am a little bit tired—or hungry—but was there ever such a day as we have had?—since the first of January!"

"My dear little Mignonette!" Mr. Linden said—but if it was a "message" Faith had then, it came from somewhere nearer than across the water. "If you are tired, dear child, give up the rudder to me, and lay down your head and rest. Do you see after what a sleep-inviting fashion the lights are twinkling all down the shore?"

"I'm not sleepy a bit;" said Faith,—"nor tired, except just enough; and I like this small portion of power you have put in my hands. How beautiful those lights look!—and the lights overhead, Endy. How beautiful every thing is!"—

"Yes," said Mr. Linden, "when there is light within.—

   'He that hath light within his own clear breast,May sit i' the centre and enjoy bright day.'"

"That's beautiful!" said Faith after a pause.

And now the brush and stir of "coming about" again claimed their attention, and in a minute more they were stretching away on a new tack, with another set of constellations opposite to them in the sky. The breeze was fresh, though as mild as May; the boat made good speed; and in spite of beating down the river the mouth of the Mong was neared fast. Pattaquasset lights, a little cluster of them, appeared unmistakably; for down by the point there was a little knot of houses, variously concerned in trade or fisheries. Mr. Linden had to put his hand upon the tiller sometimes then, till they got in. Mr. Skip and Jerry were in waiting; had been, "a sight o' half hours," the former stated. Baskets and shad and passengers were transferred to the wagon, and within a moderate time thereafter welcomed (the latter) by Mrs. Derrick and supper—wherein, after a little delay therefor, the shad played a conspicuous and most satisfactory part.

Now there are no shad like the shad that come out of the Mong.

CHAPTER XVI

So passed the days. Not indeed all at Kildeer river, but all in sweet, peaceful, bright occupations, whether of work or play. The trustees had received their notice, with much dismay; a little alleviated by the fact that Mr. Linden was willing to stay at his post for a few weeks after the end of the year.

It was almost a wonder, as the weeks went on, that Mr. Linden kept down the shadows as well as he did,—to leave Faith in the morning, and go to his devoted set of scholars—every one of whom had some particular as well as general hold on him and love for him; and then to get away by the hardest from their words and looks of sorrow and regret, and come back to the presence of her brave little face—Mr. Linden was between two fires. And they wrought a sort of deepening of everything about him which was lovely or loveable—which did not make it easier for Pattaquasset to let him go.

As far as anybody could be a help to him, Faith was one. In a gentleness of spirit that was of no kin to weakness, she took to her heart the good that she had, and was quite as much of a sunbeam as ever. How it would be when Mr. Linden was gone, Faith did not know; but she did know that that was one of to-morrow's cares, with which she had no business to-day. If the thought ever came up in its strength, strong enough to bring down her heart and head,—if there were times when Faith shewed herself to herself—the revelation was made to no other person. And therefore it is probable that it was a view she did not often indulge in.

Dr. Harrison was not much at Pattaquasset these days He found it convenient to be away.

Dr. Harrison was a man who did not like to throw away his ammunition. He by no means absented himself because of any failing in his fancy for somebody in Pattaquasset; the working of cause and effect was on a precisely opposite principle. The truth was, the fancy had grown to a strength that would not well bear the doubtful kind of intercourse which had been kept up between the parties; yet doubtful it remained, and must remain for the present. With Mr. Linden there in the family; with the familiar habits that naturally grow up between hostess and guest, friend and friend, fellow inmates of the same house—it was very difficult for the doctor to judge whether those habits had any other and deeper groundwork. It was impossible, with his scanty and limited chances of observation. At the same time there was too great a possibility—his jealousy called it more,—for him to be willing to take any forward and undoubtful steps himself. He did not find sea-room to put in his oar. In this state of things, all that his pride and his prudence would suffer him to do, was to wait—wait till either by Mr. Linden's stay or departure the truth might be made known. But to abide in Pattaquasset and watch patiently the signs of things, was more than Dr. Harrison's feeling,—for it was far more than fancy,—could bear. Just now, in despair or disgust, he had taken a longer enterprise than usual; and was very far indeed from Pattaquasset when the news of Mr. Linden's going set all the country in a flame. So, greatly to Faith's satisfaction, he could not for some time be there to add any flame of his own.

The morning readings with Mr. Linden were great and chief treasures to her all these days. She was always ready for him before six o'clock. Not now in a firelit room, with curtains drawn against the cold; but in the early freshness of the spring and summer mornings, with windows open and sweet air coming in. Duly Faith noted every "ladder of verses"—till her Bible grew to be well dotted with marks of red ink. They looked lovely to her eyes. So they might; for they were records of many very deep and sweet draughts from that well of water which the word is to them that love it; draughts deeper and sweeter than Faith could have drawn by herself—or she thought so. No quarter of an hour in the day Faith loved so well. It was often more.

One morning the "ladder" began with the silver trumpets made for the service of God in the hands of the priests of Israel. Faith, looking quietly out of the window, went roving in thought over the times and occasions Mr. Linden read of, when their triumphal blast had proclaimed the name and the glory of God in the ears of the thousands of Israel; times of rejoicing, of hope, of promise and of victory. Scenes of glory in the old Jewish history floated before her—with the sublime faith of the actors in them, and the magnificent emblematic language in which they read the truth. Faith only came fairly back to New England and Pattaquasset at David's declaration—

"Blessed are the people that know the joyful sound; they shall walk, OLord, in the light of thy countenance."

The words thrilled her. She thought of the many who had never heard the sound at all; and entered into Isaiah's foresight of a day when "the great trumpet shall be blown, and they shall come that were ready to perish in the land of Assyria, and the outcasts in the land of Egypt."—

"How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace; that bringeth good tidings of good; that publisheth salvation; that saith unto Zion, Thy God reigneth!"

Then came Isaiah's own blast of the trumpet, and then the sweet enlargements and proclamations of the gospel, and the Lord's own invitation to all who are "weary and heavy laden." But also—

"How shall they call on him in whom they have not believed? and how shall they believe in him of whom they have not heard? and how shall they hear without a preacher? and how shall they preach, except they be sent? as it is written, How beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace, and bring glad tidings of good things!"—

"And the Spirit and the bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say, Come. And let him that is athirst come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely."

Faith sat by the open window, no sound abroad but the stir in the leaves and the low music of birds. The very still peace without, rather seemed to heighten and swell the moving of thoughts within, which surged like the sea. Mr. Linden stopped reading and was silent; and so was she, with nothing of all this appearing otherwise than in the fixed, abstracted look which went out into Pattaquasset but also went far beyond. And when she spoke, it was earnestly and with the same clear quiet.

"Endy—I am glad to have you go, for the reason you are going for. I wouldn't have you be anything else than what you mean to be,—not for the pleasure of having you here."

Her voice did not tremble, though indeed it told of feelings that were less assured.

"Dear Faith!" Mr. Linden said, with a bright flash of pleasure at her words, which changed even while he spoke, "you do not know what a comfort it is to me to feel that! And do you realize, little Sunbeam, what joy it is, that however far apart we can still work together—in the same cause, for the same master? The work which I take upon me by name, belongs as really to you,—for the call should be given by every one that heareth to every one that is athirst."

"I know—" she said quietly. "How grand those words are you have been reading!"

"Faith," Mr. Linden said presently, "have you any special attachment to this particular little Bible?"

"I have my red notes in it," she said with a bright smile.

"I am not quite satisfied with the paper and type, for your eyes—by firelight and twilight. Shall I break up any train of old association if I send you another?"

She gave him a look of what Dr. Harrison might have called "compound interest"; but assured him at the same time with sedate earnestness that the one she had would do very well.

This was but a day or two before Mr. Linden's leaving Pattaquasset. He had paid his many farewell visits before the last week came, and before that, too, had given up his weekday scholars,—those last days were all given to Faith. Given to her in every possible way—out of doors and within; in that fair summer weather the open air was the best of all places for talking, and the least liable to intrusion. It was a great relief to get away from village sights and sounds to the still woods, or the fresh shore,—it was a great help towards cheerfulness. And the help was needed. Wherever Mr. Linden went, among people, he met nothing but sorrow for his going away,—wherever he went, to house or woods, he carried the deep-hidden double sorrow in his heart, which no one guessed of all who so loudly bewailed his departure. Faith herself perhaps hardly realized what his part of that sorrow was; but he knew hers, and bore it—as one bears the trials of the dearest friend one has on earth.

He was to go very early in the morning, but when the late evening talk had impinged upon the night as much as it could be allowed to do, he gave Faith the unexpected promise of coming down to read with her just as usual next day.

It was very, very early this time, in the summer twilight dawn, when the kildeers were in their full burst of matins, and all the other birds coming in one by one. Faith did not say many words, but she was as quiet as the hour. Then she went to the breakfast-room to arrange and hasten matters there; and Mr. Linden followed, and stood watching her—she did not know how,—she only knew how he talked.

But he took her into the sitting-room the moment breakfast was over and stood by her, giving her the mute caresses he could not put in words. And for words there was little time. The morning light came up and up into the sky, the candles burned dim, as they stood there; and then he bade her "'be perfect, be of good comfort,'" and so went away.

CHAPTER XVII

When Mr. Linden was out of sight from the porch, Faith went to the deserted room.

It was in the latter end of summer. The windows were open, and the summer wind blowing the muslin curtains flutteringly in. The maple shaded Faith's old reading window, the leaves not changing yet; one cupboard door a little open, shewed the treasures of books within. The chintz couch stood empty, so it always stood when Faith saw it, except only in those days of Mr. Linden's confinement with his wound. But now her mind leaped back to that time; and the couch and the table and the books, the very windows and fireplace, looked deserted. The red maple leaves floating in—the dancing flames in the chimney—her lessons by the side of that couch—her first exercise, which she had been sent to do at that table;—all that and everything beside seemed to make its passage through Faith's mind in tumultuous procession. She sat down on the couch and leaned her head on the back of it; but only a few nervous tears came, and oppressed sobbing breaths took the place of them. For a little while then Faith fell on her knees, and if she could not speak connectedly, nor think connectedly, she yet poured out her heart in the only safe channel; and grew quiet and self-possessed. After an hour she left the couch and turned to go down and join her mother.

Passing the table on her way out, with a glance which had been called off by other things as she came in, Faith's eye was caught and stayed. There was no exercise left there for her, but the very gold pen with which she had written that first one—and which she had used so many times since, lay there; and by the pen a letter. The blood rushed to Faith's heart as if Mr. Linden had come back again, or rather as if he had not taken quite all of himself away. In a flood of gladness and thankfulness and sorrow, Faith took up the letter and standing there by the table read it.

MY OWN LITTLE PRECIOUS MIGNONETTE,

I have a love for this sheet of paper, because it will be in your hands when I cannot touch them nor see them,—how often they have ministered to me just where I am writing this! just where you will find it. I know you will find it, Faith—I know where you will go as soon as I am out of sight,—but dear child, do not let any sight or association in this room make you anything but glad: they are all very dear to me. That first day when you came in here to see me—and all the days that followed,—and all the sweet knowledge I gained of my little Mignonette, while she was learning other things. Faith, I can even forgive Dr. Harrison his questions that day, for the delight it was to me to shield you. Dear child, you must let me do that now whenever I can,—it is one of the griefs of this separation that I cannot do it all the time.

I must go back to our Bible verses!—Do you remember that first 'ladder' we went up together? 'The Lord God is a sun and a shield; the Lord will give grace and glory.'—In that sunlight I shall think of you as abiding,—I will remember that you are covered by that shield. I know that the Lord will keep all that I have committed to him!

Now darling, if I could leave you 'messages,' I would; but they must wait till I come and deliver them myself. Take, in the mean while, all possible love and trust; and all comfort from the cause of my absence, from our mutual work, from my expected coming home now and then—from the diamonds on your finger and what they betoken! The diamonds stay with you, Faith, but their light goes with me.

My child, I have too much to say to write any longer!—I shall be drawn on too far and too long,—it is not far from daybreak now. Take the best possible care of your self, and 'be strong and of a good courage,' and 'the Lord that made heaven and earth, bless thee out of Zion'!

Precious child, you do not know how deeply I am

Always your own—

ENDECOTT."

The first lines of the letter wrung some tears from Faith's eyes, but afterwards the effect of the whole was to shake her. She sat down on the couch with the letter fast in her hand, and hid her head; yet no weeping, only convulsive breaths and a straitened breast. Faith was wonderful glad of that letter! but the meeting of two tides is just hard to bear; and it wakened everything as well as gladness. However, in its time, that struggle was over too; and she went down to Mrs. Derrick looking much like her wonted self.

She went about so, all the day; nervously busy, though never more orderly about her business. In the kitchen and dairy and storeroom, and with her mother, Faith seemed as usual, with a very little of grave thoughtfulness or remembrance thrown over her natural pleasantness; only she gave books a wide berth, and took care to see no face that came to the house. One would have thought her—perhaps Mrs. Derrick even did—quietly composed and patiently submitting to trial, as if Mr. Linden had been already weeks away. Perhaps Faith herself thought so. A little thing shewed how much this quiet was worth.

The day had been gone through; the tea was over, as it might, with the two alone; and mother and daughter had gone into the other room. Faith lit the lamp, and then began a sentence to her mother about laying the Bible in its place for prayer—when she stopped short. For a moment she stood still with the revulsion; then she fell on her knees and hid her face in Mrs. Derrick's lap, and the tears that had kept back so long came in a stormy flood; clearing the sky which had not been clear before. She was quiet really after that; she had no more fear of her books; and the first thing Faith did was to take pen and paper and pour out an answer to her morning's letter; an answer in which she gave Mr. Linden the history of her whole day, with very little reservation.