Say and Seal, Volume II

CHAPTER XIX

The soft grey clouds which had hung about the setting sun only waited his departure to double their folds and spread them all over the sky. Then the wind rose, sweeping gustily through the bare branches, and heavy drops of rain fell scatteringly on the dead leaves. But when wind and rain had taken a little more counsel together, they joined forces in a wild stormy concert which swept on with increasing tumult. It did not disturb Faith and her mother, at their quiet work and reading,—it did not deter Cindy from going over night to spend Thanksgiving day with her friends,—but it was a wild storm nevertheless; and while the hours of the night rolled on over the sleepers in Mrs. Derrick's house, still wind and rain kept up their carousal, nor thought of being quiet even when the morning broke.

"But rather, giving of thanks."—That was the motto of the day—the one answer to the many vexed questions of life and care. Care was pressing, and life distracting, and everywhere was something that seemed to call for tears or complaints. To all of these the day answered—"But rather, giving of thanks."

It was dark enough when Faith awoke; and she sat up in bed a minute or two, listening to the wild blasts of wind and the heavy pattering of the rain,—hearing the screech of the locomotive as the train swept by in the distance, with a pang at the thought of its freight of homeward-bound and expected dear ones,—then taking the day's motto, and gently and quietly going about the day's work. But the first of its work for her, was to cancel the bit of work it had already done by itself; and for that Faith went to her Bible,—went first to the list of texts that had come with it; endeavouring to realize and make sure her ground on that verse of the 91st Psalm—then on from that to its following—

"For in the time of trouble he shall hide me in his pavilion."

It was not a "time of trouble." Faith would not call it so. Never so bright a Thanksgiving day had risen upon her, spite of its clouds. But trouble might come; in the course of life-experience she knew it was pretty sure to come; and she sought to refuge herself beforehand in the promise of that pavilion of hiding. The driving wind and storm that emblematized another kind, gave emphasis also to the emblem of shelter. How Faith blessed her Bible!

The next verse enlarged a little.—

"Thou shalt hide them in the secret of thy presence from the pride of man: thou shalt keep them secretly in a pavilion from the strife of tongues."

Then followed the joyful acceptance of that promise—

"Thou art my hiding place; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance."

Then its result—

"I am like a green olive tree in the house of God: I trust in the mercy of God for ever and ever."

"From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I. For thou hast been a shelter for me, and a strong tower from the enemy. I will abide in thy tabernacle for ever; I will trust in the covert of thy wings."

What strong refuge! what riches of trust!—How very bright Faith's fire-lit room looked, with the wind whistling all about, and the red light on her open Bible. She turned on. And like the full burst of a chorus after that solo, she seemed to hear the whole Church Militant say,—

"Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations."

Her mind swept back to the martyr ages,—to times when the church's road has been in darkness and in light, and the long train of pilgrims have gone over it in light and in darkness, each with that staff in his hand. Faith looked long at those words, seeming to see the great "cloud of witnesses" pass in procession before her. How true the words were to Abraham, when he left his home. How true to Daniel when he was thrown to the lions. How true they were to Stephen when he uttered his dying cry!—how true to the little child whom she had seen go to be with Christ for ever!—"In all generations."

The prophets, true to their office, threw the light for ward.—

"He shall be for a sanctuary."

"Although I have cast them far off among the heathen, and although I have scattered them among the countries, yet will I be to them as a little sanctuary in the countries where they shall come."

"I will be as the dew unto Israel: he shall grow as the lily, and cast forth his roots as Lebanon. His branches shall spread, and his beauty shall be as the olive tree, and his smell as Lebanon."

The next words gave the whole description, the whole key of entrance.

"Whosoever shall confess that Jesus is the Son of God, God dwelleth in him and he in God. And we have known and believed the love that God hath to us. God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him."

Here was the "Sanctuary" on earth,—the foreshewing image of the one on high.

"I saw no temple therein: for the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are the temple of it."

How far Faith had got from the earthly Thanksgiving day—even to that finished and everlasting one on high! She had of course read and studied these passages all before—once; and then she had shut them up as a particular casket of treasures that she would not grow too familiar with suddenly, but would keep to enjoy their brightness another time. Something this Thanksgiving morning had made Faith want them. She now sat looking at the last words, feeling as if she wanted nothing.

The wind and the rain still raged without, drowning and merging any sounds there might be in the road, though truly few animate things were abroad at that hour in that weather. Mr. Skip had roused himself, indeed, for his day's pleasure, and after lighting the kitchen fire had gone forth—leaving it to take care of itself; but when the door closed after him, Faith and her fire looked at each other in the same stillness as before. Until she heard the front door open and shut,—that was the first sound, and the last,—no unwonted one, either; that door opened and shut twenty times a day. What intangible, well-recognized modification in its motions now, made Faith's heart bound and sink with sudden belief—with swift denial? Who was it? at that hour! Faith sprang to the parlour door, she did not know how, and was in the dark hall. A little gleam of firelight followed her—a little faint dawn came through the fanlight of the door: just enough to reveal to Faith those very outlines which at first sight she had pronounced "pleasant." One more spring Faith made; with no scream of delight, but with a low exclamation, very low, that for its many-folded sweetness was like the involutions of a rosebud.

"Faith!" he exclaimed. "Don't touch me till I get out of the rain!"—which prohibition Faith might consider useless, or might think that—shuttlecock fashion—it had got turned round in the air.

"The best place to get out of the rain is in here," she said trying to draw him along with her. "Oh Endy! how came you in it?"

"If you say three words to me, I shall give you the benefit of all the remaining raindrops," said Mr. Linden, disengaging himself to throw off his overcoat,—"how can one do anything, with you standing there? How came I in it?—I came in it! Precious child! how do you do?" And she was taken possession of, and carried off into the next room, like a rosebud as she was, to have the same question put a great many times in a different way. More words for her, just then, Mr. Linden did not seem to have. Nor Faith for him. She stood very still, her face in a glow of shy joy, but her eyes and even her lips grave and quiet; except when sometimes a very tiny indicatory smile broke half way upon them.

"When did you come?"

"I came in the night train. Mignonette—are you glad to see me?"

The smile shewed her teeth a little. They would bear shewing, but this was only a glimmer of the white enamel.

"Then you have been travelling all night?"

"Yes. How are you going to prove your position?"

"What position, Endy?"

"That you are glad to see me."

"I don't know,"—she said looking up at him.

"You cannot think of any proof to give me?"

"I can think of a great many."

"I am ready to take them!" said Mr. Linden demurely.

"Then if you will sit down and let me leave you for a few minutes, I will see what I can do."

"Thank you—the proofs that I mean would by no means take you further off. Suppose you see what you can do without going away."

She laid her head down for a minute, colouring too, even the cheek that was high-coloured before; but she looked up again.

"Stoop your high head, then, Endy!"—she said;—and she gave him two kisses, as full and earnest as they were soft. There was no doubt Faith had proved her position!

"Faith, darling," he said, "have you been growing thin?—or is it only that I have had to do with such substantial humanity of late. Look up here and let me see—are you anything but the essence of Mignonette?"

The face she shewed was aptly named; about as pure as that. With grave, loving intentness—not the less grave for its little companion smile—Mr. Linden studied her face for a minute,—pushing back her hair.

"Do you think,"—she said then in a light soft tone—a departure from the last words,—"do you think you won't want the essence of something else by and by, Endecott?"

"No,"—decidedly,—"I want nothing but you—so you may as well make up your mind to want nothing but me."

"Do you know what that would end in?"

"Not necessarily in such a simple duet," said Mr. Linden smiling,—"people do not always realize their ideal. Mignonette, you are just as lovely as you can be!—and you need not bring Miss Reason to keep me in order. I suppose if she were in the house it would end in her wanting her breakfast."

"I don't like Miss Keason," said Faith, "and the only thing I am thinking of putting in order is the kitchen fire. Would you like to go there with me? Nobody's in the house—Cindy went yesterday to a wedding, and Mr. Skip is gone home to keep Thanksgiving."

"That is the best thing I ever heard of Cindy," said Mr. Linden. "Of course I will go!—and play Ferdinand again Faith, would the doctor call me an 'acid'—come to dissolve all his crystals?"

"Dr. Harrison gave me ten dollars yesterday for the poor people," said Faith as she led the way to the kitchen. Arrived there, she placed a chair for Mr. Linden and requested him to be seated; while she examined into the state of the fire. The chair was disregarded—the fire received double attention.

"Faith," he said laughingly, "I bear the curb about as well as Stranger. I have a great mind to tell you how that eagle stands in the doctor's memorandum book!"

Faith dropped her hands for the moment and looked at him, with grave eyes of wide-open attention. The look changed Mr. Linden's purpose,—he could not bear to take away all the pleasure the eagle had brought on his gold wings.

"I don't believe there is such a book in existence," he said lightly. "Miranda, what would you like to have me do for you now?—the fire is ready for anything."

"I haven't anything ready for it yet," said Faith, "but I will have—if you'll wait a bit."—She left him there, and ran off—coming back in a little while. And then Mr. Linden was initiated, if he never was before, in kitchen mysteries. Faith covered herself with a great apron, rolled up her sleeves above the elbows, and with funny little glances at him between whiles, went round the room about various pieces of work. Almost noiselessly, with the utmost nicety of quick and clean work, she was busy in one thing after another and in two or three at the same time; while Mr. Linden stood or sat by the fire looking on. Two things he comprehended; the potatoes which were put over the fire to boil and the white shortcakes which finally stood cut out on the board ready for baking. The preliminary flour and cream and mixing in the bowl had been (culinary) Sanscrit to him. He had watched her somewhat silently of late, but none the less intently: indeed in all his watching there had been a silent thread woven in with its laughing and busy talk,—his eyes had followed her as one follows a veritable sunbeam, noting the bright gleams of colour here, and the soft light there, and thinking of the time when it must quit the room.

"Faith," he said as she cut out her cakes, "are these what you made for me the first night I came here?"

"I believe so!"

"What do you suppose you look like—going about the kitchen in this style?—you make me think irresistibly of something."

"I should like to know," said Faith with an amused laugh.

"I shall make you blush, if I tell you," said Mr. Linden.

That was enough to do it! Faith gave him one look, and went on with her shortcakes.

"You don't care about knowing, after all?" said Mr. Linden. "Well,—Faith, do you expect ever to make such things in my house?—because if you do, I think it will ensure my coming down stairs before breakfast."

How she flushed—over cheek and brow,—then remarked gravely that, "she was glad he liked it."

"Yes, and you have no idea what effects my liking will produce!" said Mr. Linden. "You see, Faith, it may happen to us now and then to be left without other hands than our own in the house (there is no reliance whatever to be placed upon cottages!) and then you will come down, as now, and I shall come too—taking the precaution to bring a book, that nobody may suspect what I come for. Then enter one of my parishioners—Faith, are you attending?"

Faith had stopped, and poising her rolling pin the reverse way on the board—that is, on end,—had leaned her arms upon it,—giving up shortcakes entirely for the time being.

"You will not be in that position," said Mr. Linden, "but going on properly with your cakes—as you should be now. Then enter one of my parishioners who lives six miles off, to ask me to come over to his house and instruct him in the best way of hanging his gate,—which I of course promise to do, notwithstanding your protestations that I know nothing of that—nor of anything else. Parishioner goes away and reports. One part of the people say how economical we are!—to make one fire do our cooking and studying. Another part have their suspicions that you keep me at hand to lift off the teakettle (much strengthened by report of your protest.) And the charitable part at once propose to raise my salary—so that we may have as many fires as we like. Faith—what should we do in the circumstances?"

Faith was biting her lips and rolling out cakes with the swiftest activity, not allowing Mr. Linden a sight of her face.

"If you hung the gate, I should think you would take the money"—she answered demurely.

"I said you would say I could not do it!" said Mr. Linden. "Which being duly reported and considered by certain other people, will cause them to shake their heads, and wish in half audible (but most telegraphic!) whispers, 'that Mr. Linden were half as smart as his wife'!"

Faith stopped again. "Oh Endy!"—she exclaimed between laughing and pleading.

"Que voulez-vous, Mademoiselle?"

But Faith went at her cakes and finished the few that were left.

"I think you must be very much in want of your breakfast," she said coming to the fire. "You have played Prince Ferdinand—do you think you would mind acting the part of King Alfred, for once?"

"My dear, I will play any part for you whatever!—in our duet. Shall I practise taking off the kettle to begin with?"

"I don't think you had better,"—Faith said with a kept down laugh,—"for it doesn't boil."

"Shall I take you off then? What are you going to do while I playAlfred?—I will not answer for my solo performances."

"I shall not be gone but a few minutes. Do you think you could take this little skillet from the fire if it did—boil?"

Mr. Linden might have got into a reverie after she ran away;—but certain it is that the skillet was in imminent danger of "boiling over" when Faith appeared at his side and with a laughing look at him gently lifted it off.

"You are an excellent Alfred!"

"What version of Alfred have you learned?" he said laughing, and catching it from her hand before it reached the hearth. "I thought hot water was his reward—not his work."

"I thought, Endy, you would like to go up to your room before breakfast. Mother will be down presently."

"And am I to find the perfection of a fire, as usual?" said Mr. Linden, taking both her hands in his and looking at her. "Little Sunbeam!—you should not have done that! Do you know what you deserve?"

She stood before him rather soberly, glancing up and down; but he little guessed what her quietness covered. Though the lines of her lip did give tiny indication that quietness was stirred somewhere. He drew her to him for a moment, with one or two unconnected words of deep affection, then turned and went away. Faith listened to hear the well known run up the stairs—the familiar closing of that door,—how strange it sounded! how gladsome, how sorrowful. She stood still just where Mr. Linden had left her, as if sorrow and joy both held her with detaining hands.

"Why child? Faith!"—said Mrs. Derrick coming into the kitchen, "what are you about? What made you get up so early, Faith? What's the matter?—breakfast ready at this time of day! Couldn't you sleep, pretty child?" she added tenderly.

"I didn't get up very much earlier than usual, mother. Don't you want breakfast?"

"Whenever you like, child," said her mother, taking hold in her turn,—"but what's made you in such a hurry? And what makes you look so, Faith?—You're not pale, neither,—how do you look?"

Faith came so close that her mother could not see, and kissed her."Mother, Mr. Linden is here."

"Here!" said Mrs. Derrick with a little sympathetic start—it was not all surprise, nor all joy.—"Pretty child! how glad I am! But why didn't you call me, Faith?—and why don't you go and sit down and be quiet—now you've just been tiring yourself, and I could have done the whole! And of all things, how could he get here in such weather? No wonder you're in a hurry, child!"—and Mrs. Derrick began to work in earnest.

Faith gave her the word or two more that she could give, and went to the dairy. It was Faith's domain; she was alone, and her industry fell from her hands. Breakfast and all might wait. Faith set down her bowl and spoon, sat down herself on the low dairy shelf before the window, cold and November though it was, and let the tears come, of which she had a whole heartful in store; and for a little while they fell faster than the raindrops which beat and rattled against the panes. But this was a gentler shower, and cleared the sky. Faith rose up from the shelf entirely herself again.

So busy, skimming off the smooth cream, she felt the light touch of hands on her shoulders—felt more than that on her cheek. Had the tears left any trace there?—that Mr. Linden brought her face round into view. He asked no such question, however, unless with his eyes.

"Mignonette, what are you about?"

"King Alfred's breakfast. I forgot you knew the way to the dairy!"

"Or could find it if I did not. What shape does my breakfast take in these regions?"

"It takes the shape—Let us go back to the kitchen and we will see."

It was spry work in the kitchen now! How Faith's fingers went about. But Mr. Linden could make nothing of the form his breakfast was taking—nothing of Faith's mysterious bowl, in which the cream he had seen her skim went into compound with the potatoes he had seen boiling and with also certain butter and eggs. The mixture went into the oven, and then Faith went off to set the table in the parlour. As they were alone to-day the fire in the dining-room was not to be kindled.

The storm beat so differently upon the windows now!—now, when it was only a barrier against people who were not wanted to come in. Mr. Linden followed Faith in her motions, sometimes with eye and voice, sometimes with his own steps; confusing both her and her arrangements, making her laugh, and himself the cause of various irregularities in the table-setting, which he was very quick to point out.

"Mignonette," he said, "I think it is a perfect day! Do you hear how it storms?"

"And aren't you glad Cindy went to a wedding? And oh, Endy!—how many people will be coming after you to-day?" Faith stopped, knife in hand.

"Did you suppose that I would come here to see you, and then be obliged to see half Pattaquasset instead? I stopped at Patchaug station,—there Reuben met me, and we had as pleasant a four mile drive in the rain as I ever remember. As to the wedding—I think there can never be more than one other so felicitous."

Faith ran off.

And presently the breakfast came in, variously, in her hands and in Mrs. Derrick's. It was broad light now, and the curtains drawn back, but the red firelight still gave the hue of the room; and the breakfast-table and the three people round it wanted for no element or means of comfort. There were the shortcakes, which Mr. Linden might more readily recognize now in their light brown flakiness—his coffee was poured upon the richest of cream; the potatoes came out of the oven in the shape of a great puff-ball, of most tender consistency; and the remains of a cold chicken had been mystified into such a dish of delicacy as no hands but a Frenchwoman's—or Faith's—could concoct. It's a pleasant thing to be catered for by hands that love you. Mr. Linden had found that pleasure this morning before. But both Faith and he were undoubtedly ready for their breakfast!

After breakfast came the consideration of a basketful of things Mr. Linden had brought her. Very simple things they were, and unromantic enough to be useful; yet with sentiment enough about them,—if that name might be given to the tokens of a care that busied itself about all the ins and outs of her daily life, and sought out and remembered the various little things that she wanted and could not get; for the various papers of sugarplums in which the whole were packed, Mr. Linden declared them to be nothing but epithets and adjectives.

The weather held on its way into the afternoon; but what was most unexpected, the afternoon brought a visiter. Mr. Linden and Faith, deep in talk, heard the sound of a foot on the scraper and then of a knock at the door, which made them both start up. Faith went to the door. But before she could open it, Mrs. Derrick came up behind her with swift steps and remanded Faith to the parlour.

"I'll open it, child," she said,—"it's no use for you to run the risk of seeing anybody you don't want to." So Faith returned to Mr. Linden. But the first word set all fears at rest—it was only Reuben Taylor. He presented himself with many apologies, and would fain have told his errand to Mrs. Derrick, but as it was for Faith, the good lady opened the parlour door and bade Reuben go in,—which, as he could not help it, Reuben did. But the colour of his face as he came in!—Mr. Linden took the effect of it—Faith was partly occupied with her own; and Reuben, thinking the sooner the quicker—walked straight up to her.

"Miss Faith," he said, trying to speak as usual, "I beg your pardon—but I was sent here with this,"—and Reuben presented a moderately large round basket, without a handle.

"Reuben, come up to the fire," said Mr. Linden; while Faith took the basket and exclaimed, "This! Who in the world sent you, Reuben?—Yes, come to the fire."

"I am not cold, sir," Reuben said with a look towards where Mr. Linden stood by the mantelpiece, as if his desire was to get out of the room—instead of further in, though he did follow Faith a step or two as she went that way. "I didn't mean to come here to-day, Mr. Linden, but—"

"Didn't mean to come here?" said Mr. Linden smiling,—"what have you been doing, to be afraid of me? Faith, has your postman been remiss?"

They were a pair, Reuben and Faith! though the colour of the one was varying, while Reuben's was steady. Faith nevertheless seized the boy's hand and drew him with gentle violence up to the fire.

"Who sent you with this, Reuben?"

"Dr. Harrison, Miss Faith. I was off on an errand after church, and one of his men came after me and told me to come to the house. And there I saw the doctor himself—and ho told me to bring you this basket, ma'am, and that he didn't like to trust it to any one else. And—" but there Reuben hesitated.

"And that you were the only person he knew who would go through fire and water for him?" said Mr. Linden.