Say and Seal, Volume II

"Mr. Skip," said Faith gravely.

"Mr. Skip merits no consideration whatever. Is Miss Bezac at work on that dress?"

"Because he don't live with us any longer, Endecott."

"Does he not?—Unfortunate man!"

"And Dromy is in his place."

"My dear, my own place is the only one I can think of with any intense interest. Except yours."

"Because we have had no farm to manage this winter," said Faith; "soDromy could do what we wanted."

"I am glad to hear it," said Mr. Linden,—"he never used to be able to do what I wanted. Who has managed for you? Mr. Simlins? And has Mr. Skip gone off in a pumpkin with Cinderella? Faith, there is the door where I had the first sight of you—my Rose of delight!" he added softly, as if all the days since then were passing through his mind in sweet procession.

Faith was silent, for she too had something to think of; and there was no more time to finish either train of conversation that had been started. Both dropped, even before Jerry drew up at the gate; and if she had not gained one object she had the other.

By this time it was about eleven o'clock. It was rarely very hot in Pattaquasset; and now though under a sunny sky there were summer breezes rustling in the trees. Both mingled in Faith's senses with the joy of going into that house again so accompanied. That gladness of getting home in a pleasant hour! No one was in the cool sitting-room—Faith pushed open the door between and went into the eating-room, followed by Mr. Linden. There was Mrs. Derrick; and what of all things doing but doing up some of Faith's new ruffles! It was a glad meeting,—what though Mrs. Derrick had no hand to give anybody. Then she went to get rid of the starch, and the two others to their respective rooms. But in a very few minutes indeed Faith was by her side again.

"Mother—has Cindy come?"

"She's coming to-morrow, child. But there's not much to do for dinner,—that's all under way."

Faith bared her arms and plunged into dairy and kitchen to do all that her mother characterized as "not much," and a little more. When every possible item had been cared for—the strawberries looked over—the cream made ready—the table set—the lettuce washed—the dishes warming for the vegetables—the pickles and bread on the table—and Faith had through all this delighted Mrs. Derrick as much as possible with her company, sight and presence at least,—for Faith's words were a trifle less free than usual;—when it was all done and the eating-room in a state of pleasant shady summer readiness, Faith went "ben," as they say in Scotland. She came into the sitting-room, as quietly as usual, and coming up to Mr. Linden laid a hand on his shoulder.

"My own dear little Mignonette!—Do you feel less afraid of me, now I am here?"

She hesitated to answer at first, then spoke with a very dainty shy look—"I don't think I ever had fear enough of you to hurt anything."

"See that you do not begin now! What have you been about, all these long months? You were as chary of details as if I had no right to them."

Faith looked gravely out of the window before she said, "I have not been studying this year, Endecott." There was so clearly some reason for it, that Mr. Linden's first thought was one of anxiety.

"What has been the matter?"

"You know I told you Mr. Skip had gone away?"

"Yes."

"And that he went because we hadn't any farm to manage?"

"What has the farm to do with your studies?"

"What shall I do if I make you very angry with me?" said Faith, the least touch of seriousness mingling with her words,

"You had better ask what I shall do. Has Mr. Deacon come back and taken possession?"

"Yes—And you know, Endy, we used to live by the farm. When that was gone we had to live by something else. I wouldn't tell you if I could help your knowing it."

"Mignonette, what have you been doing?"

"You know what Pet found me at?"

"Yes."—She could not tell whether he saw the whole,—he was clearly in the mind to hear it, taking both her hands in his.

"I did that," said Faith.

"Did what?"

"I got work from Miss Bezac.—She gave me lessons."

"For how long?"

"Since—about a fortnight after you went away. It was then Squire Deacon took away the farm. From that time until Pet came—" she added with a little rise of colour in her cheeks.

"And that all the daylight and candlelight hours of each day?"

"O no, not that. I had long walks to Miss Bezac's, you know—or rides—every day or two; for we kept Jerry; and I never sewed before breakfast. And in the evening I used to write letters—part of the evening."

"Child! child!"—He dropped her hands, and began to pace up and down the moderate limits of Mrs. Derrick's best carpet. Until after a few turns Faith put herself straight in his way and intercepted him, with a very innocent face.

"Faith, did no one protest against this—for me?"

"Yes, sir."—

"And you knew that I had guarded—that I had tried to guard you against any such possibility?"

Faith paused. "Yes, I knew,—but Endy, that couldn't make any difference."

"It did not—How, could not?"

"It ought not," she said softly and colouring.

"Can you tell why?"

"You know, Endy, it was better,—it was right,—it was better that I should work for myself."

"Never, Mignonette—while I could work for you. How do you expect to manage when you are my wife?—And do you think I had no right even to know about it?"

"I thought—now was the best time—" Faith said.

"Am I to learn from this and similar instances what my wife will expect of me if I chance to be sick or in trouble?"

It touched her. She coloured again to the roots of her hair.

"Do you think I did wrong, Endy?" she said doubtfully, yet in an appealing fashion.

"I cannot say you did right."

"But when you could do me no good,"—said Faith very gently,—"and I should only have given you pain—for nothing?"

"It would not have given me pain to have you tell it—and the thing does now. Besides, in a great many cases the thought that it is pain 'for nothing' is a mistake. I might know some remedy when you did not. Self sacrifice will never run wild in my nature—as it is inclined to do in yours, but just imagine it once in the ascendant and me with a bad headache (which I never have),—it can only give you pain to hear of it—so I tell you of it the next day. But if I had told you at the time—what conjurations of your little fingers! what quick-witted alleviations!—till the headache becomes almost a pleasure to both of us."

Faith was very near the unwonted demonstration of tears. She stood still, looking down, till she could look up safely.

"I will not do so again, Endy.—About important things, I mean,"

"You know, Faith, I am speaking less of this one case, than of the daily course of future action. Is not perfect frankness, as well as perfect truth, best? And if I call for your sympathy in all manner of small and great things, will you let mine lie idle?"

"I might like it,"—said Faith honestly. "But in great things I will not again, Endecott."

"Take care you get the right measure for things," said Mr. Linden smiling. "Frankness makes a deliciously plain way for one's feet."

Faith looked sober again, at the idea that she should have failed in frankness. Then put her hand in his and looked smiling up at him.

"There is one thing I will not keep from you any longer,"—she said.

"What is that?—the seal of this little compact of plain speaking?"

"Strawberries!"—

"Only another style of nomenclature,"—said Mr. Linden.

"You must take the trouble to go into the other room for them."

And light-heartedly Faith preceded him into the other room, where the dinner was ready. A very simple dinner, but Mrs. Derrick would not have had anything less than a roast chicken for Mr. Linden, and the lettuce and potatoes did very well for a summer day; and Faith's waiting on table made it only more pleasant. Talk flowed all the while; of a thousand and one things; for Mrs. Derrick's sympathies had a wider range since Mr. Linden had been in Germany. Indeed the talk was principally between those two. It was a remarkably long dinner, without multiplication of courses—there was so much to say! Many were the pleasant things swallowed with the strawberries. It is said hunger is the best sauce; it's not true; happiness is a better.

And then—what came then? Truly, the same over again—looking and talking, without the strawberries. Which were not wanted; especially when Faith was dressed out with roses, as she was presently after dinner. As she would wash the tumblers and spoons in the dining-room, spite of all Mrs. Derrick could say, so Mr. Linden would stay there too; not indeed to do anything but look on, and bestow the roses as aforesaid. Talking to her sometimes in English, sometimes in French, with preliminary instructions in German.

"Mignonette," he said, "I have three letters for you to read."

"Letters, Endecott!—Who has written to me?"

"Through me—three regions of country."

"What do you mean?"

Just as she spoke the words, Faith paused and set down the tumbler she was wiping. Her ears had caught the sound of a modest knock at the front door. She looked at Mr. Linden.

"Stay here, Endy—please!" she said as she threw down her towel and ran off. But Faith's hope of a chance was disappointed. She ushered somebody into the sitting-room and came back gravely and flushed to Mr. Linden.

"It's Mr. Somers—and he wants to see you, Endecott!"

Faith went at her tumblers, and simultaneously, greatly to the dismay of one party as to the surprise of the other, in walked Mr. Somers after her.

"Miss Derrick told me you were in this room, sir," said the clergyman shaking Mr. Linden's hand,—"so I came in. Ha! I am glad to be one of the first to welcome you back. How do you do, Mr. Linden? You've been a great while from Pattaquasset!—and you've been missed, I don't doubt."

Apparently not by Mr. Somers! But Mr. Linden met all the advances as he should, merely stating his belief in the general proposition that "there is always somebody to miss everybody."

"Will you take a seat here, sir?" he said—"or may I go with you to the next room?"

"I—have no choice," said Mr. Somers looking benignantly around;—"it is very pleasant here, very!—cool;—perhaps Miss Derrick will have no objection to our taking our seats here?"

Faith did not say, but as Mr. Somers had taken her leave for granted, and his seat consequently, she was saved that trouble. How she reddened at the thought of the roses with which she was dressed! And there she stood in full view, washing her spoons! But Mr. Somers looked the other way.

"I—I am very happy to see you again, Mr. Linden—very happy indeed, sir! I heard from Squire Stoutenburgh that you were expected, and I lost no time. How have you enjoyed your health, sir, this year? A year's a long time! isn't it?"

Mr. Linden, taking his seat as in duty bound, looked abstractedly at Faith and the spoons and the roses, and answered according to the evidence.

"Yes, Mr. Somers,—and yet it depends very much upon how far the two ends of the year are apart in other respects. The 'Voyage autour de ma chambre' could never seem very long, whatever time it took."

"Ha!"—said Mr. Somers blandly,—he hadn't the remotest idea what this speech might mean,—"no. Did you have a good passage coming over? We had every sign of it."

"Very good,"—said Mr. Linden smiling,—"and very stormy."

"Ah?"—said Mr. Somers,—"very good and very stormy? Well I shouldn't have thought that. But I suppose you have got to be such a traveller that you don't mind which way the wind blows, if it blows you on, ha?—like Dr. Harrison. He never minds the weather. Dr. Harrison's a great loss to Pattaquasset too," said Mr. Somers looking at Faith and smiling a little more openly;—"all our—ha!—our pleasantest members of society seem to be running away from us! That's what Mrs. Somers says."

"One more spoon—and put them up,"—thought Faith,—"and then I'll be away!"—

"But I've come to see if I can't get you to do me a favour, Mr.Linden," said Mr. Somers withdrawing his eyes and mind from her."I—should be very much obliged to you indeed! I'm almost afraid toask, for fear I sha'n't get it."

Faith wiped her spoon slowly.

"I like to do favours," said Mr. Linden,—"at least I think I should.But I cannot imagine how you can give me a chance, Mr. Somers."

"Don't you think it would be a great gratification to all your old friends in Pattaquasset, if you would consent to fill my pulpit next Sunday? They—I believe they'd come from all over the country!—and it would be—a—it would be a very great gratification indeed to me. Can't I prevail with you?"

Faith had ceased her work and was standing quite still, with bended head, and cheeks which had gathered their colour into two vivid spots. On those carnations Mr. Linden's eyes rested for a moment, with a strange feeling of pleasure, of emotion. The sort of touched smile upon his lips when he spoke, did not, it may be said, belong to Mr. Somers. His answer was very simple and straightforward.

"I should like to see and speak to all my old friends again, sir, more than I can tell you—and I think they would be glad to see me. I could do it so well in no other way. Thank you, Mr. Somers!—it is you who confer the favour."

"Then you'll do it?" said Mr. Somers, delighted. "I am very happy—very fortunate indeed! It will be quite a relief. And a pleasure—a very great pleasure—a—I assure you, sir. It's profitable for—a—people to have a change—they listen—ha!—they hear the same things said in a different way; and it is often striking. And it is certainly profitable to the pastor. Well, Mr. Linden, I shall make a great many people happy,—and Mrs. Somers, she'll set off on her side to tell the news. How long are you going—a—to remain in Pattaquasset?—But I don't know," added he laughing,—"as I ought to ask!"

Faith had carried her spoons summarily to the cup-board, and was sitting at an open window near it, looking out.

"And I cannot answer," said Mr. Linden. "I have hardly got past my arrival yet, sir."

"No—certainly. I was—a—premature. You must excuse me. And I have no right to take up any more of your time,—as you have so kindly—a—consented to give me Sunday. What is the state of religion now, abroad, sir?"

The answer to which comprehensive enquiry drew on into a talk of some length, although Mr. Somers had declared he must go and had no right to stay. For a little while Faith sat still by her window, but then she vanished and appeared at Mrs. Derrick's side in the kitchen. The dishes were all done there too, and Mrs. Derrick was "ticing" about,—talking to Faith and wishing Mr. Somers would go, some time before he went. Faith heard the closing door, and the light returning step,—then a clear—not loud-spoken—"Mignonette—where are you?"

Faith sprang back through the passage, and stood in the eating-room again. With a very sweet sort of gravity. All her mind and her face full of the thought that he was going to preach for Mr. Somers.

"What are you about, little Sunbeam?—are you busy?"

"No."

"Then first I want a talk with you, and then a walk with you,—do you want the same with me?—or are you tired?"

"No—yes;—I'm not tired a bit."

"Are you nervous?" he said, drawing her off into the next room.

"No!" she said laughing a little,—"did you ever think I was,Endecott?"—But Faith's heart beat somewhat strangely.

"I am going to try you—" he said as he sat down by her; "so if you are, shut up your eyes."

There was no sign of shutting up in Faith's eyes. She looked at him, not indeed assuredly, but steadily, and with a wee smile. Eye and smile were met and held, until he had taken her left hand and held that too; but then looking down at it, Mr. Linden gravely took out a little gold ring and proceeded to try how well its dimensions agreed with those of the finger for which it was destined.

Nothing moved of Faith but her eyes, which followed his, and the fluttering colour—which fluttered indeed! went and came like the lights on a wreath of vapour.

Silently the hand, with both rings on, was looked at for a few moments—then held to his lips, with special greeting of those two fingers; and then, as he took off the second ring, Mr. Linden looked up at her.

"Mignonette, when may I put it on again?"

There seemed to be difficulty in Faith's answering. Probably she was making up her mind to speak, but he had to wait for her words to be ready. He waited quietly, as if he expected it; looking down at the hand he held, and saying nothing unless by the clasp of its little fingers.

"Do you know where you are going yet Endy?"—she said in a very low voice.

"No, darling—not certainly."

"Then—do you want to know this yet?"

"Very much."

Faith had expected no less; she had had fair warning; and besides in her heart could not but confess that Mr. Linden had reason. Little as she might care to disturb the existing state of things, which to her mind was pleasant enough, it was clear that his mind on the subject was different; and she could not find fault with that. There was a pause again, of quiet waiting on one side and great difficulty of utterance on the other, and the words when they came were in the lowest possible key.

"What do you wish?"

"What I have been waiting for all these years."

"But as to time?"

"As little as possible."

"I know,—but what is that, Endy?"—she said with very timid intonation.

"'As little as possible'?" he said, raising his eyes with a laughing look to her face,—"the words hardly need explanation—I might have stayed Mr. Somers this afternoon. It cannot be too soon for me, Mignonette—but I do not know what is possible for you."

What was possible for her! It almost took Faith's breath away. Because she acknowledged Mr. Linden's right to his wish. She was in great confusion, besides.

"I will do what you please!" she said at length. "You may arrange it with mother."

"No, with you," said Mr. Linden,—"what do you please? Am I to repeat the passage of Quapaw creek?"

She looked up and looked at him, and said yes. It was a look any man would have liked to have given him. Not without a little fear of what he might say, those eyes put such a pure faith in him and were so ready to answer his pleasure. She waited for his answer, though her eyes did not.

"You know, dear Faith, I sent you word to be ready for me,—is that done?"

"Yes nearly."

"'Nearly' is soon despatched," said Mr. Linden,—"and this is the month when, 'if ever, come perfect days'—Shall we say a week from to-day?"

She looked very startled, soft though the glance was that again met his face. And for a moment the roses fairly fled away. "As soon as possible" this was, sure enough. They came back however, first stealthily and then swiftly, till Faith's face was bowed and her right hand with futile intent of concealment was interposed between it and Mr. Linden. But whether Faith meant to speak or meant not to speak, certain it is that words were none.

"I cannot have this!" said Mr. Linden, as he took the shielding hand into his own possession,—"Faith, you shall not look pale about it. This is the second time I have banished the colour in the first twenty-four hours I have been home. And these roses I see now, seem to me to come from the same tree as the white ones. If you would look more boldly at the subject it would appear much less terrific—and the same might be said of me. What sort of a face have I down there in the carpet?"

There was a little clasp of his hand which answered that; but though he could see Faith's lips give way he did not hear them speak.

"Mignonette, the treaty waits your signature."

"Yes, Endy,"—she said quaintly enough. Mr. Linden brought her face round within sight, saying—much as he had done at Quapaw creek—"Are you afraid, dear child?"

"No—" she said timidly, and yet "no" it was.

"Then it only needs my seal.—In one of the northern countries of Europe, Mignonette, the bride and bridegroom are expected to stand at the open window for an hour or two, in full dress,—so you see things are not so bad as they might be. Now my little beauty—are you ready for your walk?"

CHAPTER XL

It was the pretty time of a summer afternoon. The sun, in the last quarter of almost his longest journey of the year, but high yet, sent warm rays to rest in the meadows and dally with the tree tops and sparkle on the Mong and its salt outlet. The slight rustle of leaves now and then was as often caused by a butterfly or a kildeer as by the breeze; sometimes by a heavy damask rose that suddenly sent down its rosy shower upon the ground. It was the very pastime of birds and insects and roses,—with that slight extra stir which told the time of day and that the afternoon siesta was at an end.

Gathering roses as he went along, fastening them in her belt or her bonnet, Mr. Linden led Faith down the farm road by which he had driven her to the shore that first day after her illness. There was small danger of meeting any one,—it was not the time for loads of hay and grain, and little else passed that way: the labourers in the fields were seen and heard only at a distance Mr. Linden himself was in as gay and gladsome a mood as the day,—more lively indeed, and active—taking the "dolce far" without the "niente;" witnessing what "the year of exile" had been, by his joy in being at home, with June and Mignonette. The afternoon's talk had added something even to both their perfections—he could not forget it though he talked of other things. Neither did Faith forget it. Yet she laughed at Mr. Linden and with him; though as far as conversation was concerned she took a secondary part. She started no subject whatever, of the least moment.

Subjects started of themselves—in numbers somewhat like the little butterflies that roused out of the clover as the intruding feet came by,—about as airy, about as flitting, not quite so purposeless. And thus in a way more summery than summary, Mr. Linden and Faith arrived at the shore. He found a shady seat for her, and with no "by your leave," except in manner, transferred her bonnet to an airy situation on a wild thorn.

"Mignonette, do you know what I mean to do with you after Thursday?"

"No, Endecott."—

"I shall put you before me on the wooden horse spoken of in the fairy tale, turn the pin under his right ear, and be off."

"What's that story!"—said Faith, looking round at him (he was standing behind her) with the prettiest of bright flushed faces.

"An authentic account of how a prince carried off a princess."

"How did he?"

"Got her consent first—(couldn't get anybody's else, but that did not matter)—ordered some one to bring the wooden horse to the front of the palace, placed her and himself as aforesaid, turned the pin, and disappeared from the curious eyes of the whole court. The story goes on to state that they both enjoyed the ride."

"Was that what you meant when you asked me if I liked travelling in cars?—" said Faith, a very little laugh speaking her sense of the application.

"Quick witted little princess!" said Mr. Linden. "The horse that refuses to carry double for your service, shall be dismissed from mine."

"But I don't see much, yet," said Faith. "I don't understand the story nor you. I think you have taken me a great many rides on that horse."

"Not en princesse," said Mr. Linden smiling. "The story is very simple, my dear. After shewing his wife various places of interest, and letting his friends see her, the prince arrives at home. It is said that he then finds his fortune—but I think that part of the story is fabulous, so don't set your heart upon it."

"That's the story—but what do you mean, Endy?"

"To give you such a ride. I mean that I am the prince, and that you (will be) the princess, who shall do all these things."

Faith jumped up. "Do you!"—

"Truly I do, dear Mignonette."

Faith's face was changing. The undoubted joy in her eye had yet a check somewhere.

"But Endecott—"

"Qu'est-ce que c'est, Mademoiselle?"

"You haven't a wooden horse!"—she said with a delicious and most delicate mixture of frankness and timidity.

"Are you sure of the fact?—and after all, Mademoiselle, what then?"