Say and Seal, Volume II

In the second scene, the doctor stopped to explain the terms on whichPortia had been left with her suitors.

"What do you think of it?"

"I think it was hard," said Faith smiling.

"What would you have done if you had been left so?"

"I would not have been left so."

"But you might not help yourself. Suppose it had been a father's or a mother's command? that anybody might come up and have you, for the finding—if they could pitch upon the right box of jewelry?"

"My father or mother would never have put such a command on me," saidFaith looking amused.

"But you may suppose anything," said the doctor leaning forward and smiling. "Suppose they had?"

"Then you must suppose me different too," said Faith laughing. "Suppose me to have been like Portia; and I should have done as she did."

The doctor shook his head and looked gravely at her.

"Are you so impracticable?"

"Was she?" said Faith.

"Then you wouldn't think it right to obey Mrs. Derrick in all circumstances?"

"Not if she was Portia's mother," said Faith.

"Suppose you had been the Prince of Arragon—which casket would you have chosen?" said Mr. Linden, as he came from his table, letter in hand.

"I suppose I should have chosen as he did," said the doctor carelessly—"I really don't remember how that was. I'll tell you when I come to him. Have you done letter-writing?"

"I have done writing letters, for to-night. Have I permission to go toVenice in your train?"

"I am only a locomotive," said the doctor. "But you know, with two a train goes faster. If you had another copy of the play, now, Linden—and we should read it as I have read Shakspeare in certain former times—take different parts—I presume the effect would excel steam-power, and be electric. Can you?"

This was agreed to, and the "effect" almost equalled the doctor's prognostications. Even Mrs. Derrick, who had somewhat carelessly held aloof from his single presentation of the play, was fascinated now, and drew near and dropped her knitting. It would have been a very rare entertainment to any that had heard it; but for once an audience of two was sufficient for the stimulus and reward of the readers. That and the actual enjoyment of the parts they were playing. Dr. Harrison read well, with cultivated and critical accuracy. His voice was good and melodious, his English enunciation excellent; his knowledge of his author thorough, as far as acquaintanceship went; and his habit of reading a dramatically practised one. But Faith, amid all her delight, had felt a want in it, as compared with the reading to which of late she had been accustomed; it did not give the soul and heart of the author—though it gave everything else. That is what only soul and heart can do. Not that Dr. Harrison was entirely wanting in those gifts either; they lay somewhere, perhaps, in him; but they are not the ones which in what is called "the world" come most often or readily into play; and so it falls out that one who lives there long becomes like the cork oak when it has stood long untouched in its world; the heart is encrusted with a monstrous thick, almost impenetrable, coating of bark. When Mr. Linden joined the reading, the pleasure was perfect; the very contrast between the two characters and the two voices made the illusion more happy. Then Faith was in a little danger of betraying herself; for it was difficult to look at both readers with the same eyes; and if she tried to keep her eyes at home, that was more difficult still.

In the second act, Portia says to Arragon,

   "In terms of choice I am not solely ledBy nice direction of a maiden's eyes," etc.

"What do you think of that, Miss Derrick?" said the doctor pausing when his turn came. "Do you think a lady's choice ought to be so determined?"

Faith raised her eyes, and answered, "No, sir."

"By what then? You don't trust appearances?"

Faith hesitated.

"I should like to hear how Portia managed," she said, with a little heightened colour. "I never thought much about it."

"What do you think of Portia's gloves, doctor?" said Mr. Linden.

"Hum"—said the doctor. "They are a pattern!—soft as steel, harsh as kid-leather. They fit too, so exquisitely! But, if I were marrying her, I think I should request that she would give her gloves into my keeping."

"Then would your exercise of power be properly thwarted. Every time you made the demand, Portia would, like a juggler, pull off and surrender a fresh pair of gloves, leaving ever a pair yet finer-spun upon her hands."

"I suppose she would," said the doctor comically. "Come! I won't marry her. And yet, Linden,—one might do worse. Such gloves keep off a wonderful amount of friction."

"If you happen to have fur which cannot be even stroked the wrong way!"

The doctor's eye glanced with fun, and Faith laughed The reading went on. And went on without much pausing, until the lines—

   "O ten times faster Venus' pigeons flyTo seal love's bonds new made, than they are wontTo keep obliged faith unforfeited!——Who riseth from a feast,With that keen appetite that he sits down?Where is the horse, that doth untread againHis tedious measures with the unbated fireThat he did pace them first?All things that are,Are with more spirit chased than enjoyed."

"Do you believe in that doctrine, Miss Faith?" said the doctor, with a gentle look in her direction.

"I suppose it is true of some things,"—she said after a minute's consideration.

"What a wicked truth it is, Linden!" said the doctor.

"There is 'an error i' the bill,'" said Mr. Linden.

Faith's eyes looked somewhat eagerly, the doctor's philosophically.

"Declare and shew," said the doctor. "I thought it was a universal, most deplorable, human fact; and here it is, in Shakspeare, man; which is another word for saying it is in humanity."

"It is true only of false things. The Magician's coins are next day but withered leaves—the real gold is at compound interest."

The doctor's smile was doubtful and cynical; Faith's had a touch of sunlight on it.

"Where is your 'real gold'?" said the doctor.

"Do you expect me to tell you?" said Mr. Linden laughing. "I have found a good deal in the course of my life, and the interest is regularly paid in."

"Are you talking seriously?"

"Ay truly. So may you."

"From any other man, I should throw away your words as the veriest Magician's coin; but if they are true metal—why I'll ask you to take me to see the Mint some day!"

"Let me remind you," said Mr. Linden, "that there are many things inShakspeare. What do you think of this, for a set-off?—

   'Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeksWithin his bending sickle's compass come;Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,But bears it out e'en to the edge of doom.If this be error, and upon me proved,I never writ, nor no man ever loved.'"

"There's an error proved upon me," said the doctor, biting his lips as he looked at Faith who had listened delightedly. "Come on! I'll stop no more. The thing is, Linden, that I am less happy than you—I never found any real gold in my life!"

"Ah you expect gold to come set with diamonds,—and that cannot always be. I don't doubt you have gold enough to start a large fortune, if you would only rub it up and make it productive."

The doctor made no answer to that, and the reading went on; Faith becoming exceedingly engrossed with the progress of the drama. She listened with an eagerness which both the readers amusedly took heed of, as the successive princes of Morocco and Arragon made their trial: the doctor avowing by the way, that he thought he should have "assumed desert" as the latter prince did, and received the fool's head for his pains. Then they came to the beautiful "casket scene." The doctor had somehow from the beginning left Portia in Mr. Linden's hands; and now gave with great truth and gracefulness the very graceful words of her successful suitor. He could put truth into these, and did, and accordingly read beautifully; well heard, for the play of Faith's varying face shewed she went along thoroughly with all the fine turns of thought and feeling; here and elsewhere. But how well and how delicately Mr. Linden gave Portia! That Dr. Harrison could not have done; the parts had fallen out happily, whether by chance or design. Her ladylike and coy play with words—her transparent veil of delicate shifting turns of expression—contriving to say all and yet as if she would say nothing—were rendered by the reader with a grace of tone every way fit to them. Faith's eye ceased to look at anybody, and her colour flitted, as this scene went on; and when Portia's address to her fortunate wooer was reached—that very noble and dignified declaration of her woman's mind, when she certainly pulled off her gloves, wherever else she might wear them;—Faith turned her face quite away from the readers and with the cheek she could not hide sheltered by her hand—as well as her hand could—she let nobody but the fire and Mrs. Derrick see what a flush covered the other. Very incautious in Faith, but it was the best she could do. And the varied interests that immediately followed, of Antonio's danger and deliverance, gradually brought her head round again and accounted sufficiently for the colour with which her cheeks still burned. The Merchant of Venice was not the only play enacting that evening; and the temptation to break in upon the one, made the doctor, as often as he could, break off the other; though the interest of the plot for a while gave him little chance.

"So shines a good deed in a naughty world."

"Do you suppose, Miss Derrick," said Dr. Harrison with his look of amused pleasure,—"that is because the world is so dark?—or because the effects of the good deed reach to such a distance?"

"Both," said Faith immediately.

"You think the world is so bad?"

"I don't know much of the world," said Faith,—"but I suppose the shining good deeds aren't so very many."

"What makes a good deed shining?" said the doctor.

Faith glanced at Mr. Linden. But he did not take it up, and she was thrown back upon her own resources. She thought a bit.

"I suppose,"—she said,—"its coming from the very spirit of light."

"You must explain," said the doctor good-humouredly but smiling,—"for that puts me in absolute darkness."

"I don't know very well how to tell what I mean," said Faith colouring and looking thoughtful;—"I think I know. Things that are done for the pure love of God and truth, I think, shine; if they are ever so little things, because really there is a great light in them. I think they shine more than some of the greater things that people call very brilliant, but that are done from a lower motive."

"I should like"—said the doctor—"Can you remember an instance or two? of both kinds?"

Well Faith remembered an instance or two of one kind, which she could not instance. She sought in her memory.

"When Daniel kneeled upon his knees three times a day to pray, with his windows open, after the king's law had for bidden any one to do it on pain of death,—" said Faith.—"I think that was a shining good deed!"

"But that was a very notable instance," said the doctor.

"It was a very little thing he did," said Faith. "Only kneeled down to pray in his own room. And it has shined all the way down to us."

"And in later times," said Mr. Linden,—"when the exploring shallop of the Mayflower sought a place of settlement, and after beating about in winter storms came to anchor Friday night at Plymouth Rock;—all Saturday was lost in refitting and preparing, and yet on Sunday they would not land. Those two dozen men, with no human eye to see, with every possible need for haste!"

"That hasn't shined quite so far," said the doctor, "for it never reached me. And it don't enlighten me now! I should have landed."

"Do you know nothing of the spirit of Say and Seal, as well as the province?" said Mr. Linden.

"As how, against landing?"

"They rested that day 'according to the commandment.' Having promised to obey God in all things, the seal of their obedience was unbroken."

"Well, Miss Faith," said the doctor—"Now for a counter example."

"I know so little of what has been done," said Faith. "Don't you remember some such things yourself, Dr. Harrison?—Mr. Linden?"—The voice changed and fell a little as it passed from one to the other.

"General Putnam went into the wolf's den, and pulled him out"—said the doctor humorously,—"that's all I can think of just now, and it is not very much in point. I don't know that there was anything very bright about it except the wolf's eyes!—But here we are keeping Portia out of doors, and Miss Derrick waiting! Linden—fall to." And with comical life and dramatic zeal on the doctor's part, in a few minutes more, the play was finished.

"Mrs. Derrick," said the doctor gravely as he rose and stood before her,—"I hope you approve of plays."

Mrs. Derrick expressed her amusement and satisfaction.

"Miss Faith," he said extending his hand,—"I have to thank you for the most perfect enjoyment I have ever had of Shakspeare. I only wish to-morrow evening would roll off on such swift wheels—but it would be too much. Look where this one has rolled to!" And he shewed his watch and hurried off; that is, if Dr. Harrison could be said to do such a thing.

The rest of the party also were stirred from their quiet. Mrs Derrick went out; and Mr. Linden, coming behind Faith as she stood by the fire, gently raised her face till he could have a full view of it, and asked her how she liked being in Venice?

"Very much," she said, smiling and blushing at him,—"very much!"

"You are not the magician's coin!" he said, kissing her. "You are not even a witch. Do you know how I found that out?"

"No"—she said softly, the colour spreading over her face and her eyes falling, but raised again immediately to ask the question of him.

"A witch's charms are always dispelled whenever she tries to cross running water!"—

She laughed; an amused, bright, happy little laugh, that it was pleasant to hear.

"But what did Dr. Harrison mean,—by what he said when he thanked me?What did he thank me for?"

"He said—for a new enjoyment of Shakspeare."

"What did he mean?"

"Do you understand how the sweet fragrance of mignonette can give new enjoyment to a summer's day?"

She blushed exceedingly. "But, Mr. Linden, please don't talk so! And I don't want to give Dr. Harrison enjoyment in that way."

"Which part of your sentence shall I handle first?" he said with a laughing flash of the eyes,—"'Dr. Harrison'—or 'Mr. Linden'?"

"The first," said Faith laying her hand deprecatingly on his arm;—"and let the other alone!"

"How am I to 'please not to talk'?"

"So—as I don't deserve," she said raising her grave eyes to his face."I would rather have you tell me my wrong things."

He looked at her, with one of those rare smiles which belonged to her; holding her hand with a little soft motion of it to and fro upon his own.

"I am not sure that I dare promise 'to be good,'" he said,—"I am so apt to speak of things as I find them. And Mignonette you are to me—both in French and English. Faith, I know there is no glove upon your hand,—and I know there is none on mine; but I cannot feel, nor imagine, any friction,—can you?"

She looked up and smiled. So much friction or promise of it, as there is about the blue sky's reflection in the clear deep waters of a mountain lake—so much there was in the soft depth—and reflection—of Faith's eyes at that moment. So deep,—so unruffled;—and as in the lake, so in the look that he saw, there was a mingling of earth and heaven.

CHAPTER V

Wednesday morning was cold and raw, and the sun presently put on a thick grey cloak. There were suspicions abroad that it was one made in the regions of perpetual snow, for whatever effect it might have had upon the sun, it made the earth very cold. Now and then a little frozen-up snowflake came silently down, and the wind swept fitfully round the corners of houses, and wandered up and down the chimneys. People who were out subsided into a little trot to keep themselves warm, all except the younger part of creation, who made the trot a run; and those who could, staid at home.

All of Mrs. Derrick's little family were of this latter class, after the very early morning; for as some of them were to brave the weather at night, there seemed no reason why they should also brave it by day. As speedily as might be, Mr. Linden despatched his various matters of outdoor business, of which there were always more or less on his hands, and then came back and went into the sitting-room to look for his scholar. In two minutes she came in from the other door, with the stir of business and the cold morning fresh in her cheeks. But no one would guess—no one could ever guess, from Faith's brown dress and white rufffles, that she had just been flying about in the kitchen—to use Cindy's elegant illustration—"like shelled peas"; not quite so aimlessly, however. And her smiling glance at her teacher spoke of readiness for all sorts of other business.

The first thing she was set about was her French exercise, during the first few lines of which Mr. Linden stood by her and looked on. But then he suddenly turned away and went up stairs—returning however, presently, to take his usual seat by her side. He watched her progress silently, except for business words and instructions, till the exercise was finished and Faith had turned to him for further directions; then taking her hand he put upon its forefinger one of the prettiest things she had ever seen. It was an old-fashioned diamond ring; the stones all of a size, and of great clearness and lustre, set close upon each other all the way round; with just enough goldsmith's work to bind them together, and to form a dainty frill of filagree work above and below—looking almost like a gold line of shadow by that flashing line of light.

"It was my mother's, Faith," he said, "and she gave it to me in trust for whatever lady I should love as I love you."

Faith looked down at it with very, very grave eyes. Her head bent lower, and then suddenly laying her hands together on the table she hid her face in them; and the diamonds glittered against her temple and in contrast with the neighbouring soft hair.

One or two mute questions came there, before Mr. Linden said softly, "Faith!" She looked up with flushed face, and all of tears in her eyes but the tears; and her lip had its very unbent line. She looked first at him and then at the ring again. Anything more humble or more grave than her look cannot be imagined. His face was grave too, with a sort of moved gravity, that touched both the present and the past, but he did not mean hers should be.

"Now what will you do, dear child?" he said. "For I must forewarn you that there is a language of rings which is well established in the world."

"What—do you mean?" she said, looking alternately at the ring and him.

"You know what plain gold on this finger means?" he said, touching the one he spoke of. She looked at first doubtfully, then coloured and said "yes."

"Well diamonds on this finger are understood to be the avant-couriers of that."

Faith had never seen diamonds; but that was not what she was thinking of, nor what brought such a deep spot of colour on her cheeks. It was pretty to see, it was so bright and so different from the flush which had been there a few minutes before. Her eyes considered the diamonds attentively.

"What shall I do?" she said after a little.

"I don't know—you must try your powers of contrivance."

"I cannot contrive. I could keep ray glove on to-night; but I could not every day. Shall I give it back to you to keep for me?"—she said looking at it lovingly. "Perhaps that will be best!—What would you like me to do?"

"Anything but that," he said smiling,—"I should say that would be worst. You may wear a glove, or glove-finger—what you will; but there it must stay, and keep possession for me, till the other one comes to bear it company. In fact I suppose I could endure to have it seen!"

Her eyes went down to it again. Clearly the ring had a charm for Faith. And so it had, something beyond the glitter of brilliants. Of jewellers' value she knew little; the marketable worth of the thing was an enigma to her. But as a treasure of another kind it was beyond price. His mother's ring, on her finger—to Faith's fancy it bound and pledged her to a round of life as perfect, as bright, and as pure, as its own circlet of light-giving gems. That she might fill to him—as far as was possible—all the place that the once owner of the diamonds would have looked for and desired; and be all that he would look for in the person to whom the ring, so derived, had come. Faith considered it lovingly, with intent brow, and at last lifted her eyes to Mr. Linden by way of answer; without saying anything, yet with half her thoughts in her face. His face was very grave—Faith could see a little what the flashing of that ring was to him; but her look was met and answered with a fulness of warmth and tenderness which said that he had read her thoughts, and that to his mind they were already accomplished. Then he took up one of her books and opened it at the place where she was to read.

The morning, and the afternoon, went off all too fast, and the sun went down sullenly. As if to be in keeping with the expected change of work and company, the evening brought worse weather,—a keener wind—beginning to bestir itself in earnest, a thicker sky; though the ground was too snow-covered already to allow it to be very dark. With anybody but Mr. Linden, Mrs. Derrick would hardly have let Faith go out; and even as it was, she several times hoped the weather would moderate before they came home. Faith was so well wrapped up however, both in the house and in the sleigh, that the weather gave her no discomfort; it was rather exhilarating to be so warm in spite of it; and they flew along at a good rate, having the road pretty much to themselves.

"Faith," Mr. Linden said as they approached Judge Harrison's, "I cannot spend all the evening here with you—that is, I ought not. I had a message sent me this afternoon—too late to attend to then, which I cannot leave till morning. But if I see you safe by the fire, I hope Miss Harrison will take good care of you till I get back."

"Well," said Faith,—"I wouldn't meddle with your 'oughts,'—if I could. I hope you'll take care of Jerry!"—

"What shall I do with him?"

"Don't you know?" said Faith demurely.

"I suppose I ought to drive him so fast that he'll keep warm," said Mr.Linden. "What else?"

Faith's little laugh made a contrast with the rough night. "You had better let me get out to the fire," she said joy fully,—"or I sha'n't keep warm."

"You sha'n't?" he said bending down by her, as they reached the door,—"your face has no idea of being cold!—I'll take care of Jerry, child—if I don't forget him in my own pleasant thoughts."

Faith threw off her cloak and furs on the hall table where some others lay, and pulled off one glove.

"Keep them both on!" Mr. Linden said softly and smiling,—"enact Portia for once. Then if you are much urged, you can gracefully yield your own prejudices so far as to take off one."

She looked at him, then amusedly pulled on her glove again; and the door was opened for them into a region of warmth and brightness; where there were all sorts of rejoicings over them and against the cold night. Mr. Linden was by force persuaded to wait till after coffee before braving it again; and the Judge and his daughter fairly involved Faith in the meshes of their kindness. A very mouse Faith was to-night, as ever wore gloves; and with a little of a mouse's watchfulness about her, fancying cat's ears at every corner. A brown mouse too; she had worn only her finest and best stuff dress. But upon the breast of that, a bunch of snowy Laurustinus, nestling among green leaves, put forth a secret claim in a way that was very beautifying. The Judge and Miss Sophy put her in a great soft velvet chair and hovered round her, both of them conscious of her being a little more dainty than usual. Sophy thought perhaps it was the Laurustinus; her father believed it intrinsic.

The coffee came, and the doctor.