Say and Seal, Volume II

"Yes."

The doctor went with grave aspect to the door of communication between the two rooms and softly opened it and went in; so softly, that Faith, engaged in her reading, did not hear anything; the sick woman's eyes were the first that perceived him. Hers rested on him a moment—then came back to Faith, and then again met the doctor's; but not just as they had been wont. And her first words bore out his impression.

"You may come in," she said, slowly and distinctly,—"I'm not afraid of you to-night."

He came forward, looked at her, touched her hand, kindly; and then without a word turned to Faith.

Faith did not dare ask a question, but her eyes put it silently.

"She don't want anything," said he meaningly. "Not from me. She may have anything she fancies to have."

Faith's eyes went back to the other face. That the doctor's words had been understood there too, was evident from the little flitting colour, and the sick woman lay still with closed eyes, clasping Faith's hand as if she were holding herself back from drifting out on "that great and unknown sea." But she roused herself and spoke hurriedly. "Won't somebody pray for me?"

Faith bent over until her lips almost touched the sufferer's cheek and her warm breath floated in the words, "I'll bring somebody—" then loosing her hold, she sprang from the bed and out into the other room. But when she had clasped Mr. Linden's hand, Faith bent down her head upon it, unable to speak. The strength it could, his hand gave her—and his voice.

"What, my dear child?"

Then Faith looked up. "She wants you to pray for her." And without waiting for the unnecessary answer, she led Mr. Linden to the door of the room, there dropped his hand and went in before him. Dr. Harrison was standing by the bedpost, and looked wordlessly upon the two as they entered.

Mrs. Custers scanned the stranger's face as he came to wards her, with an anxious, eager look, as if she wanted to know whether he could do anything for her; the look changing to one of satisfaction. But to his low-spoken question as he took her hand, she gave an answer that was almost startling in its slow earnestness.

"Pray that I may believe—and that he may—and that God would bless her forever!"

How was such a request to be met! then and there!—for a moment Mr. Linden's eyes fell. But then he knelt by her side, and met it most literally,—in tones very low and clear and distinct, in words that might have been angels' plumage for their soft bearing upward of the sufferer's thoughts. Faith could feel a slight trembling once or twice of the hand that held hers, but the bitterness of its grasp had relaxed. Dr. Harrison was behind her; whether he stood or knelt she did not know; but he knew that when the other two rose to their feet, one of them was exceedingly pale; and his move, made on the instant, was to get her a glass of water. Faith only tasted it and gave it him back, and mounted to her former place on the bed. And for a little all was still, until Mr. Linden spoke again in the same clear, guiding tones.

   "'My God, within thy handMy helpless soul I trust!Thy love shall ever stand—Thy promise must!—'"

Then Mrs. Custers opened her eyes; and her first look was at Dr. Harrison. But whether the relaxed mental tension let the bodily weakness appear, or whether the tide was at that point where it ebbs most rapidly, her words were spoken with some trouble—yet spoken as if both to make amends and give information.

"You meant to be very kind—" she said—"and you have—But now I want to believe—even if it isn't any use."

Her eyes passed from him—rested for a minute on Mr. Linden—then came to Faith, and never wavered again. "Read"—was all she said.

With unnerved lip and quivering breath Faith began again her sweet utterance of some of those sweetest things. For a moment she longed to ask the other two listeners to go away and leave her alone; but reasons, different and strong, kept her mouth from speaking the wish; and then, once dismissed, it was forgotten. Her voice steadied and grew clear presently; its low, distinct words were not interrupted by so much as a breath in any part of the room. They steadied her; Faith rested on them and clung to them as she went along, with a sense of failing energy which needed a stay somewhere. But her words did not shew it, except perhaps that they came more slowly and deliberately. Mr. Linden had drawn back a little out of sight. Dr. Harrison kept his stand by the bedpost, leaning against it; and whatever that reading was to him, he was as motionless as that whereon he leaned.

Till some little length of time had passed in this way, and then he came to Faith's side and laid his hand on her open book.

"She does not hear you," he said softly.

Faith looked at him startled, and then bent forward over the woman whose face was turned a little from her.

"She is sleeping"—she said looking up again.

"She will not hear you any more," said the doctor.

"She breathes, regularly,—"

"Yes—so she will for perhaps some hours. But she will not waken again,—probably."

"Are you sure?" Faith said with another look at the calm face before her.

"Very sure!"—

Was it true? Faith looked still at the unconscious form,—then her bible fell from her hands and her head wearily sunk into them. The strain was over—broken short. She had done all she could,—and the everlasting answer was sealed up from her. Those heavy eyelids would not unclose again to give it; those parted lips through which the slow breath went and came, would never tell her. It seemed to Faith that her heart lay on the very ground with the burden of all that weight resting upon it.

She was not suffered to sit so long.

"May I take you away?"—Mr. Linden said,—"you must not stay any longer."

"Do you think it is no use?" said Faith looking up at him wearily.

"It is of no use," said Dr. Harrison. He had come near, and took her hand, looking at her with a moved face in which there was something very like tender reproach. But he only brought her hand gravely to his lips again and turned away. Mr. Linden's words were very low-spoken. "I think the doctor is right.—But let me take you home, and then I will come back and stay till morning if you like—or till there comes a change. You must not stay."

"I don't like to go,"—said Faith without moving. "She may want me again."

"There may be no change all night," said the doctor;—"and when it comes it will not probably be a conscious change. If she awakes at all, it will be to die. You could do nothing more."

Faith saw that Mr. Linden thought so, and she gave it up; with a lingering unwillingness got off the bed and wrapped her furs round her. Mr. Linden put her into the sleigh, keeping Jerry back to let the doctor precede them; and when he was fairly in front, Faith was doubly wrapped up—as she had been the night of the fire, and could take the refreshment of the cool air, and rest. Very wearily, for a while, mind and body both dropped. Faith was as still as if she had been asleep; but her eyes were gazing out upon the snow, following the distant speck of the doctor's sleigh, or looking up to the eternal changeless lights that keep watch over this little world and mock its changes. Yet not so! but that bear their quiet witness that there is something which is not "passing away;"—yea, that there is something which "endureth forever."

"He calleth them all by their names; for that he is strong in power, not one faileth." That was in Faith's mind along with other words—"The Lord knoweth them that are his." Her mind was in a passive state; things floated in and floated out. It was some time before Mr. Linden said anything—he let her be as silent and still as she would; but at last he bent over her and spoke.

"My Mignonette"—and the thought was not sweeter than the words—"are you asleep?"

"No—" she said in one of those etherial answering tones which curiously say a great many things.

"Are you resting?"

"Yes. I am rested."

"You must try not to bear the burden of your work after it is done. Now lay it off—and leave your poor friend in the hands where I trust she has left herself. Her senses are not closed to his voice."

"I do"—she said with a grateful look. "I know it is not my work—nor anybody's."

He drew the furs up about her silently, arranging and adjusting them so as to keep off the wind which had risen a little.

"We are not very far from home now,—we have come fast."

And as Jerry did not relax his pace, the little distance was soon travelled over. How fair the lights in their own windows looked then!—with their speech of blessing and comfort.

They all came together round the fire first, and then round the tea-table; Faith being specially watched over and waited on by both the others. Mrs. Derrick's half developed fear at their long stay, had given place to a sort of moved, untalkative mood when she heard the explanation, but a mood which relieved itself by trying every possible and impossible thing for Faith's refreshment. Every possible thing except refreshing talk—and that Mr. Linden gave her. Talk which without jarring in the least upon the evening's work, yet led her thoughts a little off from the painful part of it. Talk of the Christian's work—of the Christian's privilege,—of "Heaven and the way thither,"—of the gilding of the cross, of the glory of the crown. Faith heard and joined in it, but there was a point of pressure yet at her heart; and when they left the table and went into the other room, a slight thing gave indication where it lay. Faith took a little bench by Mrs. Derrick's side, drew her mother's arms round her close, and laid her head down on her lap.

How softly, how tenderly, did Mrs. Derrick answer the caress, as if she read it perfectly!—touching Faith's hands and brow and cheeks with fingers that were even trembling. And at last—whether her child's mute pleading was too much for her,—whether the pain which had never left her heart since the day of Faith's overturn had by degrees done its work,—she bent down her lips to Faith's cheek and whispered—"Yes, pretty child—I mean to try."

And so the door opened, and Cindy and Mr. Skip came in for prayers.Faith hid her face, but otherwise did not stir.

How sweet the service was to them all that night!—yes, to them all; there was not one who could help feeling its influence. And yet it was very simple, and not very long,—Mr. Linden read first a few Bible passages, and then Wesley's hymn of the New Year,—with its bugle note of action,—and then to prayer, for which, by that time, every heart was ready.

   "Come let us anew our journey pursue,Roll round with the year,And never stand still till the Master appear.His adorable will let us gladly fulfil,And our talents improve,By the patience of hope and the labours of love.   "Our life is a dream; our time, as a stream,Glides swiftly away,And the fugitive moment refuses to stay.The arrow is flown—the moment is gone;The millennial yearRushes on to our view, and eternity's here.   "O that each, in the day of his coming, may say,I have fought my way through;I have finished the work thou didst give me to do.O that each from his Lord may receive the glad word,Well and faithfully done!Enter into my joy, and sit down on my throne."

CHAPTER VIII

The first morning of the new year turned out as bright as could be desired for the great sleigh-riding expedition; the very day for it. And in the very mood for it were the people who were to go. Not but somewhat of last night's gravity hung about Faith's bright face; the one did no hurt to the other; for the best brightness is always sure to be grave, and the best gravity is almost sure to be bright, on some side. However there was nothing contemplative about the character of things this morning; there was too much action afoot. Such an army of meats and drinks, with all sorts of odd ends and varieties, from the shoes to the fishing-net, and such an array of apples and sugarplums!—to marshal and order them all in proper companies and ranks, wanted a general! But Faith was by no means a bad general, and up to the act of stowing the sleigh, at which point the things were made over to Mr. Linden and Mr. Skip, her part was well done. And Mr. Linden found in the course of his part of the business that Mrs. Derrick and Faith had followed a lead of their own.

There had been a pretty packing and tying up and labelling at the table, before the sleigh-packing began,—Faith's busy little fingers went in and out with great dexterity; and either Mr. Linden thought it was pleasant to her—or knew it was pleasant to him, to have them so engaged; for though he stood by and talked to her, and laughed at her, he let the said little fingers have their way; except when they touched some harsh bit of string, or rough bit of paper, or unmanageable package, and then his own interfered. It was a bright packing up—without a shadow, at least that could be called such. But once or twice, when with some quick movement of Faith's hand the diamonds flashed forth their weird light suddenly,—she did see that Mr. Linden's eyes went down, and that his mouth took a set which if not of pain, was at least sad. It never lasted long—and the next look was always one of most full pleasure at her. But the second time, Faith's heart could hardly bear it. She guessed at the why and the what; but words were too gross a medium to convey from spirit to spirit the touch that love could give and pain bear. She watched her chance; and when one of Mr. Linden's hands was for a moment resting on a package that the other was busied in arranging, suddenly laying the jewelled hand on his, Faith's lips kept it company.

"Faith!" he said. And then as if he saw it all, he did not say another word, only held her for a minute in a very, very close embrace. But then he whispered,

"Faith—you must give me that in another way."

Faith appeared to have exhausted her ammunition, for she only answered by hiding her face.

"Faith"—Mr. Linden repeated.

She looked up slowly, blushing all over; and her very doubtful face seemed to negative the whole proceeding. But then an irrepressible little laugh began to play.

"I wouldn't do it," she said unsteadily,—"at least, I don't know that I would—if I hadn't wished so very much to give you something to-day;—and I have nothing else!—"

And nerving herself desperately, Faith laid one hand on Mr. Linden's shoulder and slightly raising herself on her toes, did bestow on his lips as dainty a kiss as ever Santa Claus brought in his box of New Year curiosities. But she was overcome with confusion the moment she had done it, and would have rushed off if that had been possible.

"Let me go"—she said hastily—"let me go!"—

In answer to which, she was held as securely fast as she ever had been in her life. Covering and hiding all of her face that she could, Faith renewed her request, in a comical tone of humility—as if she didn't deserve it.

"I never felt less inclined to let you go!"

"There is all that work to be done," said Faith, by way of possibly useful suggestion.

"Mignonette, will you remember your new lesson?"

She whispered softly, "No.—It was only Santa Claus."

"Not Campaspe?"

"No—Certainly not!"

"You remember," said Mr. Linden, "that when—'Cupid and Campaspe played at cards for kisses, Cupid paid.'—I was unavoidably reminded of that. But you may go on with your work,—you know what happens when lessons are learned imperfectly." And liberty for her work she had; no more.

"Child," said her mother coming in, "are you ready for your lunch?"

"Why no, mother," said Faith with a little laugh,—"of course not! but I can take it as I go on. There's a good deal of 'sorting' to do yet. I hope the sleigh is big."

"Take it as you go on, indeed!" said Mrs. Derrick. "You've got to stop and eat, child,—you can't live till night with nothing but other folk's dinners."

Faith however declared she could not stop to eat; and she contrived to carry on both the rival occupations together; and even to make right sure that no one else should attempt to live upon anything more etherial than sandwiches and pumpkin pie. She drank her coffee in the intervals of tying packages and writing labels, and ran about with a sandwich in one hand and a basket in the other; filling Mr. Linden's cup and putting tempting platefuls in his way. But he was as busy as she,—spending much of his time at the barn, where Squire Stoutenburgh's pretty little box sleigh was in process of filling with cloaks, buffalo robes, and commodities! At last everything was in, and Mr. Linden came to announce that fact to Faith,—furs and hood were donned, and the sleigh was off with its whole load.

Bright, bright the snow was, and blue the shadows, and fair the white expanse of hill and meadow, all crisp and sparkling. Everybody was out—which was not wonderful; but so well had Mr. Linden disposed and covered up his packages, that all anybody could see was that he and Faith were taking a sleigh-ride,—which was not wonderful either. And before long they left the more frequented roads, and turned down the lane that led to the dwelling of Sally Lowndes. How different it looked now, from that summer evening when Faith had gone there alone. What a colouring then lay on all the ground that was now white with sunlight and blue with shade! And also, what a difference in the mental colouring. But Jerry, travelling faster than her feet had done, soon brought them to the house. Mr. Linden buckled the tie, and helped Faith to emerge from the buffalo robes; the winter wind blowing fresh from the sea, and sweeping over the down till Jerry shook his blanket in disapproval.

"Now my little counsellor," said Mr. Linden, "what does your wisdom say should go in here—besides this basket of substantiate? I think you know more of these people than I do?"—And the surf in its cold monotony, said—"Anything warm!"

"Mother has put in a shawl for Sally," said Faith, getting out the package;—(it was one that Mrs. Derrick found she could do without,)—"and a little paper of tea,—tea is Sally's greatest delight,—here it is!"

Sally's abode was in nothing different from the run of poor houses in the country; unpainted of course, outside and inside; a rag carpet on the floor, a gay patchwork coverlet on the bed. Sally herself was in the rocking-chair before a little wood fire. But there was not the look of even poor comfort which may sometimes be seen; want, that told of lack of means and that also went deeper, was visible in everything.

"I've come to wish you a happy new year, Sally," said Faith brightly.

"Laws! I wonder where it's to come from!" said Sally. "If wishin' I would fetch it—I've wished it to myself till I'm tired. Happy new years don't come to all folks. Aint that—How do you do, sir!—aint it the gentleman Jenny told of? that fell down at Mr. Simlins' door?"

"And got up again?" said Mr. Linden. "Yes, I presume I am the very person Jenny told of. I remember that Jenny was very kind to me, too. Where is she?"

"O she's to Mr. Simlinses all along! she's got a good place; she knows when she's comfortable. She don't think of me stayin' here all alone."

"But aren't you comfortable, Sally?" said Faith.

"I should like to know how I would be! Folks that is comfortable thinks all the world is like them! If they didn't they'd help."

"Well what is the first thing that would help to make you comfortable?" said Mr. Linden.

Sally looked at him, up and down.

"I'd like to see a speck o' somebody's face now and then. I mope and mope, till I wish I'd die to get rid of it! You see, sir, I aint as I used to was; and my family aint numerous now. There's no one lives in this house over my head but me and a girl what stays by me to do chores. Aint that a life for a spider?"

Faith had been stealthily unfolding the shawl and now put it round Sally's shoulders. "Will that help to make you comfortable?" she said gently.

"Laws!" said Sally—"aint that smart! That's good as far as it goes.Where did that come from?"

"Mother sent it to you, for New Year."

"It's real becoming of her!" said Sally in a mollified tone, feeling of the shawl. "Well I won't say this New Years haint brought me something."

"It brings you too much cold air at present," Mr. Linden said. "Do you know that window lets in about as much cold as it keeps out?"

"Well I reckon I do," said Sally. "I've nothin' to do all day but sit here and realize onto it. There aint no such a thing as buildin' a fire in the chimney that'll keep out the cold from that winter."

"I should think not!—the way is to attack the window itself," he said, looking at it as if he were studying the attack.

"We've brought you something else here, Sally, to help keep out the cold," said Faith. "May I put the things in your closet—so as to carry home my basket?"

"Yes, if you like. What have you got there, Faith?" said Miss Lowndes looking into the closet after her.

"There's a piece of beef, Sally, of mother's own curing—all ready cooked—so you'll have nothing to do but cook your potatoes—and mother thought you'd like a few of our potatoes, they're good this year. Then here is a little paper of tea she sent you, and I've brought you one of my own pumpkin pies—so you must say it is good, Sally."

"Well I'm beat!" said Sally. "Haint you got something else?"

She was like to be beat on all hands; for Mr. Linden who had been examining the window while Faith emptied her basket, now went out and presently brought back hammer and nails and strips of lath, that made Faith wonder whether he had brought a tool-chest along. But the noise of his hammer was much more cheerful than the rattling of the window, and when it had done its work outside as well as in, the wind might whistle for admission in vain. He came in and stood by the fire for a moment then, before they set off, and asked Faith softly what else was wanted? And Faith whispered in answer—

"'The Dairyman's Daughter?' but you must give it."

"Can't you get some comfort in reading your Bible, Sally?" said Faith while Mr. Linden went out to the sleigh with his hammer and nails.

"Laws!" said Sally—"what's the use! I haint got the heart to take the trouble to read, half the time."

"If you read one half the time, and pray too, Sally, you'll soon get heart for the other half."

"It's easy talkin'"—was Sally's encouraging view of the case.

"It's a great deal easier doing," said Faith. "If you try it, Sally, it'll make you so glad you'll never say you want comfort again."

"Well you've brought me a heap to-day anyhow," said Sally. "Just look at that winder! I declare!—I 'spect I'll make out to eat my dinner to-day without scolding."

Mr. Linden came back with the tract, but kept it in his hand for a minute.

"Do you know, Sally, how a house is built upon the bare ground?" he said. "The mason lays down one stone, and then another on that; and if he cannot have his choice of stones he takes just what come to hand—little and big, putting in plenty of mortar to bind all together. Now that's the way you must build up a happy year for yourself,—and in that way every one can." The words were spoken very brightly, without a touch of faultfinding.

"Well"—said Sally rocking herself back and forth in the rocking-chair—"I 'spect you know how."—Which might have been meant as a compliment, or as an excuse.

"I think you do," said Mr. Linden smiling; "and I am going to leave you a true story of how it was really done by somebody else. Will you read it?"

"Yes"—said Sally continuing to rock. "I'll do any thing you ask me to—after that winder. You've given me a good start—anyways. I'd as lieves hear you talk as most things."

There was not time for much more talk then, however. Mr. Linden and Faith went away, leaving the little book on the table. But when Sally went to take a nearer view of its words of golden example, there lay on it the first real little gold piece Sally had ever possessed.

"That was a good beginning," said Faith in a sort of quiet glee, after she had got into the sleigh again. "I knew, before, we were like a butcher and baker setting off on their travels; but I had no idea there was a carpenter stowed away anywhere!" And her laugh broke forth upon the air of those wild downs, as Jerry turned his head about.

"I must be something, you know," said Mr. Linden,—"and I don't choose to be the butcher—and certainly am not the baker."