Say and Seal, Volume I

by Susan Warner; Anna Bartlett Warner

CHAPTER XXIX.

Those weeks, like others, came to an end. And then Mr. Linden gave notice to all and sundry of his scholars, that his time of seclusion was at an end—only giving way to advice so far, as to accept the daily use of Squire Stoutenburgh's close carriage, until his health should be in a more assured state. Monday morning he was to take up his old routine of school duties; though none too fit for it, in the estimation of some people,—the doctor said it was a month too soon. And no one could look at him and forget the last month's work,—a little exertion made the work very apparent; and as they sat at breakfast Monday morning, Mrs. Derrick made up her own mind privately that Dr. Harrison should have found some means to keep him in the house and from work yet longer. But the result of her meditations was not put in words; the effect betrayed itself in the extra care bestowed upon cups of coffee—the only thing within her reach.

It was a cold morning, true November, with its driving grey wind clouds, through which the cool sunbeams straggled fitfully; with trees shorn of their golden honours, and brown branches waving and twisting in the wind, and only mere specks of blue here and there overhead. The gulls sailed to and fro above the Mong as if they rejoiced in the fierce gusts of northern wind; the vessels shortened sail, or ran under bare poles. The wind shook the village windows, and poured dry leaves in every porch, and swept up the world generally—not much to the comfort of the same. In Mrs. Derrick's little eating-room indeed, it was warm enough, and the floor swept after another fashion; yet even there did the wind rush in, whenever the kitchen door opened, after Cindy and the hot cakes.

"Mr. Linden," said Faith after her eye had gone exploringly to the window, the wind and the clouds,—"I wish you would give the boys only half a day to-day!"

"I fancy you could have your wish seconded thirty times," he said smiling. "No—not thirty times, but perhaps twenty."

"I don't think those wishes would be worth minding; but I think mine is, Mr. Linden. I mean the reason of it."

"I think yours is—if I could mind it. What is the reason, Miss Faith?"

"I am afraid you are not quite fit for a whole day's work. In school," she added smiling.

"You don't know what you are asking!—if I stay at home I shall talk nothing but French the whole afternoon."

"Well," said Faith laughingly, "I should only be still. I could bear that."

"I couldn't—and you wouldn't. But you need not be uneasy, Miss
Faith—I must not be at home."

She looked grave, but said no more.

The wind was not more busy out of doors that day, than the people within. Diligent and quick hands moved about in dairy and kitchen; and a quick and diligent spirit as earnestly—(for in Faith's mind it was all one work; that was on the way to this)—dealt with problems and idioms in the study room that Faith liked best and where she was most secure. But long enough before dinner she was helping Mrs. Derrick in the kitchen again.

"Mother," she said, "you can't think how I dread to see Mr. Linden come home to-day! He won't speak one word of English to me."

"I guess he would, if you wouldn't speak one word of French to him," said Mrs. Derrick sagaciously. "What are you afraid of, child?"

"I am afraid just of that," said Faith sighing. "Of having to speak those French words."

"Why you've been reading them to him, I'm sure," said her mother. "I didn't know anybody was afraid of him but me, Faith. But if you don't like it, why don't you tell him so?"

Faith however negatived that proposition with a dubious shake of the head; which meant, probably, that neither Mr. Linden nor herself would be satisfied with such a mode of procedure; and confined her present attentions to the dinner preparations. In which and other matters she became so engaged that she forgot her fears; and going into the dining room some time after with a dish in her hands and finding Mr. Linden there, Faith asked him earnestly and with great simplicity, "how he felt after his morning's work." Then remembering, or reminded by something in his face, she started away like a deer before any answer could be given; and only came back demurely with her mother,—to receive his grave reverence and "Me voici, mademoiselle!"—given just as if he had not seen her before. The half grave half laughing flash of Faith's eye spoke as much of amusement as of fear; yet afraid she certainly was, for she did not so much as speak English to her mother. The language of the eye was all she ventured; nor that boldly. It had to come, however, fear or no fear, the English might be dispensed with but not the French. She could not but try to understand the remarks or bits of in formation which were given her—sometimes gravely sometimes laughing; and if Mr. Linden was evidently waiting for an answer—what could she do but try that too! He was an admirable dictionary, very quick at seeing and supplying her want of a word, and giving his corrections of her phraseology and pronunciation so gently and by the way, that fear partly lost itself in interest. His own speech was singularly smooth and perfect; and whenever Faith found herself getting frightened, she was sure to be assailed with such a volley of swift flowing syllables, that she could do nothing but laugh,—after which Mr. Linden would come back to the slower utterance which she could better understand. After all, Faith's words that first time were few, and it may safely be asserted that she did not in the least know what she was eating, and made no sort of a dinner. Of that last fact her instructor was well aware, but as his first "Mais mademoiselle, mangez!" received but little attention, he postponed that point till just as he was going away, and then made a rather stringent request to the same effect.

So the afternoon passed on, and blew itself out, and the sun went to bed and night began to light her candles. Faith, standing at the window (it was too cold to be out) saw the red gleam fading from earth and sky, and the cold bright stars coming one by one into view. Then the boys began to pass by,—some together and some alone; walking or running home, or playing ball by the way. Mr. Linden's carriage was a little behind them all, but he came at last, and gave her a bow and a smile from the gate though she thought herself standing too far back to be seen.

"Now Mr. Linden," said Faith when he came in,—"I am so glad to speak to you again! How do you do?" The question was not lightly given.

"Miss Faith, did you finish your dinner?"

"No—" said Faith hesitating,—"but I am going to have some tea by and by. Aren't you well tired, Mr. Linden?"

"Pretty well—Why didn't you?"

"I wanted to be doing something else,"—said Faith, giving the easy chair a little push into place, and then brightening up the fire. "I shall have tea in here to-night, Mr. Linden. But we must wait a little while for it, for Cindy is out. You won't be sorry to rest first."

She was summarily, though very respectfully put in the easy chair herself.

"By what rule of right and wrong did you do anything else first? Do you know, Miss Faith, I did not finish mine either—I wanted another piece of bread, and could not get it!"

"Why not, Mr. Linden? I am sure there was bread on the table. But I am glad if you are hungry, for I have got something that you like. Now please rest!" she said springing up and beginning to arrange the table.

"I am sure I asked you for it politely," he said with a smile, as he yielded to her "please rest." "What have you been about all day?"

"I have been learning my lessons—and trying how well I could get on by myself."

"Get on by yourself?" he said rather slowly and inquiringly. "In what?"

"In the books—in my studies, Mr. Linden."

"Are you tired of my help, Miss Faith?"

She gave all her eyes to the answer, both in their sweetness and their gravity. "Do you think I could let you spend all your time upon me, Mr. Linden, when your whole day is given to such work? I'll come to you for help whenever I can't get on without it," she said with a smile, not exactly an enjoying one,—"but I know I can do a good deal by myself."

His eyes were given to the answer too, a little intently, but the smile that followed was different.

"I think you will let me do what I shall do, Miss Faith."

"I suppose that!" said Faith with a bright gleam in her eyes. She went out to see if Cindy had come back; but returned immediately, sat down and looked gravely into the fire.

"What is the use of startling people in that way?" Mr. Linden said, looking at her. "I didn't know but you were going to send me to take up my abode at Mrs. Seacomb's!"

"Startling, Mr. Linden!" said Faith opening her eyes at him. "I said it because I thought it was right. I didn't think it was pleasant."

"Well," said he, "we were agreed upon that point. Now Miss Faith, as my time is precious, and I cannot well give any of it to people who have enough of their own—would it disturb you if I were to read aloud a little here for my own amusement?"

She changed her place to come nearer, without saying anything, but with a face of quiet delight only half revealed.

"What do you think of the relative and respective charms of Mirth and Melancholy, Miss Faith?—I mean their charms to inward perception, not outward sight."

"The pleasure of them?" said Faith.

"Yes—pleasure and satisfaction."

"I never thought there was any pleasure in Melancholy," said Faith smiling at the idea, but smiling inquiringly too.

In answer, Mr. Linden opened his book and gave her the Allegro and Penseroso,—gave them with not only a full appreciation, but with a delicate change and suiting of voice and manner—and look, even—that made them witching.

And if ever a hearer was bewitched, that was Faith. She lent her ear to the music, her eye to the eye, her thought to the thought, in utter forgetfulness of all else. At first she listened quietly, sitting where she was, looking sometimes at the fire, sometimes at the reader; but then she abandoned herself to full enjoyment, left her chair for a low seat near Mr. Linden, almost at his feet; and with upraised face and intent eye and varying play of lip, devoured it all. Sometimes the poetry certainly got beyond the bounds of her stock of knowledge; but that mattered not; for whenever the reading failed, the reader filled up all the gap and Faith listened to him. Precisely what it was to have just such a hearer, was best known to the reader himself; but he closed the book silently. Faith's comment was peculiar.

It wasn't made at first. Her look had come round slowly to the fire and slowly subsided. After sitting a minute so, she made her remark.

"But Mr. Linden, none of that seemed much like Melancholy to me?"

"That may be called the ideal of Melancholy," he said smiling.

"What is an 'ideal'? But oh," said Faith starting up, "it is time to have tea!—What is an 'ideal,' Mr. Linden?"

It was impossible not to laugh a little—but equally impossible to take that laugh amiss.

"The particular mental standard of perfection by which every person measures other people and things; and as that is generally more perfect than reality, the ideal is supposed to exist only in the idea."

She stood pondering the answer, with a somewhat humbled brow.

"I think I know," she said shaking her head a little,—"but I shall have to ask what exactly you mean by a standard, Mr. Linden. By and by—I must see to Cindy now."

And she ran off. Cindy presently brought in the tray; and Faith followed, arranging and setting in order everything. The tea did not immediately follow, perhaps the fire had got low, or Mrs. Derrick was not ready, for Faith did not seem expectant. She stood on the rug before the fire, looking into it very soberly and consideratively. There was a little abstraction in her figure and air. Suddenly she faced round where she stood.

"Do you feel very tired indeed to-night, Mr. Linden?"

"Not very—now," he said smiling. "I have been resting. I was a little more tired than usual when I came home."

Slowly and deliberately she came round behind his chair and stood leaning upon the back of it.

"Mr. Linden—I want to ask you something."

The tone was low and peculiar. It was a very common thing for her to be more or less moved by a little timidity; but now plainly Faith was afraid. It changed her voice, beyond the slight sweet touch that timidity often gave it.

"You know I like to have you, Miss Faith."

"I wanted to ask—if you would like,—or if you wouldn't dislike—if you would have any objection, to read and pray at night—here, with us,—and let Cindy and Mr. Skip come in?"

"I will, certainly," Mr. Linden said: "how could I have any objection? Miss Faith—will you please to come round here and sit down?—Why are you so much afraid of me?" She did not leave her position.

"I didn't know whether you would like it," she said in a very low voice. "I asked mother to ask you, but she wouldn't—though she said she would like to have you do it. I wanted it particularly for mother's sake."—The last words were said little above a whisper.

"I don't see where the fear came from, yet."

She was quite still, quite motionless, behind his chair. He turned a little, so as to see her face, and laid his hand upon hers.

"Will you come round here and tell me, Miss Faith? I shall not let you stand up all the evening."

She was looking, when he saw her, with the least bit of a smile upon a mouth all unbent, and eyes that were full; a very happy, stirred face. It quieted down as soon as he turned; except the smile which played rather more.

"Tell you what, Mr. Linden?" she said not leaving her place.

"What have I done to make myself such an ogre?"

"What is an ogre, Mr. Linden?"

"A ferocious sort of anomaly that everybody is afraid of."

"I don't know what you've done, Mr. Linden," she said half laughing. "I am not enough afraid to hurt anything."

"Enough to hurt me—I don't care about any other thing."

A grave glance of her eye was regretful enough.

"But it's true, Mr. Linden! I was a little afraid to ask what I wasn't sure you would like—that was all."

"Well," he said with a reassuring smile, as he got up and took hold of both her hands and brought her out of position, "I am not much hurt yet—but I desire that the fear may not increase. And therefore, Miss Faith, I want to have you sit here in the firelight, so that I can keep watch of it."

She smiled, as if it were beyond his ken now, but her words went to another point.

"What time would you like, Mr. Linden?"

"Whatever suits you."

She was silent for a minute or two, with a very happy face, till the door opened. Then she sprang up and received and placed the tea and things which Cindy had brought in. There was a dainty supply to-night, perhaps in consideration of Mr. Linden's first day of out-door work, and in delicate sympathy and reward thereof. And Faith, in her happiest mood though as quiet as a mouse, was an excellent 'ministering spirit' of the tea-table; to-night particularly, for every sense and affection seemed to be on the alert.

"How do you find all the boys, after their month out of school, Mr.
Linden?" she said, when waffles and cups of tea were fairly under weigh.

"Very glad to see me—very much afraid I should tire myself; and some a little afraid they might share the fatigue. So things correct each other!—if they had not shewed the last fear, I might have felt the first."

"How did that work?" said Faith laughing a little.

"It worked—" said Mr. Linden. "Is that intelligible, Miss Faith?"

Her smile and shake of the head said that it was.

"Is Joe Deacon staying home yet?" said Mrs. Derrick.

"No, he began school again to-day."

"I wonder whether the Squire is going off again," said Mrs.
Derrick,—"or whether he's going to stay home."

"I have heard nothing of his going away."

"You were going to tell me what exactly a 'standard' is, Mr. Linden? At least!"—said Faith correcting herself,—"I was going to ask you."

"There is a very intimate connexion between the two things," said Mr. Linden smiling. "A standard, in this sense, is simply some fixed rule of the ought to be, by which the is must be tried. Standard coin is that made according to the precise government regulation, and is the test of all other in the realm, as to size, weight, and alloy. So of standard weights and measures. For some things we have the Bible standard,—for most, each person has his own."

"Then Mr. Linden," said Faith, "I think my 'ideal' of Melancholy is something disagreeable."

"I don't believe you have any!" said he laughing. "You mean your idea,
Miss Faith."

"Do I?" said Faith. "But perhaps you have such a thing, Mr. Linden; isn't it disagreeable?"

"Not at all—and besides I haven't any. But the ideal of Melancholy is about as much like the reality, as a picture of the Tragic Muse is like the fifth act of a tragedy."

That Faith did not know the meaning of tragedy, was a fact which she wisely and self-denyingly kept to herself, and for the present turned her attention to supplying her mother with a fresh waffle. And so with various bits of talk, tea came to an end, and Mrs. Derrick was called out to discuss some important matter with Mr. Skip.

"Mother," said Faith finding her opportunity, "I asked Mr. Linden, and he will do that."—A little shadow came over Mrs. Derrick's face.

"Well, child?" she said gently.

"Mother—I have asked him,—will you speak to Mr. Skip and Cindy?"

"I can't child—" said her mother, with the same tone and look. "I'll go in myself, but I can't try to do any more."

"Dear mother—" said Faith,—"I wish you would!"

Her mother turned and kissed her, but the difficulty was clearly not one to be overcome. The whole subject seemed to bring up some painful association.

"He'll call them in himself, if you ask him, child."

"Would it be right to ask him, mother?"

"Why yes!" said Mrs. Derrick—"I don't see why not. One of you must."

With this thought Faith went back to the sitting-room. Clearly there was some strong feeling against her being the one, for after a little sober silent waiting, she spoke.

"Mr. Linden—would you rather I should ask Cindy and Mr. Skip to come in?—or will you?"

He knew, better than she did, how well the question shewed her own wish, and how simple a matter it was to him.

"I will, Miss Faith, if you please. Is this the hour you have fixed upon?"

"I think so," she said,—"if you like it; because by and by they will be sleepy." And Mr. Linden at once proceeded to the kitchen.

A busy murmur of tongues, and bright firelight glancing from keyhole and crevice, guided him through the narrow passage which, sooth to say, he had never trod before, to the door of the kitchen; the latch of which yielded on slight persuasion, and Mr. Linden walked in. Supper was over there, too, and the dishes were washed and put away, and Cindy with dishcloth in hand was rubbing down the kitchen table. In one corner of the hearth sat Mr. Skip on a half bushel measure, a full corn basket beside him, an empty one in front, his hands busy with the shelling process; this hard work being diversified and enlivened with the continual additions he made to a cob house on the hearth. But, cob in hand, Mr. Skip paused when Mr. Linden came in, and looked up at this unusual apparition from under an extraordinary hat which drooped on all sides of his face, as if like its wearer it had long given up all idea of keeping up appearances. The face itself was strong, shrewd, apt. And so Mr. Skip looked at Mr. Linden. Cindy on her part, did nothing but wring the dish cloth and shake it out again, entirely oblivious of the greeting with which Mr. Linden favoured both parties; and she listened to the words he said about the corn, as if they had been Greek—double distilled. Those words were few.

"Mr. Skip," he said then, "I think that so long as God keeps us here together every day, we ought to thank him for it together every night. I want you and Cindy to come into the parlour and let us begin to do it now."

"Hey?" said Mr. Skip, between want of understanding and want of belief in the testimony of his ears. Mr. Linden repeated his words, with a composed distinctness that could leave no manner of doubt.

"Well!"—said Mr. Skip. "What do you want us for to do?"

"Come into the parlour."

"I s'pose we'll be to come,"—said Mr. Skip, dropping his cob and getting up and straightening himself. "Will you have us in now?"

"Yes," Mr. Linden answered, and led the way.

"Go along, Cindy!" said Mr. Skip in undertone. "S'pose it don't take fur to see into this."

Cindy obeyed, but without seeing 'fur' into anything—even the parlour, though she tried for it. There was not very much to see. Mrs. Derrick (with a little shadow of recollective sorrow) had placed the old Bible by the lamp, and now sat leaning her head on her hand and did not look up as they came in. Faith's face was one of grave joy; but the gravity was so quiet that the joy was beyond the ken of so dull a vision as Cindy's. She sat with clasped hands on a low seat beyond the fire. And Cindy at last fixed her attention upon Mr. Linden, with only an occasional roll of her eyes towards Mr. Skip.

It was a long time since such a service had been in that house,—a time at first swept by a storm of sorrow, then calmed and quieted into a stillness which had grown more and more bright, year by year. Whatever sunshine those years had seen, came from Faith; but that other faith, which should make even her more precious, had been unknown. And the words of the reading and prayer to-night, were to Mrs. Derrick like the renewing of things so long past, that she could scarce bear it; and different as Mr. Linden was from any one she had ever known, that Christian family likeness almost, to her feeling, transformed him.

It was a very simple matter to him, truly,—why not?—Why should it ever be anything else? or why, when the fear of God is on the tongue should the fear of man be in the heart? Yet it was even more the love of God than the fear, that his hearers perceived that night. Simple in word and tone and manner, it was the simplicity of a feeling so full and strong that it needed no capillary tubes of speech to carry it upward. The prayer ended, and the retreating steps on their way along the kitchen passage, Mrs. Derrick came up to Faith, and putting her arms round her kissed first one cheek and then the other—then turned and left the room. And Faith sat still, with that joy filling her heart so full that her head bent with the weight of it.

One other comment she was destined to hear that night.

"I must say, Miss Faith," said Cindy, "I like these new notions firstrate! I always did say my prayers afore I went to bed, and I'm free to confess this saves a deal of trouble."