Say and Seal, Volume II

by Susan Warner; Anna Bartlett Warner

CHAPTER XLV.

Everybody who has travelled on the great route from Pattaquasset to New York, knows that the scenery is not striking. Pleasant it is, and fresh, in fresh seasons of the year; cornfields and hayfields and sparkling little rivers always make up a fair prospect: but, until the towers of Quilipeak rise upon the sight, with their leafy setting of green, there is nothing to draw much notice. And less, afterwards. The train flies on, past numberless stopping-posts, over bridges, through towns; regaling its passengers with hay, salt water, bony fish, and (in the season) dust; until the matchless flats, marshes, pools, sights, and smells crowd thick about Haarlem river, and lure the traveller on through the sweet suburbs of New York. Hither, business demanded that the "wooden horse" should come for a day or two; here they were to be received by one of the many old friends who were claiming, all over the country, a visit from Mr. Linden and his bride. Through the dark tunnel the train puffed on, the passengers winking and breathing beneath the air-holes, dark and smothered where air-holes were not; then the cars ran out into the sunlight, and, in a minute more, two of the passengers were transferred to the easy rolling coach which was in waiting for them, and drove away. Past warm brick fronts and pavements; past radish boys and raspberry girls; past oranges, pineapples, vegetables, in every degree of freshness except fresh. Of all which, even the vegetables, Faith's eyes took most curious and intent notice—for one minute; then the Avenue and fruit stalls were left behind; the carriage had turned a corner, and, in another minute or two, drew up before an imposing front in Madison Square. And there, at the very steps, was a little raspberry girl. How Faith looked at her!

"Raspberries to-day, ma'am?" said the child, encouraged by the look, or the sweet face.—"No, dear, I don't want any."

Faith went gravely up the steps. It was her first introduction to New York. But Mr. Linden's face wore a smile. There was no time to remark on it, for the door opened and a second introduction awaited her. An introduction to another part of the world. A magnificent house, every square yard of which, perhaps, taken with its furniture and adornments, had cost as much as the whole of Faith's old home. A palace of luxury, where no want of any kind, material, could be known or fancied. In this house they were welcomed with a great welcome by a stately lady, Mr. Linden's old friend and his mother's; and by her family of sons and daughters, who were in another style, and whose vivacious kindness seemed disposed to take up Faith bodily and carry her off. It was a novel scene for Faith, and she was amused. Amused too with the overpowering curiosity which took the guise, or the veil, of so much kindness, and beset her, because—Mr. Linden had married her. Yet Faith did not see the hundredth part of their curiosity. Mr. Linden, whose eyes were more open, was proportionably amused, both with that and with Faith's simplicity, which half gratified and at least half baffled it. The young ladies at last took Faith up to her room; and, after lavishing all sorts of attentions upon her, and making various vain efforts to understand her, gave her the information that a good deal of company was expected to dinner, and left her, baffled and attracted almost in an equal degree.

They did not seem to have as puzzling an effect on Faith; for when Mr. Linden came out of his own dressing-room, he found her ready, and looking as fresh and cool as if she had just come up from the sands at Bankhead. She was dressed in a light muslin, but no more elaborately than she used to be at Pattaquasset; only that this time her ruffles were laces. She was a little more dainty for the dinner-party. Mr. Linden came with a knot of glowing geraniums—"Jewess," and "Perfection," and "Queen of the Fairies;" which, bound together as they were with white ribband, he first laid against her dress to try the effect (well deserving his smile of comment) then put in her hand to make fast. They set off all the quiet elegance of her figure after their own style, which was not quiet.

"Now, Mignonette," he said, "I suppose you know that I am to have the pleasure of introducing my wife to sundry people?"—"I heard they were coming," said Faith.

"If you will only stand by and look on, it will amuse you very much."

"It will amuse me anyway," said Faith, "if,"—and what a rose colour came up into her face—"if, Endy, you are satisfied."

Mr. Linden folded his arms and looked at her. "If you say anything against my wife, Mrs. Linden, her husband will not like it—neither will yours."

"That is all I care about, not pleasing those two gentlemen," said
Faith, laughing.

"Is that all? I shall report your mind at rest. Come, it is time this little exotic should appear." Faith thought as she went with him, that she was anything but an exotic; she did not speak her thoughts.

There was a large dinner company gathered and gathering; and the "pleasure" Mr. Linden had spoken of—introducing his wife—was one enjoyed, by him or somebody, a great many times in the course of the evening. This was something very unlike Pattaquasset or anything to be found there; only in Judge Harrison's house little glimpses of this sort of society might be had; and these people seemed to Faith rather in the sphere of Dr. Harrison than of his father and sister. People who had rubbed off every particle of native simplicity that ever belonged to them, and who, if they were simple at all—as some of them were—had a different kind of simplicity, made after a most exquisite and refined worldly fashion. How it was made or worn, Faith could not tell; she had an instinctive feeling of the difference. If she had set on foot a comparison, she would soon have come to the conclusion that "Mr. Linden's wife" was of another pattern altogether. But Faith never thought of doing that. Her words were so true that she had spoken, she cared so singly to satisfy one person there, and had such an humble confidence of doing it, that other people gave her little concern. She had little need, for no word or glance fell upon Faith that did not show the eye or the speaker won or attracted. The words and glances were very many, but Faith never found out or suspected that it was to see her all this party of grand people had been gathered together. She thought they were curious about "Mr. Linden's wife;" and though their curiosity made her shy, and her sense of responsibility gave an exquisite tenderness to her manner, both effects only set a grace upon her usual free simplicity. That was not disturbed, though a good deal of the time Faith was far from Mr. Linden's kelp or protection. A stranger took her in to dinner, and among strangers she made her way most of the evening. But though she was shy, Faith was afraid never but of one person, nor much of him.

For him—among old acquaintances, beset with all manner of inquiries and congratulations—he yet heard her voice whenever it was possible, and knew by sight as well as hearing all the admiration she called forth. He might have said as at Kildeer river, that he found "a great deal of Mignonette." What he did tell her, when the evening was over, was that people were at a loss how to name the new exotic.

"How to name me, Endecott?"—"As an exotic."

"I don't wonder!" said Faith with her merry little laugh. "Don't philosophers sometimes get puzzled in that way, Endecott?"—"Scientific philosophers content themselves with the hardest names they can find, but in this case such will not suit. Though Dr. Campan may write you in his books as 'Lindenethia Pattaquassetensis—exotic, very rare. The flower is a double star—colour wonderful.'"

Faith stopped to laugh.

"What a blunder he will make if he does!" she said. "It will show, as
Mr. Simlins says—that he don't understand common vegetables."

"Well translated, Mignonette. How will it show that, if you please?"—"He has mistaken one for a trumpet creeper."

"A scarlet runner, I suppose."

"Was I?" said Faith seriously.

"According to you. I am in Dr. Campan's predicament."

"I should think you needn't be," said Faith, simply. "Because you know, Endy I never knew even how to climb till you showed me."

Mr. Linden faced round upon her, the quick flashing eyes answering even more than his. "Faith! what do you mean?" But his lips played then in a rare little smile, as he said, very quietly, in his former position, "Imagine Mignonette, with its full sweetness—and more than its full colour—suddenly transplanted to the region where Monkeys and Geraniums grow—I like to think of the effect."

"I can't think of any effect at all," said Faith. "I should look at the Monkeys and Geraniums!"

"Of course—being Mignonette. And clearly that you are; but then how can Mignonette so twine itself round things?"

Faith thought it did not, and also thought of Pet's charge about "charming;" but she left both points.

"Most climbers," said Mr. Linden, with a glance at her, "have but one way of laying hold; but this exotic has all. There are the tendrils when it wants support, and the close twining that makes of two lives one, and the clasp of a hundred little stems that give a leaf or a flower wherever they touch."

"Endecott!" said Faith, with a look of astonished remonstrance and amusement in one.—"What?"

But the smile and blush with which Faith turned away bespoke her not very much displeased; and she knew better by experience than to do battle with Mr. Linden's words. She let him have it his own way.

The next day business claimed him. Faith was given up to the kindness and curiosity of her new friends. They made good use of their opportunity, and their opportunity was a good one; for it was not till late in the day, a little while before the late dinner hour, that Mr. Linden came home. He found Faith in her room; a superbly appointed chamber, as large as any three of those she had been accustomed to. She was standing at the window, thoughtfully looking out; but turned joyfully to meet Mr. Linden. Apparently he was glad too.

"My dear little Mignonette! I feel as if I had not seen you for a week."

"It has been a long day," said Faith; who looked rather, it may be remarked, as if the day had freshly begun.

"Mignonette, you are perfectly lovely! Do you think you will condescend to wear these flowers?" said Mr. Linden, drawing her to a seat by the table, and with one arm still round her beginning to arrange the flowers he had thrown down there as he came in.

Faith watched him, and then looked up.

"Endecott you shouldn't talk to me so. You wouldn't like me to believe you."

Mr. Linden finished setting two or three ruby carnations in the green and purple of heliotrope and sweet-scented verbena; then laid the bunch lightly upon her lips and gravely inquired if they were sweet.

"Yes," Faith said, laughing behind them. "You are not hungry?"

"Why? and what of it?"—"You don't seem to remember it is near dinner-time."

"Dinner time is a myth. My dear, I am sorry I give you so much uneasiness. I wish you could feel as composed about me as I do about you. What have I done with that white ribband!—don't stir—it is in some pocket or other." And the right one being found, Mr. Linden unwrapped the piece of ribband and cut off what he wanted, remarking that he could not get used to giving her anything but blue.

"Well, why do you then?" said Faith.—"I feel in a subdued state of mind, owing to reproofs," said Mr. Linden, with the white satin curling round his fingers. "I may not tell anybody what I think of my wife!"

Faith looked amused, and yet a soft glance left the charge and the "reproof" standing.

"I feel so composed about you," Mr. Linden went on, drawing his white bows—Faith did think the eyes flashed under the shading lashes—"so sure that you will never over-estimate me, much less speak of it. But then you know, Mignonette, I never did profess to follow Reason."

He was amused to see the little stir his words called up in Faith. He could see it in the changing colour and rest less eye, and in one look of great beauty which Faith favoured him with. Apparently the shy principle prevailed, or Faith's wit got the better of her simplicity; for she rose up gravely and laying her hand on the bunch of flowers asked if she should put them on.

"Unless you prefer my services."

She sat down again immediately, with a face that very plainly preferred them. Half smiling, with fingers that were in no haste about their work, Mr. Linden adjusted the carnations; glancing from them to her, trying them in different positions, playing over his dainty task as if he liked it. The flowers in place, his full smiling look met hers, and she was carried off to the glass "to see his wife." Hardly seen, after all, but by himself.

"She looks ready for dinner," said Faith.

"Your eyes are only to look at," said Mr. Linden with a laughing endorsement of his thoughts, and putting her back in the dormeuse. "Suppose you sit there, and tell me what efforts they have made in the way of seeing, to-day."

"Efforts to see all before them, which was more than they could," said
Faith.

"What did they see? not me, nor I them, that I know."

"That was another sort of effort they made," said Faith smiling—"efforts to see what was not before them. I watched, whenever I thought there was a chance, but I couldn't see anything that looked like you. We must have gone half over the city, Endecott; Mrs. Pulteney took me all the morning, and her daughters and Mr. Pulteney all the afternoon."

"Know, O little Mignonette," said Mr. Linden, "that in New York it is 'morning' till those people who dine at six have had their dinner.

"Like the swell of some sweet tune
Morning rises into noon,—

was written of country hours."

"I guess that is true of most of the other good things that ever were written," said Faith.

Mr. Linden looked amused. "What do you think of this?—

And when the hours of rest
Come, like a calm upon the mid-sea brine,
Hushing its billowy breast—
The quiet of that moment too is thine;
It breathes of Him who keeps
The vast and helpless city while it sleeps."

"I never saw the city when it was asleep," said Faith, smiling. "It didn't look to-day as if it could sleep. But, Endecott, I am sure all the pretty part of those words comes from where we have been."

"The images, yes. But connect any spot of earth with heaven, by any tie, and it must have a certain sort of grandeur. You have been working in brick and mortar to-day, Mignonette, to-morrow I must give you a bird's-eye view."

Faith was silent a minute; and then said, "It don't look a happy place to me, Endecott."

"No, it is too human. You want an elm tree or a patch of dandelions between every two houses."

"That wouldn't do," said Faith, "unless the people could be less ragged, and dirty, and uneasy; and their houses too. There's nothing like it in Pattaquasset."

"I have great confidence in the comforting and civilizing power of elm trees and green grass," said Mr. Linden. "But Carlyle says 'Man is not what you can call a happy animal, his appetite for sweet victual is so enormous;' and perhaps New York suffers as much from the fact that everybody wants more, as that some have too little and others too much."

"Do these people want more?" said Faith softly.

"Without doubt! So does everybody in New York but me."

"But why must people do that in New York, when they don't do it in
Pattaquasset?" said Faith, who was very like mignonette at the moment.

"The appetite grows with indulgence, or the possibility of it. Besides, little bird, in Pattaquasset you take all this breeze of humanity winnowed through elm branches. There, you know, 'My soul into the boughs does glide.'"

"No," said Faith; "it is not that. When my soul glides nowhere, and there are no branches, either; in the Roscoms' house, Endecott—and poor Mrs. Dow's, and Sally Lowndes',—people don't look as they look here. I don't mean here, in Madison Square—though yes I do, too; there was that raspberry girl; and others, worse, I have seen even here. But I have been in other places—Mr. Pulteney and his sisters took me all the way to the great stone church, Endecott."

"Well, Sunbeam, it has been a bright day for every raspberry girl that has come in your way. What else did you see there."—"I saw the church."

"Not the invisible" said Mr. Linden, smiling, "remember that."

"Invisible! no," said Faith. "There was a great deal of this visible."

"What thoughts did it put in your head?"—"It was very—wonderfully beautiful," said Faith, thoughtfully.

"What else?"—"I cannot tell. You would laugh at me if I could. Endecott, it didn't seem so much like a church to me as the little white church at home."

"I agree with you there—the less show of the instrument the sweeter the music, to me. But the street in front of the church, so specially filled with beggars and cripples, I never go by there, Faith, without a feeling of joy; remembering the blind man who sat at the Beautiful gate of the temple; knowing well that there is as 'safe, expeditious, and easy a way' to heaven from that dusty side-walk, as from any other spot of earth. The triumph of grace!—how glorious it is! I cannot speak to all of them together, nor even one by one, but grace is free! 'Not by might, nor by power, but by my Spirit, saith the Lord of Hosts.' Faith, I have been thinking of that all day!"

She could see it in his face—in the flush on the cheek and the flash in the eye as he came and stood before her. She could see what had been all day before his eyes and mind; and how pain and sympathy and longing desire had laid hold of the promise and rested there—"Ask and ye shall receive." Unconsciously Faith folded her hands, and the least touch of a smile in the corners of her mouth was in no wise contradictory of her eyes' sweet gravity.

"I saw them too," she said, in a low tone. "Endecott, I would rather speak to them out there, under the open sky, if it wasn't a crowd—than in the church?"

"I should forget where I was, after I began to speak," said Mr. Linden; "though I do love 'that dome—most catholic and solemn,' better than all others."

"Mr. Pulteney asked me how I liked the church," said Faith.

"He did not understand your answer," said Mr. Linden smiling, "I know that beforehand. What was it?"—"I think he didn't like it," said Faith. "I told him it seemed to me a great temple that men had built for their own glory and pleasure, not for the glory and pleasure of God."

"Since when, you have been to Mr. Tom Pulteney like a fable in ancient Greek to one who has learned the modern language at school and forgotten it."

"He did not understand me," said Faith, laughing and blushing a little. "And I was worse off; for I asked him several questions he could not answer me. I wanted to go to the top, but he was certain I would be too tired if I did. But I heard the chime, Endecott! that was beautiful. Beautiful! I am very glad I was there."

"I'll take you to the top" said Mr. Linden, "it will not tire me. Faith, I have brought you another wedding present—talking of 'ancient' things."

"What is that, Endecott?" she said, with a bright amused face.—"Only a fern leaf. One that waved a few thousand years before the deluge, and was safely bedded in stone when the children of Israel passed through the Red Sea. I went to see an old antiquarian friend this morning, and out of his precious things he chose one for mine." And Mr. Linden laid in her hand the little rough stone; rough on one side, but on the other where the hammer had split it through, the brown face was smooth, and the black leaf lay marked out in all its delicate tracery.

"Endecott, what is this?" Faith exclaimed, in her low tones of delight.—"A fossil leaf."

"Of a fern? How beautiful! Where did it come from?" She had risen in her delight, and stood by Mr. Linden at the dressing-table.—"This one from Bohemia. Do you see the perfection of every leafet?"

"How wonderful! how beautiful!" Faith repeated, studying the fossil. "It brings up those words, Endecott:—'A thousand years in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past; or as a watch in the night.'"

"Yes, and these—'The counsel of the Lord, that shall stand.' Compare this fern leaf with the mighty palaces of Babylon and Nineveh. Through untold ages this has kept its wavy fragile outline, they are marked only by 'the line of confusion and the stones of emptiness.'"

Faith looked up, with such an eye of intelligence and interest as again would have puzzled Mr. Pulteney.

"Did your old antiquary send this to me, Endecott?" she said looking down at it again.—"To you, darling."

"I have seen nothing so good to-day, Endy. I am very glad of it."

"Do you remember, Sunbeam, the time when I told you I liked stones? and you looked at me. I remember the look now!" So did Faith, by the conscious light and colour that came into her face, different from those of three minutes ago, and the grateful recognition her eyes gave to Mr. Linden.

"I don't know much more now," she said, in very lowliness, "about stones, but you can teach me, Endecott."

"Yes, I will leave no stone unturned for your amusement," he said, laughing. "Faith, if I were not so much afraid of you I should tell you what you are like. What else have you seen?"

"Tell me what I am like, Endecott."

"What sort of consistency is that—to coax me when I don't tell you, and scold me when I do?"

"It's curiosity, I suppose," said Faith. "But it's no matter. I saw all that strange place, Broadway, Endecott; we drove through the whole length of it."

"Well?" said Mr. Linden, throwing himself down in the arm-chair and looking gravely up at her. But then the lips parted, not only to smile but to sing a wild Scotch tune.

"O wat ye wha that lo'es me,
And has my heart in keeping?
O sweet is she that lo'es me,
As dews o' summer weeping,
In tears the rosebuds steeping;
O that's the lassie o' my heart,
My lassie ever dearer;
O that's the queen o' womankind,
And ne'er a ane to peer her!"

"If thou hast heard her talking,
And thy attention's plighted,
That ilka body talking
But her by thee is slighted,
And thou art all delighted.
O that's the lassie o' my heart,
My lassie ever dearer;
O that's the queen o' womankind,
And ne'er a ane to peer her!"

"Did you see anybody like that in Broadway, Faith?"

Blushing how she blushed! but she would not say a word nor stir, to interrupt the singing; so she stood there, casting a shy look at him now and then till he had stopped, and then coming round behind him, she laid her head down upon his shoulder. Mr. Linden laughed, caressing the pretty head in various ways.

"My dear little bird!" he said. Then presently—"Mignonette, I have been looking at fur cloaks."

"Don't do such a thing again, Endy."

"I shouldn't, if I could have quite suited myself to-day."

"I don't want it. I can bear the cold as well as you."

"Let it make up for something which you do want and haven't got, then; you must bear the cold Polar fashion. But at present, there is the dinner-bell."

They went down; but with the fossil and the fur, Faith was almost taken out of New York; and astonished Mr. Pulteney once or twice more in the course of the evening, to Mr. Linden's amusement.